All at once it seems to me that life, my life, is four-dimensional and fairy-tale like, creative and deeply unpredictable. That everything around me treasures an ancient, primitive and authentic power that belongs to me. That water and my bodily fluids are not so dissimilar to the mountain streams near my home. Neither is the gastric fire that consumes food so different from the sacrificial fire in which the brahmins throw their offerings. The earth that I tread on walking up mountains or which I mix in my garden pots does not seem so different to me from the strength and stability that I feel in my legs. And this feeling is restful. So I have started a dialogue with my body. I’ve done it to learn its language and refine its potential. Even now when I touch the floor beneath me I have the impression of solidity and comfort but also of linearity and extension. If I close my eyes, the horizontal surface of the wooden planks or of the tiles seems endless to me.
