I live for moments of aliveness.
I’m not talking about the mere conscious physicality of living in a body—like noticing breath circulate through my lungs, or the familiar reminder of my beating heart when I turn upside down and hear blood pulsing in my right ear.
The aliveness I’m describing is something else entirely.
It’s happening in this moment as I write—sipping coffee, imagining you, dear reader, while Cat Clyde plays softly in the background and suddenly belts out a note that engulfs every piece of me.
I refer to experiences like this—those that call forth a full-bodied presence and put me in contact with aliveness—moments of communion.
Communion happened last summer when I spontaneously invited an acquaintance from dance class, Luz, to join me at a Glass Animals show. It was an hour-long car ride to the venue and we barely knew each other. The time could have dragged in a careful, awkward getting-to-know-you exchange. Instead, much to my delight, it became a meeting of two yearning, exploring souls. The conversation unfolded like a symphony, ushering less visible, dormant parts of me out to play. We sacrificed the safety of polite knowing for something deeper and more vulnerable.
I practice communion on my daily walks. It’s late afternoon and I’m on my secret forest path—where I rarely run into another human—when suddenly I’m arrested by the golden light of the shifting sun shimmering through the trees. This land, which I know so well, is illuminated in a way I’ve never seen before. I’m awestruck. Absorbed.
Communion is an inner movement that happens in relationship with the outer world. It is a merging. A piercing of the veil. An evocation that invites us to simultaneously be undone and reorganized. When we enter communion we are awake, curious, and living into what’s possible.
Aliveness is the signal.
But isn’t this kind of thing reserved for the rare peak experience? Or, for the sanctioned domains of church, yoga studios, or the privacy of our own bedrooms?
Perhaps the more important question is, what is at stake when communion is rare or altogether absent from our lives?
One thing I know for certain is that life will alter you.
You will love. And your heart will break.
You’ll encounter moments that shatter how you understand yourself and the world.
Some of us go numb. Some of us live forever from fractured, injured parts.
Some of us dive down into the depths of the ocean and come back with fist fulls of gold.
Diving is deliberate. It requires choosing to engage rather than manage, to be affected rather than protected. It is a choice to stay with both the self and the thing that is destabilizing the self. It strengthens our ability to remain present when life intensifies.
Communion is one way we practice steadiness. It gathers what has fragmented and brings us back into contact with ourselves. It is a resource for wholeness.
Yes, communion may arrive as a gift in spontaneous moments of ecstasy or relief. But, it can also be cultivated intentionally. Communion is not escape; it is preparation.
The Playground at the Edge is where we practice this together. I write here to explore communion as a lived practice, and I work with a small number of people who want to cultivate it more deliberately.
Your first invitation in the playground is to open yourself to communion. Either choose a piece of music that moves you, or go outdoors to a beautiful, wild place. Turn your phone off or leave it behind.
If you’re listening to music, play it loudly, or consider using headphones. Let your body move however it wants, allow your voice to sound if compelled, and drink in that song through every cell of your skin.
If going outdoors, soften your vision to include more of the periphery. Take in as much of the scenery as you can. Notice the sounds and smells. Let your awareness move freely across the sensory field. Follow what’s interesting or alive.
When the experience feels complete, pause.
Are you sensing differently?
Has your state shifted?
What is available now?
