I sat in the living room with my guitar against my soft naked body, watching my lover prepare a meal for me. He moved around the kitchen, cooking and cleaning, occasionally looking back at me with a smile. I watched the muscles in his back as I strummed, salivating, amused by my own desire. There was something delicious about the whole scene — the way my fingers moved across the strings, the way he moved around the room, the way I could feel myself being strummed open too.
I felt juicy. Alive.
But beneath the sensuality, something quieter was happening.
I was letting myself be heard.
I am often alone when I practice. I work through songs in their messiness, privately, before they are polished enough to offer anyone. That night, inspired by John Mayer's rendition of "XO," I wanted to sing directly to him. I was shy, but proud. Proud that I had picked up my guitar again. Proud of the sounds my own hands were making. Proud that I was allowing another person to witness me becoming.
The music within me was awakening.
For 120 days, I have practiced Gyan Chakra Kriya, planting intentions for healing, prosperity, partnership, love, wealth — for a life beyond survival. I expected those seeds to yield evidence.
Instead, Spirit gave me something else first.
My bills came. My bank account dwindled. And I waited for the familiar panic to consume me.
It didn't.
"I don't like it, but I'm not folding."
My eyes welled once, but I exhaled. I kept trusting: an all-sufficiency of supply to meet every need with divine surplus.
Then life asked me to yield again.
I returned to substitute teaching, something I had sworn I wouldn't do. I had to surrender pride, resistance, shame, and the story that I should have "figured it out" by now.
"Go change lives," my lover said.
My head tilted. Maybe returning wasn't going backward. Maybe surrender wasn't defeat.
"Perhaps yielding is allowing the seed to break open."
The seed becoming a tree
I am releasing the belief that I need saving. I am learning to receive love without requiring rescue, to be witnessed without being finished, and to trust myself without knowing what happens next.
I thought harvest would look like everything I planted finally appearing before me.
Instead, the first fruit has been me.
Calm. Safe. Faithful.
Fearless enough to remain open.
I didn't know that not knowing could feel so good.
