Before Earth ever existed, there was a Spirit. It wasn’t male or female. It didn’t have a name. It was simply curious, playful, and free. It could be anywhere, everywhere, all at once. It liked to create little adventures, even pretend limitations, just for fun—like playing hide-and-seek in the stars.
One day, this Spirit had a bold idea: what if it went to a place so dense, so unlike itself, that it would actually forget it was Spirit? What if it experienced form, time, gravity, limitation? That place was Earth.
It thought it would be an adventure—but it was harder than expected.
When Spirit arrived on Earth, it felt trapped. Trapped in the body. Trapped in time. The world was beautiful, yes, but it was also heavy. It missed being everywhere at once. It missed the lightness of being. The body felt like a suit, tight and confining.
So, it started to reject the body. It feared pleasure, because pleasure meant getting too close to the body—and it thought that might pull it even further from its freedom. It stopped trusting the abundance that was all around it. Instead of listening inward, it started looking outward, depending on other spirits who had also come to Earth—most of whom had forgotten who they were, too.
It started living mostly in the mind. It still allowed itself little joys here and there, but it never fully inhabited them. Pleasure became shallow, compulsive, unfulfilling—because the body wasn’t being met fully. It wasn’t being honored. The body craved nourishment, presence, connection—but Spirit kept floating just above it all.
The more disconnected it became, the more it criticized the body. It dumped its unwanted feelings there—shame, fear, anger—and refused to sit with them. It misunderstood cravings as problems to fix, rather than messages calling it back into the body. Back into presence.
Eventually, Spirit realized: the way out wasn’t up and away. It was in. Into the mess. Into the discomfort. Into the body it had been avoiding. It had to stop running from the hard parts. It had to stop pretending to be pure light and nothing else. It had to reclaim all of it—mud and magic, grief and joy.
It had to stop living through the eyes of others, performing for survival. It had to stop playing small just to belong. It had to come home.
And home wasn’t some distant realm.
Home was here. Now. In the body.
In the mud and the mystery of life on Earth.
In the breath. In the mess. In the pleasure.
In the full aliveness of being both Spirit and human.
