Sometimes the head feels heavy.

The eyelids want to close against any more doing. The body wants to rest, to attend to the quiet, the still, the inside centre point.

Sometimes the throat feels full. Forceful. Buzzy. Sometimes it seems to ignite the jaw and illicit the biting of the tongue or the relaxing of the jaw. Relax the throat.

Hear the birds sing.

Listen.

To the speed, the force of the sound. Imagine where it comes from, the belly and through the esophagus and into the beak positioned just so and with the force needed, the intent behind the sound, the meant-expression. The emotion.

Sometimes the throat feels like a birds’. And the shoulders like folded wings.

Sometimes the feet root into the ground. You might learn it in yoga– how to spread the toes, bend the knees slightly, let the weight descend through the legs, through the feet, into the floor and beyond, an energetic cord of connection between the body, the hips and legs and feet, into the centre of the earth, the lava core. The feet are rooted, being met with resistance, meeting resistance.

Sometimes the feet root into the ground and the head is connected to the sky. You might learn it in Qi Gong; this method of connecting earth and sky in the body and extending the energetic signature of the body and finding the flow of energy moving from earth to sky and then balancing.

You might think you’re just trying a bit of everything and mastering nothing. Or you might be developing dozens of perspectives on a subject you’re just not aware of, a question you haven’t been aware you’re asking. A question like…what is energy? What is a body?

In totality. From all perspectives. You might get into all of this investigation and curiousness and notice you’re being berated by self-criticism and a desire to be different from who you are. You might notice you learn to like yourself more because you know more about how skilled you are, how marvelous a body really is, what a miracle it is you’re alive.

You might think thinking about death is ______________ . It’s okay. Death is weird.

You might like spring the most because that’s when there is proof again, life continues.

You might like winter the most because it reminds you of death and, somehow, the idea that all this work might be over one day feels good.

You might wonder if plastic surgery is a better option than learning to love yourself just as you are. You might wish you were the kind of mom who would have no problem getting botox by the orthodontist when she’s finished fitting your 10 year old with Invisiline retainers. You might experiment with interventions of one kind or another, addictions, ways of avoiding, ways of getting what you want. You might become a heavy consumer of solutions. Solutions to problems you don’t have to take on. You might see your life as one of many, not so special, glad to have gotten this far, and you might wonder, why spend time sharing this story? Who needs to know what you survived? How will it help them? Billions of people are speaking. Don’t we need more silence? Aren’t you tired of someone trying to sell you their version of the truth?

Sometimes the head is heavy when you sit down to write. Sometimes you remember life as if it were a movie and you think the dreaming part is always so good, why not get to it right now. But…you remember a voice from earlier suggesting, your story matters. You remember the session in the therapist’s office about your shame. You experienced your shame. Let it have its say. Through the body. All that feeling. The clenching of the jaw, the gripping of the arms of the chair, how you thought you might rip them off, the overwhelming desire to run, the tears, the drama of it all. Moaning. Clutching your stomach. A movie of the past, replaying. The desire to vomit a boa constrictor of grief squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, from your gut to your throat. Coming back to the room, you remember a moment of strength.

You said, no.

Remember?

You said, no.

Finally, the boa lets go. You wondered if it would be helpful for the woman-trainee therapist to witness an unguarded truth. If sharing a story matters.

We are here for a reason. You and I together.

Yes, we are.

We do not have to be good. To be aware is enough.

I’m publishing a series of dispatches I’ve written/or spoken into a voice memo app and, then, transcribed. They are from a past version of Mar’ce who is also part of this-moment-Mar’ce. : ) I choose them randomly and edit them lightly. Some of them have been shared in small group settings. Most have not been read once they’ve been written.

I notice I stopped sharing widely a couple of years ago. I notice my break had to do with imagining an invisible audience who is potentially critical/judgemental/unkind. I noticed, too, I don’t want to participate In sharing on instagram or Facebook or linked in. I’ve been sporadically experimenting with sub stack. What a wonderful period of time it has been to not share or not share much! What a gift it’s been to germinate, to rest, to experience the events of life slowly and with curiousness! Thank you for reading. I so appreciate your attention. Your curiosity matters. Your attention matters. What are you germinating??