Every itch is its own scratch
What it is to be so surrendered
It’s as if life finally picked you up by the scruff of your neck like a lioness does her cub, not to punish you, not to abandon you, but to deliver you back to the very place you never left. And suddenly, with no trumpets, no neon lights, no sense of achievement, you realize: you’ve never driven one single day of your life. And weirdly, it’s not terrifying—it’s delicious.
Now, every event becomes its own generator.
Every itch, its own scratch.
Every mistake, its own lesson.
Every gift—given by the Self, to the Self.
And even the gift is the Self, …appearing as a gift.
You stop cataloging emotions into “good” and “bad.” Grief arrives and you don’t brace. Joy rises and you don’t cling. Like the sun shines, and the rain pours, the hurricane slashes through the city ripping houses apart, lifting swimming pools and sheds, each emotional state appears, pours, and dissolves. No editorializing. Just weather.
You don’t say, I am breathing. Breath is just happening.
You don’t say, I must respond. Speech simply emerges.
Thoughts are heard like background birdsong—chirping, changing, never really belonging to …you.
The body is no longer a vessel you manage.
It is the earth, tasting itself from inside.
Oh, sensations, cravings, physical pain. Who would be the one to own them?
A ribcage expanding is the mountain range stretching.
A heartbeat thudding is thunder beneath your skin.
The personality becomes impersonal.
A choreography of tendencies arising from who-knows-where.
Decisions are no longer squeezed out of you. They come to your table like a waiter placing food on a table that you didn’t order from—but it’s always exactly what you’re hungry for(even if you aren’t aware).
You find yourself laughing in the middle of a conflict, not because you’re aloof, but because the seriousness you used to wear like armor doesn’t fit anymore.
You watch a friend misunderstand you completely, and instead of clenching butt cheeks, scrambling to correct them, something in you bows—this too is allowed. Misunderstanding is part of the show.
Oh, friendships! Friendships develop out of nowhere.
And friendships dissolve, the way they were formed.
The chicken and the egg? Irrelevant.
The chicken came first as well as the egg.
The way they came next. And came again together,
the first being last and the last being first.
It doesn’t need to make sense—it all is seen as perfection, and that’s enough.
Strive to be present! Strive to be present? You no longer strive to be present. You’re not "being present"—you are presence. Silence is no longer a state to enter. It’s the room you never left, the foundation that all of sound, form and objects were built on top of.
Even effort(and efforting) is allowed, but it’s like a child dressing up in adult clothes—playful, not desperate. It’s like finally letting go of the steering wheel only to realize the car was never moving. The scenery? Projected. The driver? Imagined. And the road? Home all along.
That’s what it feels like. So darn surrendered. So darn free.
Contemplative Currents is a free (bi-weekly) newsletter that aims to shed light into our daily experiences as opportunities for contemplation of this glorious Mystery. If you'd like to support my work, please consider subscribing and/or sharing this free Substack. If you’re looking to monetarily support, buying my book, This Glorious Dance: Thoughts & Contemplations About Who We Are, is enough. I'm grateful for your support in whatever capacity.