The oldest house in the world is the body.
Not just this human one,
But every form that has carried the wild,
Unbroken current of being.
We belong to a lineage of dwellings,
Billions of years old.
Shells and scales,
Fur and feather,
The shimmering film of cell walls.
We are not separate.
Not owners of our bodies,
But borrowed stardust,
Borrowed breath,
Borrowed sensation,
Existence's brief gesture of this moment now.
Before lungs,
Heartbeat and words,
There was stillness.
That stillness remains our original nature,
Infinite,
Which by some miracle wrapped itself in finite form and began to wonder,
What am I?
That question has peckled across time,
Through gills and fins,
Lungs and limbs,
And it still hums in our bones,
Whenever we pause long enough to feel our own quiet being.
We carry the residue of what has shaped us,
Not only in flesh,
But in the corridors of sensation.
We were once the dream of trees learning to walk,
The tide rehearsing its lungs,
The question primordial emptiness asked itself,
Waiting a billion years for an answer.
Each of us is infinity's experiment of being the perishable,
The cosmos's lucid dream.
Even now,
Our ears spiral like nautilus shells,
Listening for the ocean that first held us.
Our tailbone remembers how it curled around the green.
Between our fingers linger the ghosts of webbing,
Singing hymns to rivers we once swam.
Each breath opens the gilled chambers we carried in the dark of the womb.
The tiny hammer and anvil in our ears were once the jaws of a reptile,
Now forging sound from ancient bone.
Even our hair remembers the soft lanugo whispering over unborn skin,
A coat shed but never forgotten.
When we shiver,
Goosebumps rise like hackles,
A phantom pelt bristling against the wind.
We are a living cathedral of fossils,
Part of a story that has never begun and will never end.
The bookends of our short lives,
The universe,
Turning its own pages through us.
To be human does not mean to be trapped in this thin skein of an hour.
Only,
If we believe we are our time-bound thoughts,
Our narrative selves,
Bound by flesh rather than knowing ourselves as the sentience that holds it.
The nervous system evolved in wild landscapes,
Not cities.
Long before complex thought,
There was raw sensation,
The pulse of feeling,
The urge to belong,
To love,
To protect.
Beneath language and culture,
We are still moved by awe before storms and night skies.
The sense of being,
That nameless awareness that perceives,
Before it is clothed in concepts,
Stories or self-image,
Is ancient and untouched.
In a way,
What remains primordial is what precedes thought,
Breath,
Heartbeat,
Sensation,
Wonder,
The raw encounter with existence,
Before interpretation.
Interdependence is stitched into every fibre of our being,
Whispering that to remember our reliant body is to remember belonging.
We are cradled by arms far broader than the mind,
Arms that do not cling to the illusion of independence,
Solidity or control.
The entire universe arose without a thought.
Silence itself brought it forth.
That which is looking through your eyes right now,
That which is receiving my voice,
Is that same intelligence.
We are matryoshka dolls,
Hiding all the bodies it took to become this one.
Carved by reverence,
Opened by stardust and calcified by bone.
Yet,
There is no final figure within the doll,
No separate self hidden at the core.
Only life unfolding more life,
Ceaselessly,
Carried by a continuation.
That is love itself.
The body is our oldest home.
To remember this is to live as the great mystery,
Bowing to itself through self-preservation,
Through relationship,
Through forgetfulness,
Through pain and joy and heartache.
The spiritual path was never meant to be a pursuit,
To leave our earthly home,
But to live more fully,
More intimately because of it.
So come back to your being,
Your felt sense of aliveness.
See clearly the ways you mistakenly believe yourself to be the thinker of your thoughts.
Make your body your most truthful spiritual teacher,
Showing you what belongs.
Seek no more to know,
But to feel and be here simply,
Yet knowing that simplicity contains multitudes,
Primordial wisdom and unbroken silence in the effortless unfolding of life itself.
Www.
Mooji.
Org
