The first unexpected message from the medicine came sharp and strange: “Your penis doesn’t belong to you.”

I was deep inside the journey, far from the familiar edges of consciousness, when those words surfaced. I didn’t laugh—I was perplexed, caught off guard by their vulgarity and weight. The words echoed, reverberating through my body as if carried on a current to the depths of my soul. And then the messages kept coming, insistent and steady, each one revealing another layer of understanding: “Your body doesn’t belong to you. Your body belongs to life.”

Moments later, as if guided by unseen hands, I felt myself sinking into the Earth. The soil was warm and heavy against my skin, pressing down as I descended deeper. My body softened under the pressure, yielding to its force, as though it had always belonged there. The weight of the earth surrounded me, grounding me completely. Once I settled, massive beetles began to crawl over me, their legs deliberate and gentle as they glided across my flesh.

At first, there was a flicker of resistance—a brief impulse to pull away—but it quickly dissolved into acceptance and stillness. There was no fear, only calm. I was cradled by the Earth, absorbed into its pulse, and for the first time, I understood: nothing belongs to me. Not my body. Not my family. Not my possessions. Not even my life.

The message was undeniable, a truth that settled into me like roots sinking into soil: I am an expression of life, entangled in its infinite web, no more separate than a single blade of grass in a vast meadow or a droplet in an endless stream. And if this was true, then everything I believed I owned—my body, my emotions, my thoughts, my identity, even my sense of self—was not mine. It all belonged to something much greater.

Releasing Ownership, Finding Belonging

In the days and weeks that followed, I kept returning to that moment—the truth that nothing belongs to me, and that I belong to something far greater than my mind can comprehend. At first, this realization felt like a loss. Ownership, after all, is something we’re taught to pursue and value—especially in a capitalist society: our homes, our work, our achievements, even our bodies and identities. To own something is to claim it, to separate it from the rest of the world as distinctly mine.

I was conditioned to believe that ownership makes us unique and special. It’s a marker of success, a proof of individuality. Owning more means being more. In a culture that prizes independence and self-sufficiency, ownership is often equated with identity, worth, and meaning. It’s what sets us apart, what makes us somebody.

But I hadn’t considered the cost. To own something is to place myself outside the whole—to draw a line where none exists. What I thought made me special was also what made me separate.

Slowly, I began to see how ownership creates walls—divisions between myself, my environment, and the life I am part of. To own is to grasp, to possess, to control. It’s to perpetuate the illusion of division. This is mine, not yours. This is me, not you. Ownership demands effort: acquiring, maintaining, protecting. And yet, it’s a losing game. Nothing we own today will endure. Even our bodies, stripped of identity and form, will return to the Earth—their energy and elements consumed, scattered, and woven back into the endless dance of life.

The walls of ownership don’t just divide us from the world outside; they shape how we experience life within. Ownership, I began to see, creates suffering through identification and aversion. When anger arises, we say, “I am angry,” as though we are the anger itself, fusing it with our identity. When life doesn’t unfold as planned, we cling to disappointment or frustration and call it ours. The simple truth of what is—our subjective experience of each moment—gets buried beneath our resistance. Ownership turns what is fleeting—emotions, thoughts, even moments—into something fixed and heavy, something we must carry.

This realization shifted something in me. If I could release ownership—of my emotions, my expectations, my need for control—what might I discover in its place?

If nothing belongs to me and everything belongs to life, then I am not separate. I am not separate from life; I am life. My body, my breath, the pulse that beats through me—they are part of life’s vast rhythm, inseparable from nature and the living world. To release ownership is to let go of control. It is to trust in something much greater—a force that guides the unfolding of life, within me and all around me.

Ownership, I realized, is incompatible with being. To own is to do—to grasp, to strive, to divide. But to release ownership is to be—to belong to life itself, to move with its flow rather than against it.

Stepping Into Devotion

If nothing belongs to me—if I own nothing—then what is left?

This question stayed with me as I continued to integrate the journey. The answer, I began to realize, is being. Ownership demands doing: grasping, manipulating, managing, striving to control. Without ownership, there is no need to hold, to cling, or to fix. Instead, there is space to simply be.

This realization brought with it a profound shift: from seeing myself as a doer—someone who must achieve, accumulate, and control—to embracing the role of a vessel. If life flows through me and my consciousness, then my role is not to direct or dominate it, but to be with it, to serve it. This service begins with my own body: not as something to push, optimize, or overcome, but as a sacred expression of life itself. From there, it extends outward—to my immediate surroundings, my family, and the planet.

To live as a vessel of life requires more than doing less; it requires reorienting entirely—from striving and achieving to witnessing and aligning with what’s emerging. This isn’t just a shift in behavior, but in how I relate to life itself. It’s stepping into devotion, surrendering ego’s grasp in favor of deep connection and presence.

