I write to hear myself feeling.

On Sitting and Relaxation: My Somatic Meditation Practice

Sitting. I’ve been sitting.

Here’s some real talk about my mediation practice:

I’ve been a long time in only beginning to feel relaxation while sitting up. I’ve been many moons flat back on the floor, resting –searching for rest. To now be able to sit more and more is strange and wonderful.

I feel like I’m constantly opening more capacity to embrace how much I hold, how tense I am. And actually feel directly how that gripping, though painful in places, is one way I protect myself and cope with my experience. To tense limits the amount of sensation or focuses sensations in a limited way –it’s a way to withdraw from life and I have been a long time withdrawing. We have inherited so much holding, and we have so much in this life that would feel safer to push away from.

But often to not feel isn’t safer, it is death. So let me be alive while I am, and feel. Let me feel myself here on this damn cushion for 5 or 45 minutes, and finally, maybe relax.

Relaxation, as it comes, opens. Relaxation makes it more possible for me to be aware of all I try to (and do) block, how I hide, and at the same time how truly vast and grounded my being is –this connection runs deep and is so wild to feel.

To be real honest though, it is terrifying to let go. You’d think like, not having a burning pain in my back would be the better alternative but nah that familiar pain is… familiar. I have a way of being controlling, needing to control (myself mostly), so sitting here and letting that go even when I am alone can feel too overwhelming.

But there is such a sweetness and such a flowing warmth and such a connection with the Earth to be experienced. Now I have tasted that sweetness –it’s not just some idea about what meditation does. And now this gets to metabolize and come through directly into how I be and how much choice I can access in daily life. Like, maybe my ego identity can continue to shed layers and maybe I can not be as reactionary, running the same trauma loops over and over.

Maybe, maybe we can be free.

Maybe we are free.

bodywork, notesMegan Jones
Bring Your Silence


Bring your silence.


Like flames

and your aching hands.


Like coals

and your endings.


Bring yourself.

We will meet on the shore.

31poemsMegan Jones
Both and more

What comes after

Why watch the sun rise
Why kiss the earth
Why open your mouth
to say anything at all
other than
Yes or No.
You are both.

Like a sweetness
all this rushing
eyes wide
no doubt enough to break
this dream of night
this dream of skin
this dream of saying
Yes or No.

You are more.

31poemsMegan Jones
The Echo

Hearing the first

breath of this expanding

death on repeat,

even the sun will go out.

Still it has a

name written on bed sheets

an endless ending,

closing all the windows.

How is it pronounced.

The word for

exactly how many tears

absorbed in a lifetime,

bone deep soaked through

this pillow

this skin

this life on repeat.

The only one sound left

or is it the echo

31poemsMegan Jones
Miles to think

Comb the earth for

a better way to plant



It’s not spring yet


Condition the ground with

the oil of skin, water of tears

Cover the black soil.

Who knows what may come up

surprise heat

surprise sun and blue and

branches budding too soon

—so you say, only they know

and make their own time—


Dig a hole.

Put yourself inside

and walk away.


This path you’ve memorized

is in your mind

and the mind is like a river

flood her and she will be redirected,

move differently and she can

and will change.


Go home. Stay.

31poemsMegan Jones
You are like

You are like
when the room fills with
morning’s first light. And I see you.

Your feet, set into the ground
like two portals
and a great mystery flows from you
down into everywhere you stand.

Your legs carry dreams
like twin rivers, sometimes slow
sometimes swift and full of life.

Your hips form a basin
somehow, what a miracle,
containing all of your worth.

Your arms, softly extending
translating language
into touch.

Your face, like a precious stone or
the flame of a candle,
filled with endless depths.

Your neck, the soft landing for
my mouth —as if
a grace exists to turn my kiss
into the sweetening of your voice.

And your heart,
a universe,
the universe
I worship.

31poemsMegan Jones

What came up from the ground

as the day changed

time stretched between

rising and setting


the mind, this mind, mine

a dream of color and pattern

touched by your gaze


An endlessness, held.


It could go on

the dark of sky

the stars that are there then aren’t.


I’ll be there then not.

You will go on.

31poemsMegan Jones

What is need.
When nothing holds but to lay down
like the winter grasses do
or the leafing green of winter branches
sunk down deep into the heart.

Or is it keeping warm,
following the warmth
like it sometimes goes inward.

What is it to breathe.
When sunlight and moonlight
feel the same.

31poemsMegan Jones
Back to Gravity

Knocked out of time

like the light gone out

a single missed path wrought

or from age


Racing against or

toward, dimly and

how the house creaks at night

or from this wind


Breath gone out

like it was the last time

my face fell this way

toward hope


Changing some or

standing still, as you

appear out on the horizon like

you know my past


Before the clouds come

and I fall back to gravity

31poemsMegan Jones

we were slipping

for a moment

could you feel it

the tilt within the turn

a falling body

pulled by a force

is love a law of the universe

this earth

a burning heart for

the mystery

of ground

31poemsMegan Jones
The Search

Standing at the edge of

an endless body
rippled or
lit up by that spinning star, enlarged.
Watching as the low dotted line,
birds, grace and glide across
the surface tension
calling and calling out the search.

And we all seek and find
the food before us,
some living satisfied by a
come what may, scavenge,
some starved and thirsty hunting
until the catch is caught
again and again on the search.

Watch their line,
these too, even birds, hunt together
moving like a song along the
edge of the world, across the water.

And could I, like a barren bed,
sinking into sand,
not yet caught up in flight
nor thrown full body
toward the edge of the end,
look and find how now
it is possible to feed
on my own heart
and still live.

31poemsMegan Jones

Now as the sun, dipped into the depths

fallen toward darkness,

begins to climb back up

each notch of your spine

from her low angle across the sky,

as if from the underworld, yours.

Now perhaps we can, too,

do this returning from such depths.

Now our lips can part,

drink deep of that light returning,

slowly, say it is finished.

Now all my bones can, too,

come back together from these

years that broke.

31poemsMegan Jones