The First Stirring
There’s a moment before the light returns—
when the night hasn’t fully left
and the day has not yet begun.
That in-between hush
where something stirs,
soft as breath,
alive as promise.

This is the element of wood.

It’s also in the movement of a tree.
Deeply rooted.
Stretching its branches.
Meticulously and precisely aligning
to dance with the wind.

It doesn’t wait to be invited.
It is always there.
Sometimes it arrives like thunder—sharp, unmistakable.
Sometimes like the breeze that brushes your cheek
and leaves you wondering if you imagined it.

Where the Body Knows
During Alchemy of Bodywork,
I met wood inside my body—
and through being in touch with other bodies.
Not as metaphor,
but as movement.
Not as concept,
but as truth.

That truth revealed something I hadn’t fully seen.
How quickly I pressurise myself.
How easily I override.

Through stored memories—
events lodged, in unconscious places,
setting pressure in motion.

And as a habit of contraction.
Of closing off.
The learned reflex of the thinking mind:
to contain.
To control.
To adapt.

We practised precise touch—
allowing shifts to take place.
By softening.
By opening.
By releasing old tensions.

Bodies trembling.
Moving.
Laughing.
Remembering.
Each with its own rhythm.
Returning—gently—
to something whole.

And in that state, I could recognise
the impulse beneath the reaction.
To respond from presence
rather than replaying old instructions.

A Deeper Freedom
What followed felt like homecoming.
In that tender space of not-knowing,
I could feel life moving through me.
Not mine.
Not willed.
Simply there.
Guiding.
Intelligent.
Real.

I began to see freedom not as escape,
but as spaciousness.
Not as having all the answers,
but as clearly knowing what is needed.
Precisely in the right moment.

When I stop grasping for my own intelligence,
I can receive something timeless.
Far wiser—
the Intelligence rooted in life itself.
Moving through all of us.

What Wood Teaches

Wood invites us to align.
Again and again.
Not with noise,
but with quiet readiness.

Wood roots in the earth.
It rises toward fire.

And so—through being in touch,
through presence—
we begin to remember.

This became even clearer to me.
In relation with others.
In work.
In connection.
My tendency is to shift the shape of my body.
To bend or contract.
As if adjusting myself will make things right.

But in doing so,
I lose presence.
And with it,
my impact fades.

Instead, when I relax into my body—
without grasping or forcing—
I can meet the moment as it is.
And that, in turn, allows the other to relax.
I can let real intelligence guide my response.
One that may also whisper—
nothing is needed.