Living, breathing, and being present is the practice that can

Host: The morning was wrapped in a quiet kind of gold—the kind that makes even dust look sacred. Through the wide windows of the loft studio, sunlight spilled in long, liquid streaks, painting the wooden floor in soft fire. The faint hum of traffic below mixed with the breathing of wind through open curtains. Incense burned on a windowsill, a slow ribbon of smoke rising like thought made visible.

Jack sat cross-legged on a faded yoga mat, eyes half-open, jaw clenched—not from concentration but resistance. His hands, resting awkwardly on his knees, twitched with the impatience of a man too used to controlling the world to let it simply be. Across from him, Jeeny moved with serene precision, her spine a line of calm, her hair loose, her face unguarded.

Host: Between them, a soft voice recording played through a small speaker—and from it came the gentle conviction of Tara Stiles:
“Living, breathing, and being present is the practice that can lead us to having a full and authentic in-the-body experience. If we can shift our perspective from being separate to being part of it all, psychological hang-ups, insecurities, fears, and disorders dissolve.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Beautiful, isn’t it? Just breathe, and suddenly the weight of the world becomes part of you instead of pressing on you.”

Jack: “You make it sound like enlightenment’s a lung exercise.”

Jeeny: “It kind of is. Breath is the most honest thing we have. You can’t fake it, can’t borrow it, can’t outthink it. You just have to surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender’s easy for people who haven’t had to fight.”

Jeeny: “You think I haven’t fought? Every breath is a battle, Jack. The difference is—I stopped treating my body like the enemy.”

Jack: “And that’s what you call being ‘part of it all’? Pretending that suffering is some kind of cosmic yoga pose?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s realizing that suffering is still life. Still movement. Still breath.”

Host: The light shifted, falling across their faces—the contrast stark and yet soft, like opposites learning to coexist. The city’s sounds—sirens, laughter, footsteps—seeped into the stillness of the room, blurring the line between inner calm and outer chaos.

Jack: “I’ve tried being present. It doesn’t fix anything. You still wake up to the same demons.”

Jeeny: “Then you weren’t present—you were observing. There’s a difference. Presence isn’t watching the storm; it’s standing in the rain until you realize you are the rain.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but it’s nonsense. People need distance to heal. Perspective, not immersion.”

Jeeny: “Perspective isn’t separation, Jack. It’s integration. You can’t heal what you refuse to feel.”

Jack: “So you’re saying pain is part of wholeness?”

Jeeny: “Always. Wholeness doesn’t mean perfection—it means nothing’s excluded.”

Host: A pigeon fluttered past the window, its shadow crossing the sunlit floor like a fleeting thought. The air in the room thickened with something unspoken—a quiet friction between control and surrender.

Jack: “You know what scares me about that quote? The part about hang-ups and fears dissolving. What if they don’t? What if they’re not meant to?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the goal isn’t to dissolve them, but to let them flow through you instead of define you. You don’t destroy fear—you breathe through it.”

Jack: “Sounds like avoidance with better branding.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “No. Avoidance is closing your eyes. Breathing is keeping them open.”

Jack: “And what about when breathing’s not enough? When you’re drowning?”

Jeeny: “Then you breathe underwater. You stop fighting the current. It’s resistance that drowns you, not the depth.”

Jack: “You make surrender sound like survival.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what Tara meant. That being alive isn’t about controlling life—it’s about feeling it fully, even when it hurts.”

Host: The light dimmed as a cloud passed, and the warmth of the room cooled. Jack leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, the tension in his shoulders slowly unraveling. Jeeny watched him—not with pity, but with recognition.

Jeeny: “You’ve spent your whole life trying to outthink pain, haven’t you?”

Jack: “You say that like it’s a sin.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s just exhausting. You keep trying to escape the human experience instead of inhabiting it.”

Jack: “Because inhabiting it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. That’s how you know you’re alive. Numbness isn’t peace—it’s paralysis.”

Jack: quietly “And presence is…?”

Jeeny: “Courage. The courage to stop running.”

Host: The incense smoke curled upward, thin and graceful, dissolving into the light. For a moment, it was impossible to tell where the smoke ended and the air began—just as Tara Stiles had said.

Jack: “You think the body’s holy, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I think the body’s honest. It remembers what the mind denies. Every ache, every shiver, every heartbeat—it’s all a language trying to tell you the truth.”

Jack: “And what truth is that?”

Jeeny: “That separation is an illusion. We spend so much time trying to fix ourselves, not realizing we were never broken—just disconnected.”

Jack: “From what?”

Jeeny: “From everything. The sky. The soil. Each other. Yourself.”

Jack: “And breathing reconnects it all?”

Jeeny: “Breathing reminds you it was never apart.”

Host: Outside, the wind picked up again, sending a low hum through the open window. It sounded almost like an ancient chant—a language older than thought.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, when Tara talks about ‘in-the-body experience,’ she’s talking about returning home. We spend our whole lives trying to escape our bodies—through ambition, distraction, fear. But presence calls us back. Back into the skin, the pulse, the now.”

Jack: “And what happens when we come back?”

Jeeny: “We remember we’re not observers of the universe—we’re expressions of it. The drop that realizes it’s the ocean.”

Jack: “That’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: “It’s freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s just heavier than you expected.”

Host: The sunlight broke through again, bathing the room in warmth. The shadows softened, and for a moment, everything seemed to breathe—the walls, the air, the space between them.

Jack: “You ever think the soul’s just the mind’s way of coping with impermanence?”

Jeeny: “No. I think the soul’s what’s left when the mind stops needing to cope.”

Jack: “And presence—this whole ‘being part of it all’—that’s supposed to get us there?”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to get us anywhere. That’s the point. There’s nowhere to get to. You’re already it.”

Jack: after a long pause “You know, I used to think enlightenment was some kind of escape from the mess. But maybe it’s learning to live inside it, without judgment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You stop trying to fix the rain, and you start dancing in it.”

Jack: “You really believe fear can dissolve like that?”

Jeeny: “Not dissolve—transform. Fear becomes curiosity. Insecurity becomes awareness. The body becomes the teacher.”

Jack: “And the lesson?”

Jeeny: smiling “To live, breathe, and belong to it all.”

Host: The city outside had shifted from gold to silver—the late morning light spilling like calm across everything it touched. Jack took a slow breath, deeper this time, his chest expanding as if it had forgotten how to do that.

For the first time, he didn’t force the exhale. He simply let it happen.

Jeeny watched, then closed her eyes, mirroring his rhythm.

Host: And in that moment, the separation between teacher and student, between pain and peace, between breath and being—faded.

The room exhaled with them.

The light pulsed softly.

The world, for one silent breath, was whole again.

Host: And perhaps that was all Tara Stiles meant—
That when we stop running from the body,
we stop running from life itself.

That to breathe is to belong,
and to belong—
is finally to be.