Riding the Flow
I sit, and the stories begin to stream through me. Each one, its own current—news, weather, memories, thoughts, aches in the body, a flash of someone’s face, a plan forming for later, an echo from earlier. The storyline of the moment is never singular. It’s braided. Multiple rivers flowing at once.
I sense them, these story-streams, not just as thoughts but as sensations—some rush through my chest, some churn in the belly, some rise behind my eyes. They move along the banks of the body. The body: this soft container, always changing too, yet steady enough to feel like a boundary for all that moves through it.
Sometimes my attention dives into one of the streams and gets caught—looping inside it, tangled. Other times, I hover just above the surface, watching the flow without grasping. I notice how each moment has a beginning, a middle, and an end, like waves rising and dissolving, never quite separate from the wave behind or ahead.
The more I try to hold one still—to keep the good, resist the hard—the tighter it pulls against me, like a rubber band stretched too far. But when I relax, when I let the stream be what it is, the tension softens. My grip loosens. The rubber band slackens. There’s ease again.
And something in me begins to dissolve. Not disappear, but lighten. The one who was trying—the one who was holding—fades just a little. There’s less “me” doing the riding and more riding happening on its own.
I become less of a solid thing and more of a passage. Like the wind through leaves. Like sunlight on water.
There is only the movement, the witnessing, the warmth of letting go.
Flowing along with the momentary awareness of what is.
Spiritual Gravity 