As It Appears
Reflections on presence, perception, and intuition
January 6, 2026
Today I notice a pull in my back as I move.
It is subtle at first, almost ignorable, but persistent.
A reminder as I drive it is there.
A request to be noticed as I sit.
And a plea to be attended to as I stand. Each subtle pull becomes a teacher, inviting me to notice not only the edge in my body but the quiet boundaries of awareness.
Each stretch reminds me that my body remembers old boundaries, and for a moment, I stop.
The pull signals an edge — a boundary I had not fully felt until now.
I begin to wonder whether sensing this boundary is the same as limiting myself.
What, exactly, is holding me back?
Is it physical, or something less visible?
The question stays with me as I continue moving.
Later, I try to draw a lion.
Lines hesitate, refuse, then snap into place, reminding me that limits are not only felt in the body.
The form resists.
The proportions challenge.
The curves demand attention.
The next day, I try to inhabit the lion instead of drawing him.
I imagine his essence — his majesty, his power, the territory he surveys, the way his mane moves in the wind.
No words can adequately capture his magnificence.
I feel inadequate yet compelled to somehow express this grandeur.
Beauty, intelligence, understanding, a holiness of sorts.
My breathing slows.
My body softens.
And yet, my hand still pauses over the page.
My fingers follow habit rather than discovering new forms.
I pause.
I redraw.
I notice the friction between intent and reality.
When the image fails to match what I felt — that brief, heart-felt sense of grandeur — the tension sharpens.
Results vary by the day.
One day I move easily, each extension full, each stretch long.
Another day I return as a humble, and sometimes frustrated, beginner — forgetting sequences, movements, combinations.
One morning’s walk feels effortless and fast.
The next day’s quick outing seems like a mountain hike.
Regardless of the outcome, effort is present.
My muscles feel it.
My limbs resist.
Even my thinking seems slow to cooperate with my will.
There is no clear explanation.
No consistent logic.
Only what appears.
So I loosen my grip.
I observe more.
I consider less.
I imagine living a bit more like the lion — attentive, grounded, unhurried.
As if all of life carries a quiet majesty.
That feeling touches something spacious, almost limitless — a hint of magic.
Limits appear everywhere — in muscle, in art, in what I expect of myself.
They are neither punitive nor flattering.
They are simply what is.
I watch them.
I acknowledge them.
I allow them to show themselves.
And then another question arises:
what would happen if I stopped focusing so intently on the limits themselves?
What if attention softened, presence widened, perception shifted?
By softening focus and widening attention, I notice more — the interplay of presence, perception, and subtle shifts in both body and mind.
Perhaps I will continue with an air of leonine majesty and simply observe what happens.
It may be magical.
At the very least, it feels like an adventure.
