How do I know if I'm doing it?Okay so this is tricky because the moment you try to define what flowing feels like, you've already turned it into a concept, which then becomes something your mind tries to achieve, which takes you out of flow. You see the problem, right? Like, if I give you a checklist of what flow feels like, you'll just use that checklist to evaluate whether you're flowing, which means you're in your head analyzing your experience rather than actually experie

Okay so this is where the rubber meets the road, right? Because you can understand the concept intellectually - "oh yeah, I need to catch my mind" - but actually doing it is a completely different thing. First, you need to understand what "being taken from the present" actually feels like. And most people don't even know because they're so used to being in their heads that it feels normal. It's like asking a fish to notice water - they've been swimming in it their whole life,

There's a problem in modern spirituality that nobody wants to talk about. We have more spiritual teachings available than ever before. More books, more teachers, more practices, more concepts. And yet, most people who engage with spirituality aren't actually becoming more present, more peaceful, or more connected. They're just becoming better at spiritual concepts. So let me ask you: are you in your head space, or are you flowing in the present? Are you actually experiencing

It comes to bed before he does. Slips in behind me, presses its chest to my back like he used to. It knows my scent. Knows where I ache and where I dig for signs.

You are the only thing I’ve ever done without regret. In a world that has asked me to question everything—

I came into this life

I was bleeding when he came to me— not with pity, not with fear, but with the weight of a man who still wanted me even when I was broken. I changed my pants in front of him.

I said maybe it was the weed. He said maybe it was the stress. We circled the maybes like buzzards. I needed something to point at— a habit, a fight, a forgotten prayer.

I thought love would be the gate.  The key.  The clean path.  That once I said yes, the kingdom would open— filled with calm mornings and hands that never trembled when they reached for me. I believed in a peace that someone else could bring.  A man.  A ring.  A house that smelled like safety. But heaven is not handed down.

He cried when he knew he’d have to give up five children to love me.  And he did.  Chose the woman four years older with a daughter and a sword in her mouth. I warned him: I don’t trust easy.  I see too much.  I’ll break you open just to make sure you’re real.

I want to be clean.  Not flawless.  Not quiet.  Just clean. Not like my mother.  Not a tyrant with lipstick and scripture, wielding guilt like gospel, keeping men leashed by fear and women silent in her shadow.

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