And yet, I can’t help but reflect on the language of vessels and devotion, words so often tied to femininity, and what it means to me as a man. Women are described as vessels of life because they physically carry and bring life into the world. My own body, though different in form and function, holds the same potential for alignment with life’s flow. Gender, in this sense, feels secondary. What feels essential is the recognition that being over doing—releasing ego’s hold—isn’t a matter of biology but of orientation. It’s about embracing a way of being that is open, receptive, and in service to something far greater than myself.

This shift feels radical, even unsettling, because it asks me to move away from what my ego craves: productivity, recognition, validation, comfort, and security. It invites me instead to listen, to witness, to feel, and to serve. And while the impulse to do still arises, I’m learning that devotion to life isn’t about abandoning action, but about letting action flow from presence.

The Subtle Practice of Being

If devotion to life begins with being, then the question becomes: what does it actually mean to be? At its core, being means meeting each moment fully with spacious awareness—showing up without grasping, without pushing it away. It’s not about doing nothing or retreating from life; it’s about being with life exactly as it is.

To be is to witness experience as it unfolds, moment by moment with all of our senses open. It’s the practice of softening resistance—of noticing what arises within me and around me and allowing it to exist without judgment or attachment. Thoughts come. Emotions come. Sensations come. Life comes. And instead of reacting or trying to control it all, I learn to simply accept what is.

But this doesn’t mean my hands are off the wheel, drifting wherever the wind takes me. To accept what is doesn’t mean resigning to indifference or abandoning agency. It’s not about ignoring life’s responsibilities or letting go of my role within it. Instead, it’s a commitment to responding consciously rather than reacting—to moving with life rather than against it. Being allows me to meet each moment with clarity and presence, to see what’s needed and act from a place of acceptance and alignment instead of grasping or resistance.

This isn’t an abstract idea; it’s a practice. Devotion to being isn’t about striving to embody presence or treating stillness as another goal to achieve. It’s not about becoming a superior spiritual being or perfecting a posture of calm. It’s about cultivating and allowing presence to emerge naturally—being with what is. Softening into the flow of life. Attuning to what’s needed in the moment. Trusting that life itself will guide me.

And yet, this practice is anything but easy. My ego is often at odds with being. It thrives on separation—on grasping, pushing, and striving. I see it most clearly at home, in the small, everyday moments that pull me out of presence. Like when I cook a meal and find myself fishing for praise: “How is it? Is it good?” Or when my daughter tugs at my sleeve, asking for my attention while I’m lost in an email or my own thoughts, and I feel that familiar frustration rise. Even the subtle urge to “win” an argument with my wife—to prove I’m right—becomes a wedge. These moments expose how my ego clings to control and validation, creating separation. Not just between myself and my family, but between myself and life itself.

The challenge of being is to notice these patterns without judgment. Instead of rushing to fix or control them, the practice is to meet them with curiosity and compassion. Being means holding space for what is—both the beautiful and the uncomfortable—and allowing it to move through me without grasping or rejecting it. It’s recognizing that beauty and discomfort don’t just coexist; they depend on each other. They are two sides of the same coin.

What makes this work so subtle—and so difficult—is that it’s not about optimizing or perfecting. It’s not a project to complete or a skill to master. There’s no finish line, no blueprint. It’s about surrendering the impulse to control, loosening my grip, and aligning instead with the flow of life. This requires patience, humility, and trust—qualities that feel foreign to a mind conditioned by doing.

The more I practice, the more I see that being isn’t passive. It’s alive, dynamic, and deeply attuned. It’s about devotion: to the present moment, to life’s unfolding, and to the people and experiences right in front of me. In being, I’m no longer separate. I’m part of it all.

Honoring the Thread

The message I received—your body doesn’t belong to you; your body belongs to life—wasn’t a conclusion; it was an invitation. An invitation to see beyond the walls I had built, the stories I had clung to, and the illusion of ownership that had shaped my life. It asked me to let go—not into nothingness, but into connection. Into the vast, unbroken rhythm of life.

What does it mean to belong to life? It means surrendering the need to hold, to claim, to control. It means allowing myself to be carried, like seeds by the wind or water by the river, trusting the current to shape the path. It means showing up fully—not to dominate, but to witness, to care for, to serve. And it means meeting the moment with reverence, even when it is messy, uncomfortable, or fleeting.

I still feel the pull of the ego, the whispers of "mine" and "more." But when I pause, I return to the truth I felt that day: I am of life, no more separate from its pulse than waves meeting the ocean’s shore. And that is enough.

If nothing belongs to me, then all I can do is honor what is—this body, this breath, this fleeting moment. Not by trying to hold on, but by opening my hands. Not by trying to be more, but by learning to simply be.