Some things are easier to find by where they sit than by what they are. A weight on one side of the chest, a corner of the day that never quite clears, a spot in the room we keep our eyes away from. The question doesn't say what "it" is, and that turns out to be useful.
Where do I feel this in my body? Why does it always seem to settle in the same place? Why do I know exactly where it is, but not what it wants?
I spent years trying to think my way around things that had a very precise address. A tightness in the jaw, a held breath just under the sternum. The mind kept offering explanations while the body kept pointing, and I kept answering the wrong one.
Location is a strangely honest kind of information. It doesn't argue and it doesn't tell a story. It just says here, and then waits for us to turn up.
What if finding where it sits is already half of meeting it? What if it has been sitting there so long because no one ever asked?
There's also the wider question of where it sits in a life, rather than a body. Which hour, which room, which person, which kind of conversation. It might not be where we've been assuming.
I wrote about what the body keeps hold of, and what happens when we come back to it, in The Body Never Left You.
If you've found where it sits, and you feel comfortable to share what you're noticing, 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.
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