eyes wide open.

courtneyzano
Jul 24, 2025
4 min read

When leading SoulFlow™ embodiment classes, I often say that our minds live in the past and the future, while our bodies live in the present moment.

Our physical being is always experiencing this world, in real time, moment by moment.

My mantra for 2025 is presence. It’s a reminder to live in the present moment. To feel rooted and grounded where my feet are. To not dwell on the past or get tripped up about to future.

To just experience life as it comes, day by day.

To pay attention.

Adam and I went camping for the Fourth of July weekend.

I had one goal: to be as fully present as I could. To not wish away rain or clouds or wind. To not pre-stress about the possibility of not finding a dispersed campsite. To not worry about what emails or Slack messages I might be missing.

To just be. To keep my eyes and heart open.

I hold my breath, shoulders raised, fingers gripped, tension in my thighs, unaware I am doing so. I am trying to navigate my car, with SUV clearance, over the dips and bumps of this dirt road meant for ATVs and trucks.

There is just this very moment, inch by inch of the road. My right foot slow dances between gas and brake, applying only the pressure needed to clear one hurdle at a time.

After what feels like an hour, likely only five minutes, I have reached the desired spot at the edge of the lake.

I jump out of the car and start shaking out my arms, my legs, releasing all of the tension I was holding in my body.

I let my hands tremble, I let my racing heart slow.

I let my body re-integrate into the feeling of safety.

I let myself be present with the fear—the held breath—and then the relief—the exhale.

I sit next to the river while Adam fishes, the green camping chair crinkling under my butt. The pages of the book in my hand are thin, the kind that tear easily. I am engrossed in this story, savoring the beautiful prose, feeling the breeze on my skin, the occasional sensation of a fly landing on my exposed leg.

The bushes rustle next to me as a gentleman in waders emerges.

“Oh, hello! Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” I lie, wanting to return to my story, but figuring he’ll leave me alone to read like most do.

Instead, he sits to talk, while throwing out lures lazily with his spin reel.

He talks about his retirement, about his niece’s wedding, about his solo camping trip, about cheating on his wife, about ruining his marriage, about the changing climate, about skiing, about his time as a scout on Long Island, about his loneliness, about the funeral he has to get to, about hockey, about his decision not to have kids.

I hold my book in my hand, closed, and give my attention to him, to his stories, to his loneliness. I nod my head, I ask questions, I give him space to speak.

I don’t look at the time, I don’t wish him away.

I am with him in his need to be in the presence of another human.

We are there together.

His name is Rob.

Adam leans forward suddenly in his seat as both of my hands hold the steering wheel, winding with the road. “Is that a moose?” He asks and points toward the lake to our left.

“I’m driving!” I say, as I always do when he points things out from the passenger side.

“I think he’s swimming.”

I pull over at the next cutoff, feeling my heart flutter as I put my car in park, open my door, search for the binoculars in the back, and hand them over to Adam, the 20/20 vision to my four-eyes.

“It is! Look!” He passes them to me.

A smile covers my face. My favorite animal. A rare and mystical gem.

Eyes open.

I slice open my index finger on the tip of an exposed knife blade.

The two sides of my fingertip separate, red liquid pouring out.

My body moves before I have time to think—I am propelling myself up the small cliff toward my car, finger in my mouth, safe from dirt and rogue branches.

I rustle through my suitcase, one-handed, in search of an antiseptic wipe that I pray is there. My fingers close around it, unsure what I’ll do about the fact that I don’t have a Band-Aid.

I rip off the top of the square packet with my teeth and feel the sting of the alcohol on my exposed skin.

Blood is dripping down my hand, mixing with dirt.

I hear Adam appear next to me and then he is searching for something.

He comes back with cotton ripped from a tampon and some fishing line.

I hold out my finger as he wraps, applies pressure, and ties.

Present with the feeling of nausea, the gratitude for quick-thinking, the throbbing in my finger, the fact that my body knew what to do before my mind.

Present with the awareness that my body is already healing itself as it’s being injured.

A gift to have flesh.

I’m grateful for air in my lungs and a body to experience the world with—a body to explore and learn with. Through the good and the challenging.

That alone is a privilege these days.

And with presence, I try not to take it for granted.

Court