We found a spaceship. It was dark and cold but we had blankets. It was our first Eutonia gathering.
We were 8 of us. And we found our way to listening again. And to listen to touch. We were here to hear about the ancient eutonian wisdom of touch. Feeling touch. Feeling touched. Being Touched, Touching. Ourselves. Touching. Being touched. From inside. From inside out. From a nut. From a sponge. From earthian seeds and other beings that some of us had brought to the journey. Once alive. Dead now. Alive still, somehow, in our memories, on our skins, in our cells, in some cells. Somewhere. Life. Making its way through us.
We were touched
by the air. By the fabric of our clothes of our blankets.
I was touched by the bubbles in my guts. I was touched by the bubbles in my neighbou guts.
Touched by the sound. Touched by the silence. Touched by the words, the constellation, the opening, the inner and outter navigation opening up. Coming back. Appearing.
We found a way back to touch and that was about coming back to life.
I learned that when our original cells starts to form our body, it s the same membrane the same tissue that fold inside us, from skin to nervous system. From then, our ability to touch and be touched became vitale, centale, to regenerate. We had forgotten
But our bodies did’n
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