I don’t know exactly what it is that I’m waiting for.
For weeks I try to name it, and I never find a word that truly fits. It isn’t excitement. It isn’t anxiety. I’m not even sure it’s pleasure. When I think about it from a distance, sitting somewhere ordinary in the middle of an ordinary afternoon, the idea arrives in a much simpler form.
Being there.
That’s all.
Being there when the moment comes.
As the days pass, I find myself imagining small details that would mean nothing to anyone else. The texture of a folded blanket resting on a chair. The sound of a glass being placed on a wooden surface. The way a room seems to become completely still when everything has already been prepared and nothing remains to be adjusted.
I think about that more often than I should.
Not about what will happen.
About what will already be settled.
Because there is something strangely calming about imagining a process that has already been arranged by someone else’s will. Every object in its place. Every decision made before I arrive. Someone looking at the whole structure, finding the pieces that do not fit, and adjusting them until everything settles into a quiet geometry.
And then my task disappears.
All that remains is waiting.
Sometimes I catch myself thinking about the aftercare before I think about the session itself. Not because of comfort. Not because I need it. But because there is a peculiar serenity in that image.
The intensity has already passed.
The room is quiet.
And the Master is still there.
Not doing anything dramatic.
Not speaking grand words.
Simply remaining.
A hand checking warmth. A blanket adjusted with care. A glass offered without hurry. The calm attention of someone who remains inside the process long after it appears to be finished.
Maybe that is what I struggle to explain.
I don’t fully understand what it is that I enjoy.
If someone asked me which part I want, I probably wouldn’t know how to answer.
It isn’t a specific action.
It isn’t a specific moment.
It is the feeling of belonging to something that exists outside of myself.
Of accompanying a structure.
Of remaining inside a mental architecture that was already standing before I arrived.
Over time, breathing begins to occupy a strange place in my thoughts as well.
I imagine the moment when my breathing stops feeling entirely like my own.
Not because it disappears.
Precisely because it continues.
It keeps coming in.
It keeps going out.
But little by little it seems to find another rhythm.
A rhythm that does not feel imposed.
A rhythm that feels so natural that it becomes unsettling.
Like walking beside someone for so long that both of you eventually move in the same cadence without noticing.
There is something deeply disorienting about that.
The synchronization does not feel artificial.
It feels correct.
And that is exactly why it feels strange.
Because I discover that I am no longer paying attention to my breathing.
I am paying attention to the space around it.
To the presence accompanying it.
To the fact that someone else is watching the process while I simply remain inside it.
Weeks before the day arrives, the idea returns again and again.
Not as a fantasy.
As a stillness.
As a smooth stone resting at the bottom of a river.
Always there.
Never demanding attention.
Never disappearing.
And when I finally think about the end of it all—when the marks cool, when the muscles stop protesting, when the body slowly begins returning to itself—I still find the same image.
Not an image of intensity.
Not an image of triumph.
Just a quiet room.
The work completed.
The process finished.
And me sitting inside that silence, realizing that for a few hours I did not have to decide anything.
I did not have to direct anything.
I did not have to carry anything.
I only had to remain.
Only wait.
Only be there.
The neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
