What you seek is already here

Opposed to some years ago, when I wrote letters and reflections nonstop, I am relatively quiet now.

It is a very sweet quietness.

A quietness from being in touch with life-force itself, which does not aim in any specific direction, at any specific person or object, or any particular action. It does not differentiate between inside and outside.

Desire is desire. Without object.

Joy is joy. Without object.

Anger is anger. Without object.

Sadness is sadness. Without object.

Passion is passion. Without object.

All of it is life-force.

Thoughts are scarce. There is a lot of spontaneity.

One may ask: how does that look in daily life?

A dear Substacker, with whom I enjoy conversations, once felt a visceral, alive power in my words. Something sexual. In a way that may be true.

The funny part is, I do not necessarily have sexual encounters, nor do I need them to feel fully, deliciously alive and one.

Like most people, I once searched for fulfilment, wholeness, oneness — that feeling of being totally alive — on the outside. In others. In love and sex, yes, too.

That’s a tricky one.

In intimacy, skin on skin, sweat on sweat, breath entangled, orgasm or even multiple orgasms — we feel ourselves fully alive. Pulsing. Dying. Melting into something greater. We return to ecstasy, to unity. And yet, often afterwards, emptiness comes back. Or, in rare cases, we think we’ve touched enlightenment — that the other has made us whole. That this depends on another. And we want more.

But is that so?

It is a trap, a very beautiful trap, because it forces us to start digging deep. We may believe it is the other person, but what we really touch is our essence. Our being. Our ever-alive pulse within this body.

We write fiery words, letters, outcries — to another, to the world — believing they can save us, make life make sense, complete us. But try this experiment: exchange all the “you’s” with “I’s.” See what happens.

So how does it look when that force, that aliveness, is no longer limited to direction, to sexuality, to another person?

In a life many might call boring?

Eating, sleeping, walking, cooking, errands, couch, breathing, teaching somatic movement now and then, driving, silence. No podcasts. No news. Rarely music. No sex.

And yet.

I wash dishes, dry a pan, and suddenly feel a wave of intimacy with that piece of steel. A moment of ecstasy. The same might happen in a supermarket aisle, staring into some ordinary object until it pulses back at me. One.

Earlier, Ben looked at me after I finished chores: “Let’s go?” So we went. The sun had set. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from a restaurant doorway, mingling with the call of a crow and the sound of my feet on concrete. Ben ran ahead, tail wagging. He stopped to sniff. I swayed along, passing him, exaggerating my steps, hips loose, ass wagging (as for not having a tail), thighs wrapped in ridiculous Christmas leggings. The crisp air touched my skin, I shouted nonsense sounds- schrack, schrucki, swusch- into the night, and a passing couple laughed out loud from their car window. All eyes almost disappearing into a joyous halo of wrinkles. Everywhere.

Ecstasy.

Embraced by the womb of the world. Desire and passion given to, and received from, life itself. Sometimes so subtle it barely stirs, sometimes bursting out as I roll in the grass with my friends’ kids, their shrieks thundering in my ears, being half-blind with my wool cap pulled over my face, my arms launching them up into the velvet night sky like squealing, spinning stars. The adults stand around talking. No one cares.

If anyone tells you they can make you whole, fix you to be a better version, get you unstuck, put you on the right path spiritually or whatever — run. Home. To yourself. To all of yourself.

Everything we seek is in us. Already. Always.