We tend to answer this one fast, with a pulse or a pair of lungs. Then it gets stranger. A building wrapped in vines can look more alive than the people walking past it, and a person mid-sentence can feel less alive than a wall of leaves. Ask when it is alive, and notice what you mean by "it" before you answer.
How do I know when I feel alive? Why do some days feel like I'm only passing through them? Can something be alive and not look it? What makes a moment feel alive instead of just busy?
I have gone whole weeks that were full and didn't feel lived in. Nothing was wrong. The calendar was handled, the messages answered. When did I last notice that I was here for it?
Maybe it isn't a feeling at all. Is it alive when it grows, or when it responds, or when something is allowed to change? What is still growing in me that I haven't been tending, or haven't been letting be?
Something can be covered and still alive. A structure with life climbing through it, taking over the parts that were only meant to hold. Which of my own frameworks has something growing through it now, and would I let it?
The body usually knows before the mind does. A breath that goes lower than usual, a loosening in the chest, a jaw that forgets to clench. Where does aliveness show up in me first, and what happens when I notice it?
There is also the other direction. Is it alive when I'm watching it, or when I forget to watch? What changes the moment I name it?
And what if it was never gone? What if the question is only a way of finding out what I've been standing in front of?
I wrote about the way the body keeps hold of what the mind has set down in The Body Never Left You.
If something came up and you feel comfortable sharing it, I'd like to hear it. Private, under your name, or anonymous, whichever feels right to you.
Drawn from Creative Space prompts and here for you to explore whenever you like. Members have access to the full Seed Bank; guests can access today's seed. To join me live in a Creative Space session, register on Luma.
Explore