It’s almost like I’ve been waiting for this moment. I’m slightly surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.

It’s Wednesday, 20 August. I published the latest episode of disconnect last Sunday. I’m sitting in the C/O Café, at the last table in the back. Not at the second-to-last, as the third-to-last is occupied, and I like to be not too close to people. It’s time to write the draft for the next episode, and there’s nothing to write about. At least that’s what I’m thinking right now.

I know it will be different. I’m already curious about what I'll have written when my phone’s timer rings for the third time, in 79 minutes, and I’ll close my notebook and leave the C/O Café.

Why do I believe there’s nothing to write about?

The past week didn’t go as I imagined. I was involuntarily resting, then recovering, then catching up. Not doing what I had in mind.

Last Wednesday, 13 August, I typed this phone note:

Today: So much physical discomfort that slows me down, feels deeply grounding. Not pain necessarily. My body aches. I am forced to make sloth-like movements. And I am at peace.

I didn’t sleep well the last days. Heat. I didn’t run on the weekend. I did this morning, even though my legs felt like they may collapse at any given time. I am present. My body shivering. Goosebumps on my arms. Even though it’s 30 degrees plus outside. A not painful, but discomforting headache/dizziness. Symptoms of a sun stroke, even though I didn’t spend time in the sun.

A. said it seemed as if I was getting sick, developing a fever. She took my temperature and, indeed, I had fever. I spent the majority of the rest of the day in bed, doing nothing. Really: nothing, except laying in bed. My headache didn't get better, my body temperature fluctuated, constantly above 37.5 °C.

In this state, I wasn’t able to attend the zazen meditation at the Buddhist Society Berlin upon which I stumbled recently on a walk, just about 10 minutes away from home. When I saw the showcase that advertised the different weekly meditations outside of the society’s building [which I had never noticed before even though I’ve passed by several times], I knew I’d attend the Wednesday zazen session as soon as possible and reflect on this experience in a disconnect episode.

Not this week. As the day came close to its end, I still felt feverish and dizzy. Simply being was an effort. I could have taken medication to alleviate my fever, to numb my headache, and attended the meditation. But I didn’t.

There is something meditative and rewarding about getting sick and experiencing the healing process, solely fueled by the body’s own power. It’s like a natural reset. A permission, or rather an order, to do nothing. Nothing but listening to the body. Allowing it to heal itself strengthens the connection and trust I have with and in it. It makes me appreciate feeling well. At the same time, it teaches me to detach from my body. No need to be unwell mentally because I’m unwell physically.

Since I can remember being alive, I’ve been in discomfort regularly. Due to my hypersensitive sensory system I experience discomfort in situations that seem easily tolerable to most people. This led to often not being taken seriously, causing me to deal with discomfort internally rather than seeking external solutions. Over time, I developed an odd mix of tolerance and enjoyment for discomfort.

I deeply enjoyed the strict rest day. I felt good, even though I did not feel well. In the evening, I went on a spaziergang. I walked significantly slower than I ever would when feeling well. So slow it felt a bit awkward. It totally changed my perspective on my environment—slowing down allowed me, almost forced me, to perceive everything around me differently, to unintentionally observe everything in greater detail.

The next two days, I still felt so-so. The fever had disappeared after one day; the headache, dizziness, and need for sloth-like movements hadn’t. I had short moments of panicking, fearing I wouldn’t be able to rest as much as needed, and complete my usual weekly tasks at the same time—especially since I just recently launched forget time + explore as a bi-weekly addition to this newsletter. Would I fail to deliver on time already for the second episode?

Re-reading the notes from the experiment I did a couple of weeks ago brought me back on track:

• plan. be prepared.
• This experiment strengthened my trust in my ability to find space for what’s essential.

What was essential those days? Resting. As much as I enjoyed the radical bed rest, I wanted the sickness and discomfort to last as short as possible.
And, luckily, I was prepared. While working on the concept for forget time + explore, I created a test episode. I decided to not release it as the first one but rather keep it in my archive, until the right moment to release it presents itself. Next Sunday.

How can we appreciate feeling well if we suppress not feeling well?

