The feeling before words
It always starts in the body.
Not in your thoughts.
No.
Somewhere much deeper – a slight pressure behind the breastbone, a warmth moving upwards towards your throat, perhaps a faint tickle across your forehead. A moment of stillness amidst the noise. Maybe you already know what I mean?
It can happen in the strangest places. In a traffic jam on a Tuesday, for instance, when the radio is playing something you'd never choose yourself – and yet you feel it. As if the air around you changed density without warning.
As if someone whispered your name, even though the room was empty.
Or in the kitchen. The light falling obliquely across the floor in a way it surely has a hundred times – but this morning you stop. The sound of the kettle fades. Everything disappears except that pressure in your chest that says nothing and everything at the same time. While the body knows something the brain hasn't yet learned.
And then – you expect an insight. An explanation. The puzzle piece that falls into place. But instead? Nothing big comes.
What comes is quieter and much more powerful: the feeling that you already know.
That the answer has resided within you for a long time, buried under years of noise, achievements, and others' expectations.
The third eye – the one that opens without warning in a traffic jam, in the kitchen, in the midst of the utterly ordinary – it opens to show you the way home.
And now what?
You do nothing dramatic. You don't book a retreat. Don't buy any crystals.
You sit still for thirty seconds longer than usual. You let the feeling be there without immediately transforming it into a task, a plan, or a story about who you are. You breathe in. You observe. And in that space – right there – something begins to change.
It is the lens through which you see that changes.
That's all. And it's enough.
For now.
© by HerMine’s