For more than forty years (I won’t say just how many years after forty) I have walked in this body, slept, ate, made love, had babies in this body and even walked on hot coals, and all too frequently, I feel like I am not settled in my body.  During these times I feel beside myself, like I’m tagging along unwillingly, merely observing with my attention elsewhere and not fully engaged.  I long for the ease of dropping in and feeling securely seated in my loins.

I think it’s trust, or rather, the lack of trust which keeps me suspended thusly, half in and half out of my body.

It isn’t hardship, starvation, torture or any of the usual painful body events which would make one want to vacate the body. On the contrary, I have everything I need in terms of food, shelter and clothing.  I even have to admit, as far as bodies go, I was given a fairly good one.

So, this force which keeps me separated from my body must be my mind.  Yet, I still waiver.  This barrier has density, a heft, a palpable thickness.  It must be molecular, something physical.  I use my will and my practiced, meditative mind to force myself deeper into my cells and sometimes it works.  Sometimes it doesn’t.

As I write this, I am remembering.  Effort- movement, walking, writing, yoga- initiates the penetrating process.  The barrier begins to soften and yield.  But, the feeling of separation is self-perpetuating and keeps me from moving.  I feel without propulsion.

When I successfully overcome this lackadaisical malaise and get my butt off the chair, I immediately feel better.

I move, walk, run, write, stretch or breathe and I begin to slip in, settle down.  I am connected once again and it’s bliss.