Enjoy your day [or night].

glg Soda Paapi

It’s almost like I’ve been waiting for this moment. I’m slightly surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.

It’s Wednesday, 20 August. I published the latest episode of disconnect last Sunday. I’m sitting in the C/O Café, at the last table in the back. Not at the second-to-last, as the third-to-last is occupied, and I like to be not too close to people. It’s time to write the draft for the next episode, and there’s nothing to write about. At least that’s what I’m thinking right now.

I know it will be different. I’m already curious about what I'll have written when my phone’s timer rings for the third time, in 79 minutes, and I’ll close my notebook and leave the C/O Café.

Why do I believe there’s nothing to write about?

The past week didn’t go as I imagined. I was involuntarily resting, then recovering, then catching up. Not doing what I had in mind.

Last Wednesday, 13 August, I typed this phone note:

Today: So much physical discomfort that slows me down, feels deeply grounding. Not pain necessarily. My body aches. I am forced to make sloth-like movements. And I am at peace.

I didn’t sleep well the last days. Heat. I didn’t run on the weekend. I did this morning, even though my legs felt like they may collapse at any given time. I am present. My body shivering. Goosebumps on my arms. Even though it’s 30 degrees plus outside. A not painful, but discomforting headache/dizziness. Symptoms of a sun stroke, even though I didn’t spend time in the sun.

A. said it seemed as if I was getting sick, developing a fever. She took my temperature and, indeed, I had fever. I spent the majority of the rest of the day in bed, doing nothing. Really: nothing, except laying in bed. My headache didn't get better, my body temperature fluctuated, constantly above 37.5 °C.

In this state, I wasn’t able to attend the zazen meditation at the Buddhist Society Berlin upon which I stumbled recently on a walk, just about 10 minutes away from home. When I saw the showcase that advertised the different weekly meditations outside of the society’s building [which I had never noticed before even though I’ve passed by several times], I knew I’d attend the Wednesday zazen session as soon as possible and reflect on this experience in a disconnect episode.

Not this week. As the day came close to its end, I still felt feverish and dizzy. Simply being was an effort. I could have taken medication to alleviate my fever, to numb my headache, and attended the meditation. But I didn’t.

There is something meditative and rewarding about getting sick and experiencing the healing process, solely fueled by the body’s own power. It’s like a natural reset. A permission, or rather an order, to do nothing. Nothing but listening to the body. Allowing it to heal itself strengthens the connection and trust I have with and in it. It makes me appreciate feeling well. At the same time, it teaches me to detach from my body. No need to be unwell mentally because I’m unwell physically.

Since I can remember being alive, I’ve been in discomfort regularly. Due to my hypersensitive sensory system I experience discomfort in situations that seem easily tolerable to most people. This led to often not being taken seriously, causing me to deal with discomfort internally rather than seeking external solutions. Over time, I developed an odd mix of tolerance and enjoyment for discomfort.

I deeply enjoyed the strict rest day. I felt good, even though I did not feel well. In the evening, I went on a spaziergang. I walked significantly slower than I ever would when feeling well. So slow it felt a bit awkward. It totally changed my perspective on my environment—slowing down allowed me, almost forced me, to perceive everything around me differently, to unintentionally observe everything in greater detail.

The next two days, I still felt so-so. The fever had disappeared after one day; the headache, dizziness, and need for sloth-like movements hadn’t. I had short moments of panicking, fearing I wouldn’t be able to rest as much as needed, and complete my usual weekly tasks at the same time—especially since I just recently launched forget time + explore as a bi-weekly addition to this newsletter. Would I fail to deliver on time already for the second episode?

Re-reading the notes from the experiment I did a couple of weeks ago brought me back on track:

• plan. be prepared.
• This experiment strengthened my trust in my ability to find space for what’s essential.

What was essential those days? Resting. As much as I enjoyed the radical bed rest, I wanted the sickness and discomfort to last as short as possible.
And, luckily, I was prepared. While working on the concept for forget time + explore, I created a test episode. I decided to not release it as the first one but rather keep it in my archive, until the right moment to release it presents itself. Next Sunday.

How can we appreciate feeling well if we suppress not feeling well?

Enjoy your day [or night].

glg Soda Paapi