On My Knees…

I have always believed that the body tells the truth before the mouth catches up. I have not always been a good listener but that does not make the body wisdom any less true. For a few years now, mine has been shouting from the lower back and hip region. The diagnosis: degenerative arthritis. Which is the genteel medical term for “Congratulations, you’ve crossed a threshold, and your bones are now writing their own autobiography.”

In the spirit of addressing this embodied protest with some dignity, I decided to retire my old office chair, the threadbare throne that had seen me through my early years as an analyst, the crises of confidence when I turned to writing seriously, and the sudden moments of clarity when the two strands were braided together into a manuscript. It was time, or so my beloved thought, to upgrade. He spent way too much money on a new red chair for me for my birthday. I call it the ergonomic spaceship. A high-tech chair with more levers and lumbar zones than my car. I first imagined myself hovering at my desk like a cosmonaut of creativity and wisdom. But no. In an obscene short span of time, given the financial investment, my sacrum was staging a mutiny. A chiropractor gently informed me, “Too much support can be just as bad.” I think he meant the chair, but the therapist in me flinched.

So I tried a standing desk. I imagined myself empowered, strong, productive. That lasted for about three sessions, until my knees, in solidarity with my hips, began filing formal complaints.

Next came the yoga ball. If you’ve ever attempted to conduct a serious Jungian session while bouncing up and down like a preschooler on a sugar high, you’ll understand why this phase was short-lived. I may have strengthened my core, but my sentences lost all coherence. That, and my analysands began to think I was losing it.

And then, in a moment of either genius or desperation, I brought in the kneeling chair. You know the one. It looks like a medieval torture device redesigned by a Scandinavian minimalist. And surprisingly? It works.

Now, each morning, I strap on my heat pack, lower myself into the contraption, and work. Six hours a day, on my knees as analyst. And another four to six hours a day, on my knees as a writer. Literally working around the clock.

At first, I found it ironic. Then, I found it perfect.

Because what could be more appropriate than kneeling before the wild, ancient archetype of Baba Yaga? What better posture to approach the fiery hut, the skull-lit path, the dancing fence of bones, than on one’s knees? What better posture to assume as I bear witness to the stories and suffering of my analysands. This is a posture less of submission, and more of reverence. I am on my knees, not in of defeat, but in devotion.

This manuscript I’m rewriting—it isn’t just a book. It’s a summons. A weaving of story and psyche and memory. A bone-rattling truth that can’t be written from a cushy chair. Baba Yaga doesn’t come when you’re comfortable. She comes when you’re in pain and still show up. When you kneel in the dust and ask the hard questions.

The funny thing is, many think kneeling is a gesture of smallness. But this kind of kneeling—this kneeling before the fire of people’s suffering, the creative fire of words, this kneeling in service to the soul—it’s anything but small.

It’s active. Fierce. It’s how you pray when you don’t know who you’re praying to anymore, but you trust that something old and wise is listening. And find, She is.

And so here I am. On my knees. Writing. Listening. Rewriting. Listening some more. Offering myself to the work, to the story, to the hag at the edge of the wood who knows the way through.

And if someday they find my bones shaped like a question mark, fused into a permanent kneel, they’ll know why.

It was for Baba Yaga and her wisdom.

And it was worth it.