When my children were of school age, I returned home after dropping them off and took a few minutes to rest. I looked forward to lying on the living room couch and deep breathing to relax my body/mind. While our cats rested outside in the sunlight, I placed a large, heavy art book on my belly. It helped me slow my breath. When the book fell off, I was done.
This time, the book fell—and I stayed.
There was an inner nudge, a sudden awareness that I could not get up. At first, despite the deep breathing I had just finished, fear surfaced. I imagined it as a dark knot and instructed the light to carry it out into the universe. Remembering past moments when my body had gone still—once fully paralyzed, another time when my left leg lost feeling for weeks—my concern almost overtook my curiosity.
But something in me had changed.
Breaking negative patterns had become a welcome practice over the years. Knowing that nature abhors a vacuum, I had replaced fear with deep belly breathing. That pattern held. I quieted my mind, kept my eyes closed, and waited—listening for the smallest signal from within.
I imagined waves of light moving through my cells like watercolor, and I softened.
Then, drawing from Tae kwon do, I opened my eyes using “soft eyes”—a relaxed gaze, aware without strain. What I saw—or sensed—was a web of silver filaments surrounding the naval area, expanding outward in all directions. It stretched beyond walls, beyond the ceiling, as if it had no limit. Around it, light beings moved, gently untangling strands.
I questioned it. I asked it to stop—or to show me why.
What came back wasn’t a voice, but a knowing: this was necessary, a way of maintaining a healthy connection to something far greater.
Maybe it was a projection. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, I stayed present.
And when it was over, I could move again.
A few hours later, I picked up my children. When they came home and sat on the couch, they quickly stood back up and moved to chairs. When I asked why, they couldn’t explain it. They just said it felt…different.
Years later, I shared this experience with an acupuncturist. Casually, he said that all acupuncture points meet around the navel—and that the “silver cord,” when seen, has long been described in similar ways.
For You, the Reader
You may never experience something like this. Or maybe you already have—something subtle, unexplainable, easy to dismiss.
But here’s what matters:
There are moments when life asks you to pause instead of react.
To stay instead of escape.
To explore instead of label.
Not everything you encounter will fit neatly into logic. And not everything needs to.
The Risk Within
The real risk isn’t what’s happening beyond the visible.
It’s whether you’re willing to trust what’s happening within you.
To stay curious in the face of uncertainty.
To soften when fear tightens.
To remain present long enough to see what reveals itself.
This week, notice the moments that don’t make immediate sense.
Instead of turning away, lean in—just a little.
You might discover that what feels unfamiliar…
is actually guiding you somewhere deeper than you expected.
Namaste,
Nancy
