A Soft, Warm Breath Floating in Eternity

Lately, I have been feeling something that is difficult to explain with words.

It is not really an idea. It is not a belief. It is not even something I can say that I understand with my mind. It is more like a sensation, a knowing, a presence. Something very simple and, at the same time, impossible to describe.

It feels like being.

Just being.

A soft, warm breath floating around in eternity.

And when I say this, I know that even that image is not enough. Because what I am trying to describe has no shape, no location, no beginning, no end. It is not something I can possess. It is not something I can hold. It is not something I can say, “This is mine.” It is completely out of the possibility of possession.

It simply is.

And somehow, I am in it.

And it is in me.

And there is no separation.

At the same time, I am still me.

I am still this woman, this body, this life, this story. I still have emotions. I still feel joy, sadness, stress, love, tenderness, uncertainty. I still heal things. I still meet parts of myself. I still have patterns that reveal themselves. I still have a nervous system, a body, a personality, a history, a name.

And yet, there is something timeless here.

Something that is not trapped inside the story.

This is the paradox I have been living more and more deeply: I am Katiana, and I am not only Katiana. I am this human experience, and at the same time, I cannot reduce myself to this human experience. There is an identity here, yes. There is a character being lived. There is a role, a body, a voice, a way of moving in the world. But there is also the awareness of the identification.

It is like I am playing this life, but I am not lost in the game in the same way.

And still, the game is sacred.

I do not feel that the human has to be escaped. I do not feel that the ego has to be destroyed. I do not feel that the body is something lower that has to be transcended. More and more, I feel that everything is God. The human is God. The ego is God. The wound is God. The healing is God. The forgetting is God. The remembering is God.

There is nothing outside of God.

Sometimes we say, “God is using me.” But even that feels incomplete for me now, because it still sounds as if there are two things: God and me. God there, me here. God using a separate person.

But what I feel is more like: I am in God, and God is in me. Father, Mother, Source, Life, Being, the All — whatever name we give to what cannot really be named — is not separate from this life. It is not far away. It is not only above. It is here, breathing this breath, feeling through this body, loving through this heart, sounding through this voice.

It is one movement.

When I work with people, I do not feel that “I” am doing something in the old way. Of course, there is a functional me. I receive the person, I prepare the space, I listen, I speak, I use my tools, I guide, I offer sound, presence, questions, silence. That human part is there, and it is beautiful.

But deeper than that, I feel that something flows.

It is not a knowledge I possess. It comes when it needs to come, and sometimes after that I forget it, because it was not mine. It came for that moment. It came for that person. It came from the field, from love, from presence, from something much wider than my mind.

And in that, I feel no pride. I do not feel, “I am the healer. I am the knower. I am the one doing this.” That part has softened so much. What I feel is more like surrender. I stand before the person, and I love them. I give myself to the moment. I let myself be moved. I let the words come. I let the silence come. I let the sound come.

And maybe that is the work.

To become available.

To love.

To not knowing.

To the body.

To the soul.

To the silence.

To the person in front of me.

Available to God appearing as this exact moment.

There is something very humbling in this, because it does not allow me to make realization into an identity. I cannot say, “I possess this realization.” That would be impossible. Being cannot be possessed. God cannot be possessed. The infinite cannot be owned by the character.

And yet, the character can be lived as an expression of it.

This is why I feel that the deepest spirituality is not about rejecting the human. It is not about saying, “There is no human,” in a cold or abstract way. And it is not about being completely identified with the human either. It is both, and neither.

The human is here.

And the human is not separate.

The ego is here.

And the ego is not outside of God.

The body is here.

And the body is not less holy than spirit.

The wound is here.

And even the wound is held inside the wholeness.

This has changed something in me. It is bringing spirituality closer to the body, closer to ordinary life, closer to the nervous system, closer to the breath. It is not only an experience of light or expansion. It is also in the contraction. It is also in the tiredness. It is also in the moments when I do not know. It is also in the tenderness of being human.

I feel that heaven is not somewhere else.

Heaven is learning to be recognized here.

In the body.

In the breath.

In the voice.

In the hands.

In the place where someone cries.

In the silence after a sound.

In the eyes of another person.

In the moment where nothing special seems to be happening.

There is just being.

And being is already complete.

This does not mean that healing stops. This does not mean that the human does not need care. This does not mean that I no longer feel pain or confusion or emotion. Actually, maybe it makes the human even more loved. Because now the human does not have to become divine. The human is already appearing inside the divine.

The body does not have to earn holiness.

The child inside does not have to become perfect.

The ego does not have to be hated.

Everything can be seen, held, included, loved.

And still, something remains untouched.

There is a timelessness beneath the movement. There is a silence beneath the voice. There is an is-ness beneath the identity. There is a breath beneath the breath.

When I rest there, I cannot explain much. I cannot make a doctrine out of it. I cannot say, “This is the truth,” as something fixed. I can only point to it with images, with poetry, with silence.

A soft, warm breath floating around in eternity.

That is the closest I can come today.

And maybe that is enough.

Maybe the deepest truth does not need to be captured. Maybe it only needs to be lived. Maybe it only needs to breathe through us, moment by moment, as this human life continues to unfold.

I am still me.

And I am not only me.

I am living this experience.

And the one living it cannot be fully named.

I am healing.

And I am already whole.

I am moving through time.

And something in me has never moved.

I am a body, a woman, a voice, a story.

And I am also this vast, quiet beingness that has no border.

Nothing to possess.

Nothing to prove.

Nothing to become.

Just this.

Being.

Breathing.

God appearing as life.

Katiana