04/07/2026
Where Things Don’t Align
Last Sunday, March 29, during the Chan retreat where Tom was supervising the meditation hall, I was assigned a seemingly simple task: coordinating the cleaning of the women’s bathroom. As I sat in meditation that morning, a subtle tension began to build. My attention kept drifting back to the task; how to organize things, how to make it efficient in such a short time. My mind was already arranging everything: the sequence, the gestures, making sure nothing would be missed.
During the work period, I saw my body move through space in broken, halting movements. My mind rushed ahead, trying to control everything, while my body struggled to follow. That was when I realized I hadn’t been meeting what was there. I had been trying to force reality into my preconceived plan, without truly engaging with the conditions or the people around me. The tension wasn’t in the task itself, but in the gap between my expectations and reality.
The afternoon carried a different quality. It unfolded through alternating periods of sitting and moving, again and again. I didn’t count how many times I folded my towel and blanket. As Tom mentioned in the morning, we repeat actions quietly, allowing seeds to settle until conditions come together.
During one of the sitting periods, Tom came by and adjusted my posture: a slight misalignment in my head that I’ve carried for years, a right leg that needed more support. It was a minor change, but it shifted something deeper. A sense that I didn’t have to hold everything on my own. That I could let that right side rest. And, at the same time, an invitation for the left side to take its place.
With these small changes, I began to feel the difference between holding a form and allowing a posture to emerge. Less effort, but more presence. Less control, but more contact with what was there.
By the end of the day, something had softened. Not resolved, not gone but less tight. The impulse to shape things according to an idea was still there, but I could sense it more clearly, and hold it a little more lightly.
I know this pattern will return. I will miss what is right in front of me again. But perhaps that is the practice: not to resist the stumble, but to meet it with a little more space, a little less fear. And maybe, one day, to trust even the falling.
Text: Johanna Muller 2026/04/01
Images: Internet
