I committed an act of writing the other day.
Sitting down, deliberately, to write.
Putting finger to keyboard, without knowing… what to write.
Just knowing that I wanted to write. Something. Anything.
This is what showed up.

Stay.Black and white photo looking down at a computer on a small desk with a vase on it, with a pair of bare feet onto of a sheepskin lying on the floor.

The word, the sensation, the longing, reverberating within me.
To stay.

I want to stay.

Arms and legs.
Hands and feet.
The cauldron, the sweet pearl, Dan Tien.

Feeling the tingling, the vibration, the pulse in the tips of my fingers, in my toes, on the soles of my feet.

That centre within, a warm presence, anchoring me.
To all that is.

Hold it, he says, hold it.
And I do.
Without grasping, I hold the experience, all my senses activated.

Stay, he says, stay with it, and my whole being reacts.
That’s it!
That’s what this is. That’s what I need.
To stay with it.

Always and already here, this experience, this connection.
A vibrating, pulsing, felt sense of all that is, ever was and ever will be.
Always and already here… but that which I identify with, my I, isn’t. I am not always present to it, not always present with it. But the I beyond, the I that observes the compelling and constructed sense of self dubbed Helena, dressed up as my personality, that I is.

To stay, for me, means to stay with the beyond-my-self-I. The bigger-than-my-self-I.
That was the reminder the I dubbed-as-Helena needed, that at any time –always and already– all that is, is here. Right here. Never farther away than the blink of an eye, going from non-presence to presence.