When the Drop Awakens to the Ocean Within
- Lyra Knox
- Oct 11
- 5 min read
Updated: Nov 2
Lately, most of the deep conversations my partner and I have shared have unfolded over brunch on a Saturday or Sunday morning. I suppose there is something about slow coffee and open time that invites honesty.
This particular conversation happened differently, though. We were driving to a local gem show last Saturday. It was a beautiful first weekend of October day, the highway stretching out like a silver ribbon, light spilling across the windshield, with not a single cloud in the sky. I don’t remember how we arrived at this conversation, but I found myself telling him about what being spiritual means to me, not as a doctrine or ideology, but as a living experience that keeps revealing itself in our everyday lives.
I told him that I use the word spiritual loosely because, at this moment, it’s the closest word I have to describe what I feel. Yet even that feels too small for the immensity of this notion I hold. I said, “I am spiritual, whatever that means,” because what I’m trying to name is vast, formless, and cannot be contained within the walls of organized religion.
For me, spirituality is the remembrance that I am a drop of the ocean poured into a glass of flesh, a temporary vessel through which the infinite gets to experience itself as me. The glass gives me shape, identity, story, and emotion, yet the essence inside has never stopped being the ocean.
For many years, I was taught to believe that I was only the glass. I measured my worth by its reflections; how it was seen, how it performed, how it compared. But lately, there has been a gentle remembering, a dissolving of edges, a knowing that the divine water of consciousness within me is the same divine water of consciousness that flows through everyone else.
When I look at people now, I don’t just see their glass container, their personalities, wounds, and defenses; I see the ocean moving through their luminous being.
This remembering has changed everything. It has softened my judgment, dissolved my fears, and brought a kind of sacred empathy that words struggle to describe. Because once you remember that you are the ocean, fear loses its grip. What could you possibly fear when you are part of something so vast, ancient, and alive, held in the hearts of every single being around you?
My partner said, “So, that makes you an agnostic?” I smiled and said, “No. I am not agnostic, Catholic, atheist, or anything else. The truth I hold, like the ocean, is too big to fit in a box.” Spiritual, whatever that means, is simply the closest word I have right now to describe what I am in all of us. (not in the world but in all of us).
The Crystal Antenna Within
As these conversations deepen, I explained to him that I’ve begun to see my own body differently. The fascia, that living web of connective tissue beneath the skin, no longer feels like mere anatomy to me. It feels like a crystalline antenna, a shimmering network designed to transmit and receive the frequencies of knowing.
Science already tells us that fascia is piezoelectric; when moved, touched, or compressed, it creates tiny currents of electricity. But on a subtler level, I sense it as a living light grid, an inner lattice tuned to both the seen and unseen. In its natural state, fascia is fluid, responsive, and luminous, like the delicate membranes of a jellyfish conducting ocean currents.
Yet so many of us live with fascia that has been hardened and fragmented by trauma, tension, and fear. The body learns to survive by numbing sensation, but in doing so, the antenna dulls. We become less able to receive the quiet frequencies of intuition, empathy, and connection. It’s not our fault; we were born into a system that benefits from our disconnection, a system that thrives on fear and fragmentation, siphoning off our crystalline energy to fuel its own machinery.
Interestingly enough, I understood this long before I had the language for it. When I was a teenager, I wrote a poem called Fundidora de Metal "Metal Foundry". It told the story of beings made of stars who were melted down by cold lights and endless chains, their essence folded into molds they did not choose. Even then, I sensed how the molten liquid of our crystalline fascia could be poured out, shelved, and repurposed; how the luminous might be dulled to sustain something that fed on our forgetfulness.
This is why somatic therapy has been such a revelation for me. Through gentle touch, movement, breath, and awareness, it is possible to restore fascia’s original fluidity and sensitivity, to reawaken the antenna. As the crystalline network softens and opens, signals that were once faint or distorted become clear. Knowing arises not as a thought, but as a felt truth moving through the body.
That day, after our long conversation on the way to the gem show, I walked through rows of stones and minerals and felt myself drawn almost magnetically to two pieces: a heart-shaped forest epidote quartz cluster and a prehnite with epidote. I didn’t choose them with my mind; they chose me. Looking back, I realize this is part of what happens when the antenna clears. When fascia softens and the body’s crystalline network regains its sensitivity, you don’t just think differently, you perceive differently.
The field of knowing expands and begins to guide you toward what will nourish your remembering.
I believe that’s why I was drawn to those two crystals. They mirror the very work I’ve been doing internally; heart, grounding, clearing, remembering, as if the ocean inside me recognized its own minerals in the earth’s treasures. They are not just objects; they are echoes of a frequency my body has begun to recognize again.
The Seashore of Remembering
The next day, Sunday, over breakfast, I told my partner, “If we are drops of the ocean, then where does one aware drop go to meet other aware drops?” He smiled and said, “To the seashore?”
I laughed at first, but his answer has stayed with me. The seashore, where the ocean crashes and releases its droplets, is the place where the infinite remembers itself through separation. It is where vastness meets form, where unity learns to speak in individuality.
And when the waves break, the drops are scattered in the mist, shining for a moment as they catch the light. In that suspension, they are both ocean and air, spirit and matter, awareness in motion. Each droplet is a fragment of remembering, rising briefly to reflect the sun before falling back into the whole.
The seashore is not the end, nor the beginning; it’s the awakening. It’s where remembering is birthed.
A Moving Ocean
I often ache to know what would happen if more of us remembered what we truly are, not just conceptually but somatically, at the cellular level. If instead of living from separation and survival, we remembered the rhythm of the tide that connects us.
Perhaps then, fear would no longer drive our choices. Compassion would. Curiosity would. Love (not the sentimental kind), but the vast intelligence that holds galaxies together, would.
The truth is, there is no separation between the drop and the ocean. Both are one.
Every act of kindness, every pause before reacting, every moment of stillness is a ripple of remembering. And one ripple is enough to stir another, until the ocean begins to move again through all of us.
Maybe we are the scattered drops, suspended in the mist between forgetting and remembering, shining just long enough to reflect where we came from.
Maybe awakening isn’t about returning to the ocean, but realizing we never left it.
☥
If the song resonates, let it travel with you, each download is a ripple that helps it reach more hearts.🎶
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