At any moment, I might descend, lower myself from the worries and sticky thoughts that float in my mind like snow flurries, and touch down, soft as a dandelion seed.
I spend so much of the day in a dust cloud of concerns, distracted, worn by all the things I believe I should be doing, that the background stress feels normal. I don’t realize I’m caught in a frenzy of motion, anxious I’ve left something undone, believing the next activity will cause the dust to settle and calm to prevail.
In the moments when I can descend, I see that the fretful static of the cloud is my way of handling the world, or at least the small corner of the world I feel responsible for. I want to keep things in order, but that’s an impossible job because the world is too big and the things to be ordered are too many. So my nervous system tries to help by keeping me nervous, signaling like a car alarm in the distance. Even after I no longer hear the sound, my body continues to register the warning.
It’s a strange system that tries to protect me by wearing me down, a way of proving I’m okay when, in truth, my being here needs no justification.
In those moments of descent, I recognize that my need to anticipate and organize the world is foolish. The dust cloud is real, but its aspect is secondary, a thin double, a shadow of the genuine. When I let myself fall out, the cords running through me start to unwind, and I remember it’s possible to sit in silence and watch the steady stream of nudges float by without reacting. In this moment, nothing is asked of me.
When nothing is asked of me, my thinking becomes clear and my movement efficient. It’s the difference between static electricity and direct current. My words and actions are straightforward. Deeper senses come alive, allowing me to perceive what is intended beneath the words and actions of others. I move at a natural pace, with no energy wasted on protecting my self-image or projecting onto others. I am here, just here, which seems the most natural thing in the world.
These moments of descent aren’t rare, but they aren’t as frequent as I’d like. That’s why I practice. Over time, the glide path becomes easier and the landing spot more familiar.
Photo by Herbert Goetsch on Unsplash