Held by time

Every state — of the world or the spirit — is a dance of yin and yang. Night turns into day, and day fades back into night. Day leans toward dusk, and night yields to dawn. And we’re carried by that flow of constant metamorphosis. You can’t resist it — but you can notice it. Sometimes, even anticipate it. Most people don’t even notice we’re stuck in a kind of rodeo. We falter and recover. We lose our balance, only to find it again.

There’s something beautiful about learning to read this movement in people. And each cycle begins with tension. I’ve seen it this January — right on the surface of my patients’ skin anxiety, anticipation, irritability, hope, drifting thoughts, and a pull toward something unnamed. So many longings.

Since I came back from India (I went to India, came back — and didn’t even mention it), I’ve been questioning the part I play in other people’s lives. And the one I’m still learning to play — in mine. What I do know is this: our place is right here, where we already are — no matter where that is. Each of us has a spot on this earth that is uniquely ours. Whether in a relationship, a city, a job — that place shapes the part we play. We are, quite simply, where we need to be.

Refining how we see this invisible dance — the one beneath all things — helps us live with more awareness. Every moment is a passage. The peak already contains the decline. And defeat holds, hidden inside it, a future victory. It helps to remember that when life smiles at us, it might just be getting ready to trip us. And when we’re in the dark, unsure of where to go, it helps to trust that the light will come back. It softens the extremes of the soul. It brings perspective — and sometimes, it even brings peace.

Everyone has a sound, a frequency, a vibration. Maybe my work is to tune that vibration — to listen with the body and offer sound not just as medicine, but as presence that heals. So that people can open inner paths. So their knots loosen. So the breath can reach the heart, and the head can finally land where the feet are.

I’m sure of this: through attention to the skin — and everything beneath it — to the inhale. The exhale. The beat of the heart. To the flow and return of thoughts… one day I will arrive on the other side. In the infinitely vast, the infinitely open. In the sky that Pythagoras once said we were born to contemplate.

Primieta. So here we are — I got there. Finally. And now — maybe the real beginning. Primieta, in Russian, can mean “a sign.” It’s rare, but sometimes life sends a spark. And it’s enough. Enough to shift everything. Enough to begin something we didn’t even know we needed.

Maybe my role right now is that of a midwife —to help bring into the world this new woman, and every silence, every voice, every life she longs to carry.

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Translated and adapted by the author.