Listening
Reflections on presence, perception, and intuition
January 13, 2026
Listening, as a form of embodied awareness, asks for presence rather than resolution.
I listen to the pull in my back.
I breathe into it, noticing where it tightens, where it relaxes.
Although it hurts, it doesn’t prevent me from my daily routine. Yet it prevents me from fully inhabiting each event of the day.
I’m not quite as enthusiastic in my responses, despite feeling supportive. And I realize my body is not just limiting my movement physically, it’s shaping my emotional reactions*. I hold back, waiting for what — I’m not sure.
What is this telling me? Fear? Habit? A signal of needing care or attention?
I do not rush to fix it. I only notice. I sit with the subtle discomfort.
Sitting doesn’t ease anything. Listening is slow, and while noticing deepens awareness, I am urged to stay without reaching for meaning. It’s uncomfortable. When I listen to my body, I hear more than sensation, though. I hear timing, caution, fatigue, and gentle requests for patience.
Listening asks something different from attention. It’s more passive yet in its own way, more honest. It holds no judgement. It simply asks to register what exists as it is. Nothing demands immediate action, or in fact urges any action. Nothing requires solving. The listening itself becomes a form of care. And perhaps because judgement is absent, it becomes a deep, soothing peace.
When I struggle with drawing the lion, I notice my mind tightening, holding expectations.
I hear a quiet voice: This is harder than you thought. Do you notice why?
I pause. I breathe. I let myself be curious about the difficulty rather than judgmental.
I’ve become in awe of the lion. I want to capture his essence in order to portray him with honor. And yet I fear I’ve asked something of myself that I might not be capable of. It’s not a task I’ve done before. It feels daunting. Huge and majestic — like the lion himself. And yet, what keeps compelling me to try?
If the lion knows I’m there, he does not explain himself. I sense he is aware of me, but I matter nothing to him. He does not adjust his presence to my expectations. Despite this, I feel a deep bond with him. Somehow we are matched, and it doesn’t seem to matter how or why. As I listen to his indifference and my difficulty in capturing his essence, I begin to hear something simpler beneath it— a request to stay with what I do not yet know how to express. How often I have found myself here before — yearning to express that unnamed something. Yet I haven’t had the words, or the artistic ability. The difficulty may not be a failure of skill, but an invitation to remain. What freedom that is!
Listening does not promise relief. It does not guarantee progress, or even answers. But it changes the quality of attention. When I listen, the edge softens — not because it disappears, but because I no longer meet it with force. Something opens simply by being heard. And I am more at peace to hear more clearly.
Limits have a voice if I listen.
They tell me where I am, where I hesitate, and where attention is needed.
And in that listening, I sense possibility.
Edges are not walls. They are thresholds.
And sometimes, just paying attention to them opens a small space where something new can begin.
*This way of listening to the body — noticing sensation, breath, and subtle response as sources of information — is often referred to as embodied awareness. It understands the body as an active participant in perception, not separate from thought or feeling.
