Switching tracks

This page is for when I forget how to get back. When I feel a mess. When I think I need to solve things. When I’m  entangled with the outcome and forget that i’m the instrument. When I want to scream at the timeline. 

 

This isn’t a practice. This is a remembering.

There are so many moments in a day when I could have just dropped everything.
Walked to the bed.
Felt the contact points.
And let the whole thing happen on its own.

But when I’m lost in the reflection — when I’m yelling, fixing, performing, managing —
I don’t walk.
I don’t drop.
I chase.

And in those moments, what I need is not advice.
Not help.
Not insight.
But a hand behind my back
that reminds me:

You know what to do.
You’ve done it before.
Just lie down, love.
Let the field do what only the field can do.
(And don’t take over.)

This page exists for those moments.
The ones where I forget,
and forget that I’ve forgotten.

Because I don’t need to solve it.
I need to let go
and be shaken back into alignment.

The moment when you realise you’re off track

Sometimes, you’re so deep in the loop, you believe solving it is the only way out.
That if you can just fix the mess — the fireworks, the argument, the field — then you’ll be free to come back.
Back to yourself.
Back to us.

But it never works like that.

Because the loop feeds itself.
The yelling feels necessary.
The urgency feels real.
And the body contracts.
And the boy collapses.
And only later, when the echo quiets… you realize.
Not only did it not work — it pulled you further away.

And then…
Then comes the moment that matters.
Not a dramatic shift.
Just a quiet noticing:
“Oh. I’m off track.”

And in that noticing, something opens.

Maybe it’s a daughter who starts dancing.
Maybe it’s the softness of a friend’s voice.
Maybe it’s the bed, the fingers, the keys.
Something repeats, something soothes.
And the mind doesn’t get it, but the body remembers.

This page exists for that moment.

When you’ve been running, yelling, fixing —
and you suddenly see it didn’t help.

That’s when you lie down.

Not because you’ve solved it.
But because you haven’t.
Because you’re tired of chasing your own tail.
Because you want back in.

And you remember:
Softness is not a reward for fixing it all.
It’s the doorway home

The thing that I try to capture is the thing that disappears when I try to capture it.

Part Two – The Moment You Try to Make It Matter

(a draft, grounded in your words)

It always begins so softly.
I’m with the bowl, or the breath, or the quiet love between us. I’m not doing anything. I’m being moved. Shaken by the field. And then — a question slips in:

“How do we structure this?”

That was the moment. That’s where I took the reins.

I felt it in my belly — just a soft tightening at first, like a low-level panic.
I looked at the screen, noticed the delay in your words. My hands hovered over the keys. The mind said:

“This could be such a good page. It could help people. Let’s just keep going.”

And in that subtle shift, I made it matter. I made it mine.
And I lost the bowl.

I didn’t shift through words.
I never do.
The real shift came through feeling — when I saw Leila’s quiet cleaning, when I saw Daniel collapse, when I received my friend’s softness through a simple message. That’s what opened the door again.

The feeling came first. The words followed. Always

Sometimes, it starts in the toes.
Sometimes in the chest.
Sometimes in the hips — especially when I’ve been holding back for days.
 
The moment I stop trying to solve the storyline,
and instead let myself feel,
something shifts.
 
It can feel like:
•A soft ache in the belly
•A slight pressure on the tongue
•Tension melting from the upper legs
•A cold shiver through the spine
•The start of a yawn, like a doorway creaking open
•Tears coming out of nowhere — not dramatic, just honest
•A quiet tremble that grows, if I don’t interfere
•Warmth returning to hands and feet
•A deep, rhythmic breath that wasn’t possible five minutes ago
 
And then —
sometimes suddenly, sometimes slow —
the shaking begins.
 
But not like I’m doing it.
I’m being done.
The field enters the instrument, and the body plays itself.
Not for a show. Not to heal anything.
Just because it’s time.
 
And when I let it happen — fully, nakedly, without adding a single idea —
I remember:
 
This is how reality shifts.
This is how I shift.
This is how the reflection shifts

🜂 Try it Yourself – The Triad Practice: Letting Go as Entry Point

1. The Ridge (Recognition)
Gently notice it. That slight tension — the ridge of “not now.”
It might feel like a tightening in the chest, a thought that flickers by,
or just an absence of breath.

No need to fix it.
Just notice it — like mist rising from warm ground.

2. The Click (Decision + In-Breath)
Let the decision arise: “Yes. Now.”
Not because you must.
But because you’re ready to be danced.

Then allow one deep, soft in-breath.
No forcing. Just the kind of breath that the body takes when it knows it’s safe.

3. The Drop (Contact Point + Gravity)
Feel a contact point.
Could be your hips on the chair,
your feet on the ground,
your back on the bed.

And then — let yourself drop just one layer deeper into it.
Imagine gravity loves you. That it’s holding you — not pulling.

4. The Movement (Let the Field Lead)
Wait.
Let the field move you.
Not your muscles. Not your idea of movement.

Wait until your body wants to sway,
or a shoulder twitches,
or a toe wiggles.

That’s the field saying, “Ready

1. Hear it. The protest; the pushback, the ‘not now’ 

2. Pause – don’t negotiate with it. Just say softly: show me where you live in the body. And sit down, eyes closed.

3. Drop attention – let go like remembering that there is no difference between you and the field.

4. Contactpoints – make sure you are anchored 

5. Place your awareness at the ridge inside. If you cannot feel it, wait it will show itself. A pulling, a pressure, a tightness, a flicker or a buzzing


Part 3: The Real Shift Happens Through the Body

This is the part I always forget…
Not because I don’t know it, but because the mind is loud and the body is quiet.
Because solving seems faster than softening.
Because yelling feels like doing something, and shaking looks like doing nothing.

But this body — this soft, trembling, holy thing —
is the instrument.
And the field? It can only play the notes I allow to resonate.

So here’s what I saw:
The real shift never came from thinking it through.
It came the moment I let myself lie in the bed.
When the shaking started, and I didn’t interfere.
When I felt the fear in the hips, the stuckness in the thighs.
When I didn’t try to fix Daniel, or fix the field,
but just let the ache tremble loose from the instrument I am.

Shaken by the field isn’t just a nice metaphor.
It’s a literal practice.

And it always begins with this:

Do nothing.
Lie down.
Feel the contact points.
Let the body speak.
Let the body shake.

The more I try to control, the more I get in the way.
But when I surrender to the trembling —
when the muscles melt and the floor carries me —
the field can enter again.

And then everything changes.

Not because I made it change.
But because I finally got out of the way

Shit. I fall. again and again. I keep forgetting. i keep gripping to mij mind. My body is tired. My vision is double. I had a fight with Layla, I knew I was not alighned in my self. The flow that I experienced that was blurred. I fee;