The Ache as Compass
Read slowly, aloud, leaving a breath between lines; about fifteen minutes.
Before you begin. This is a light trance for honouring a heavy feeling. Do not use it if you are having thoughts of ending your life, of not eating, or of harming yourself; speak to a clinician or a crisis line today instead. If you live with severe depression, a psychotic or dissociative illness, practise only with a clinician who knows you. Never practise while driving, operating anything, or in or near water. Sit upright.
How to return at any moment. Lift your head, open your eyes, put both feet on the floor, and say your name and today's date aloud.
Sit, and for a moment take the prince's posture: still, the cheek resting in the palm. Let yourself admit the tiredness you have been hiding. You do not have to fix it. You only have to let it be seen.
Notice where the weight sits. Perhaps on the chest, like a rock, so that the breath has to move around it. Let the breath move around it. No need for tears; no need to stop them.
Now let the things that have lost their taste pass before you one at a time, like a procession seen from a window. Money. The body. Youth. Time. Whatever it is for you. Name each one quietly, and let it go by. You are not throwing anything away. You are only watching.
And notice who is watching. All this time, something in you has seen the sorrow that no one else saw. It did not weep. It did not turn away. It sat quiet and watched the beads turn. Rest for a few breaths as that one.
Now hear an old voice speak about you, the voice of someone who has seen many people in your place. It says: This is not a breakdown. This is the beginning of a clearer intelligence, one that has outgrown its old supports. It will be answered, and you will be well. Let the words land wherever they land.
From that place, let one question form. Not a complaint; a question you would put to a real teacher. Perhaps: What is worth pursuing? How can I live in the world and not be stained by it, like a drop of water on a lotus leaf? Let it take your own words.
Feel the room go still around the question, as the court went still: a hall full of people, birds that stopped their wings. Your question deserves an answer. You are not alone with it.
(Silence: one minute.)
Now lift your head from your hand.
I will count from one to five, and on five your eyes open, clear and present.
One. Breathe fully, all the way down.
Two. Feel your feet on the floor and your weight on the seat.
Three. The sounds of the room return.
Four. Move your hands; roll your shoulders once.
Five. Eyes open. Here. Now. Fully alert.
Say your name aloud, the day and the place. Name three things you can see. Then write your question down, in one sentence, and carry it out of the room. If you feel low or heavy, stand, walk a little, drink water, and speak with someone before you go on with your day.
