Kundalini

Spirit didn’t knock. It entered through the back door— a sliver of wind in my kitchen, on a Tuesday so ordinary I thought the sacred had forgotten me. The sky was the color of old bruises, and my hands were inside a basin of water that had cooled too quickly. The air held nothing. And then it held everything. No angel descended. No flame spoke. Just a silence so full it trembled, and I trembled with it. I looked up, but nothing had changed— except the way my breath hung in the room, like it knew something I didn’t. Spirit came dressed as memory, but not mine— the kind that belongs to stone, to salt, to wombs that never stopped singing. It wasn’t ecstasy. It was ache. A blooming pressure behind my ribs, as if I had swallowed a name I was never supposed to say aloud. I heard a voice that was not a voice, say: “Be still. You are already the altar.” And suddenly, the spoon I held in my palm felt like a relic. The dust on the windowsill felt like the remains of prayer. Even the fridge hummed in the key of reverence. No one else saw it. Not the flicker in my hands, not the thinning veil between what is and what almost is. I didn’t sleep that night. My body buzzed with some remembering older than language. I cried, but not from sadness. It was the weeping of a house that finally hears its own name spoken after centuries of silence. To be touched by spirit is not to be lifted— but lowered, into the temple of yourself. It is to feel your skin become a doorway. It is to breathe with the moon’s pulse. It is to carry stillness like a storm just barely contained. They will say it was imagination, a trick of emotion, a moment of fatigue. Let them. But I know what the dust told me. I know the shape my shadow made. I know the voice that never left. And every time I pour water or touch a leaf, or weep for no reason, I remember: Spirit doesn’t knock. It enters when you’ve forgotten how to ask. And stays in everything you cannot explain.