There comes a time when the pen must be set aside so the feet, the heart—and, yes, the hands—can get dirty.

I have issues with touch.

I’m not interested in digging deep to find out why. There’s some sensory stuff, including a tendency to startle easily. Unexpected touch can spark native fear.

Also, I absorb the emotional energy of people around me. Touch magnifies that effect a million times.

And yet, the idea of touch radiates and beckons. Could the thing I most resist be the thing I need to explore?

Why would I be so viscerally repelled unless there’s a potency there that both attracts and terrifies me?

The other night, I dreamed I lived inside a glass house. My hands pressed the cold, hard walls as I stared at the world outside with longing.

A woman in my yoga teacher training could heal with her hands. I’ll never forget the way she held out her fingers in shimmering wonder as she described her gift. I was intrigued but never thought such wonder might be within the grasp of my own bony knuckles.

Now, I’m not so sure.

Long story short, I’ve signed up to learn Reiki. All I know is what I’ve heard and read but I’m excited.

I like the idea of seeking verbal and energetic permission before treatment. I like that you help people learn to help themselves. I also like that there’s no way to do Reiki wrong. You’re a conduit for the energy, not the creator.

That resonates with my most memorable experiences of writing and teaching yoga. Electricity only happens when I surrender and get out of my way.

In recent weeks, my writing has slowed to a trickle while my living and learning have been gushing like Victoria Falls. I may need to write myself a boat.

But I’m tired of telling other people what’s what.

I’m tired of proclaiming a truth that, in the morning, seems likely to be a lie, or at least a delusion.

There comes a time when the pen must be set aside so the feet, the heart—and, yes, the hands—can get dirty.

Writing is a steppingstone to life.

I’m stepping off to live.

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Ed: Brianna Bemel