The Body of Stories, Part 2

The image of the body as a living book (The Body of Stories 11/2024) has stayed with me. Not just a book to be read, but one to be rewritten, revisited, and reimagined over time. This body, this mechanism, remains a constant storyteller — shifting, flowing, revising. The stories haven’t stopped unfolding; they have only deepened.

Since that first vision months ago, I find myself in a new phase of listening. Some chapters feel familiar — pages I’ve skimmed before but now have the patience to read more carefully. Other chapters seem to have appeared from nowhere, surprising me with their complexity, tenderness, and weight.

My mantras still hold true — There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong. There is nothing missing. But now they feel less like something I’m reciting and more like a natural hum beneath my days, shaping the way I meet myself. I don’t have to work so hard to remember them. They are starting to remember me.

Meditation is no longer a morning chore, no longer a battle to overcome habitual grumpiness. Something has shifted — perhaps the release of so many trapped emotions has finally cleared a wider channel. Whatever the cause, the background noise in my mind has softened into a kind of calm grace. Where there was once defending, resisting, and protecting, there is now a steady, quiet openness.

And seriously, this is huge. I notice it in all kinds of small moments: standing in line, sitting across from a friend, driving alone. I can pull back what feels like a thin veil — a veil of watchfulness, anxiousness — and simply listen, open-hearted and unguarded.

It reminds me of standing inside a greenhouse in winter. At first, everything seems cold, brittle, and silent. But if you stand still long enough, you realize it’s full of life: the small creak of growing branches, the almost inaudible hum of energy rising. That’s how this new listening feels — like stepping into a living space that doesn’t need my defense, my opinions, or my point of view to survive. I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to prove anything. I can just be there, breathing.

Life, of course, hasn’t stayed still either. In recent weeks, I’ve discovered the Landis Arboretum, a beautiful place for walking, wandering, and scheduling Artist’s Dates with myself. The idea of solo adventures, once so tentative, now feels natural and nourishing. My calendar has also filled up, gently and serendipitously, with new dates: old acquaintances who have appeared seemingly out of nowhere, offering renewed friendship, conversation, and laughter at just the right time. And then there’s California. A trip I decided on with almost no overthinking — an instinctive yes. Jo, a friend from Australia, is leading a seminar there, and it felt easier, lighter, more fun to fly across the country than to wonder endlessly whether or not I should go. Will I simply observe? Will I jump in and participate? I don’t know yet. But it doesn't matter. Any adventure is a lovely adventure. The spirit of exploration itself feels like the right answer.

I came across a Rumi poem this morning that I hadn't heard before. His words have been shadowing me too — especially a few stanzas from "The Community of Spirit" that seem to capture everything I’m learning, everything I’m living right now:

Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,
if you want to be held.

Sit down in this circle.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.

Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.

I’m beginning to enjoy the mystery again. Not because I solved it, but because I finally stopped trying to manage it. This is what space creation was always about — not a performance, not a purge, but an invitation. And now, with so much static cleared, I can feel the payoff: a naturally calm background where the goodness just flows, no longer blocked, no longer tangled. I didn’t force it. I just made room. And something wise and kind rushed in to fill the space.

There is nothing to fear. here is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong.
There is nothing missing. Honestly, it feels like switching from dial-up internet to fiber optic soul-speed. Static quieter. Drama more distant. Subscription to chaos: unsubscribed. Thank you, Spirit. Thank you, nervous system. Thank you, stubborn human heart. May it stay quiet and glorious for a good long while. (And let’s not get crazy, but maybe let Spirit hide the map where I can’t lose it.) ​Over and out — and tuned in.

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