Feel the dense, stomach-achy energy but not just in the abdomen. This time it's in the frontal cortex and linked all the way down, barely touching the front edge of the heart. There's some space around it; it can be perceived as a single body, if incomplete. Sitting out in front—or on top? (I'm lying down.) The task is different now. Not so much drilling down into the base of the spine, but letting the body merge into "me." Let it sink, let it touch, let it energize the physical fibers, let it be born into matter. Stay with the unified body that's out in front, but also let it touch, paying attention to the physical sensations, the back, the chest, the stomach. Otherwise it remains out in front, pure and streaming and energized and internally connected. But not embodied. How to merge? Forcing doesn't work. There's a logjam, an equal and opposite reaction. What if I abandon for a moment and just feel the physical? Oh, yes, there it is. Don't like this! Not comfortable. Going off track? No, discomfort's the sign you're going on track. (Time to sit up now.) The resistance is great. My heart doesn't want to be pierced. My heart wants to be safe. Are we willing to recognize this? If I force, I muddy the waters. If I don't, I don't feel my heart. What's that? Numbness? Blankness? Absence? Aha! There is a process here. It is working effectively. Can we honor this? Can we allow the "moving not to feel"? Now the melodies come, the joyful little spurts of clever, mischievous creativity. It dances around, happily it seems. But wait! Weren't we trying to feel the heart? There's just a big, empty space now—though streaming out with little songs and dances. No, we can't feel the heart, but we see what it's doing now. And it feels seen. And it is happy.