The Wind Arrives Before I Do.
Image created by author with help of AI
Five minutes into stillness, it rises—fast—like the backyard has its own timing, like nature has been waiting for the moment my eyes close.
I take off my slippers.
Bare feet meet cold earth.
And somehow, the rest of me turns warm.
The sun is in front of me—so bright it feels close - and even with my eyes shut, it’s as if warmth is pouring through my chest, shoulders, arms… my whole upper body.
Cold below.
Sun above.
And I’m exactly in the middle.
Today I choose something different.
No intentions.
No calling in anything.
No searching.
No vigilance.
Just letting the meditation guide me while I do nothing but witness.
My mind is active at first.
Thoughts come back again and again—
but I don’t wrestle them.
I don’t chase them either.
I let them rise and dissolve, like they belong to the same air as the wind.
Then something softens.
A calm comes in—not the calm of solving a problem, but the calm of not having one.
A feeling of being home.
There is nothing I need to do.
Nothing I need to know.
Nothing I need to worry about.
Nothing I need to save.
No purpose I must chase.
No edge I must defend.
Just vibration.
Just presence.
Just being.
Images begin to appear, but I treat them like weather.
I don’t grab them.
I don’t fight them.
Because I notice something clearly: the moment I try to think about an image, it changes form—like my mind wants to build a story, and today I’m not here for stories.
A cave appears—deep, dark, wide.
I come from light and move into it.
And it feels like the cave is carrying me, like I’m passing through a tunnel inside a mountain.
A passage.
A crossing.
I move through darkness toward the other side…
and I emerge into brighter light.
Then my attention catches something like an eclipse - as if the sun is partially hidden behind something—
and there it is: a ring.
A luminous circle.
A rim of radiance so intense it feels alive.
And in that moment, I recognize the same light inside me.
My body starts to blur.
Not in a frightening way - in a gentle way.
Like boundaries stop being important.
I don’t feel like a body anymore.
I feel like light.
And that light blends into the light around me,
and that blends into everything - a coherence, a resonance, a field where separation feels optional.
Then I see a spiral of light in front of me.
It’s moving, turning—spiraling—like a luminous corridor.
And at the far end of it there is a star… a sun…
a concentrated source-point, bright and steady.
I’m not forcing myself toward it.
I feel gently drawn—like resonance pulling resonance.
A waterfall appears next - sudden, clear, flowing - a vision of movement that feels like cleansing without effort.
Then again the sun is there—so bright—
and it feels like blessing.
Not a concept.
A sensation.
I feel light - almost weightless - as if I’m rising toward it, or expanding into it,
as if “up” is not a direction but a softness of surrender.
And then the return begins.
I feel myself expand—bigger and bigger—
and then slowly gather back.
I pull my energy inward with breath.
I breathe in the light.
I ground myself.
And finally, I open my eyes.
Reflection
I didn’t go outside to figure anything out. I didn’t set an intention. I didn’t ask for signs. I didn’t try to make meditation into a performance.
And that was the whole turning point.
When I stopped trying to do it “right,” my body knew what to do.
When I stopped chasing meaning, meaning arrived as a feeling—quiet, unforced, and true.
The wind felt like a threshold—something that meets me when I cross into stillness.
Bare feet on cold earth felt like the anchor.
Warmth from the sun felt like permission.
The cave was not a warning; it was a passage.
The ring of light wasn’t an explanation; it was recognition.
The spiral didn’t demand effort; it invited alignment.
The star didn’t move; it simply held its place—like a steady center-point I could remember without reaching for it.
And the waterfall—
it felt like the mind rinsing itself clean
without my supervision.
Afterglow
And when it’s over,
I don’t carry proof.
I carry a quiet.
Not the quiet of avoidance—
the quiet that comes
when my nervous system finally believes
it is safe.
I don’t need to explain the wind.
I don’t need to pin the light to a theory.
I don’t need to keep the spiral.
I only need to remember
how it felt
to stop performing my own healing.
Bare feet on cold earth.
Warmth blooming where effort used to live.
A passage through darkness
without panic.
A ring of radiance—
not demanding faith,
only attention.
A spiral turning,
and a star that doesn’t move—
not a destination,
an orientation.
And then breath—
the old bridge—
bringing me back
to this ordinary miracle:
I opened my eyes
and nothing changed,
except everything inside me
felt clear.
I didn’t do it right.
I just showed up.
And something shifted.
clarity—clean and bright.
Calmness—deep and stable.
And happiness—simple, quiet, real.
Not the happiness of getting something.
The happiness of remembering I was never missing it.