Preface;
This one is special.
i know that because i had a special feeling as i felt into it. Fell into it.
It felt special because a story attached to it about it being a more accessible portal.
..and it will satisfy those of you who are compelled to add effort to seeking.
It was an ordinary afternoon. The kettle hissed, the chair creaked, and sunlight pressed against the kitchen tiles in long slants.
He reached for his favorite cup — a blue ceramic one, chipped on the rim. But as his fingers curled around it, the cup slipped.
It fell.
Cracked.
Not into pieces — just a sharp line across the glaze.
The old reflex flared instantly:
“Damn it. This always happens to me. Why can’t I be more careful?”
The chest tightened. A small punch of shame rose. The familiar story was loading…
But then, something odd.
Instead of following the story, he noticed the tightening first.
Noticed the heat in the face. The pulse in the temple.
For just a breath, he didn’t add words to it.
It was just this: heat, tightness, pulse.
And in that gap, something softer arrived.
A thought, but not the usual accusing kind — more like a question whispered from nowhere:
“What if this is just what’s happening?”
The trigger wasn’t the broken cup. It wasn’t even the shame.
It was the noticing of that first flare — the moment the body said something’s wrong.
That was the hinge. The moment where the path forked:
One road leading to resentment, self-blame, the long weight of “problems.”
The other road opening into something else entirely: simple acceptance.
He watched. Really watched.
The crack in the cup. The sunlight across it.
The chest easing as the story lost its grip.
There was no denial, no “positive thinking.” Just a small, honest nod to reality.
The cup was cracked. The body had flared. And here he was, breathing.
And with that, a kind of contentment unfolded.
Not joy. Not triumph. Just a quiet agreement with life:
This, too. This is allowed.
Days Later
He began to see the same trigger everywhere.
When the bus was late.
When the email didn’t come.
When a friend spoke sharply.
Each time, the first flicker appeared — the jolt in the gut, the tightening in the throat.
That was the real event. That was the key.
And each time, if he caught it there, and stayed with sensation instead of story, acceptance appeared almost naturally. Not forced, not spiritual, just… what was left when the fight wasn’t fueled.
The discovery wasn’t that life had become easier.
It was that life had never been the enemy.
The Realization
It was never about controlling circumstances.
It was never about perfecting himself.
It was about seeing the trigger point clearly:
that tiny, explosive second where sensation arose,
and the option offered —
to stay with it.
In that staying, the fight dissolved.
And what remained was a simple, unadorned acceptance,
woven into the fabric of whatever life brought next.
✨ The cup still bore its crack. He used it anyway.
Every time he lifted it to his lips, the line reminded him:
The trigger isn’t the problem. The trigger is the doorway.
Over time, he found that the body itself held a reminder — a simple anchor into that contented, accepting surrender. Each time the flare of resistance dissolved, he noticed a corresponding softening: the shoulders loosening, the breath widening, the belly settling. That physical shift became both a memory and a portal. When agitation rose again, he didn’t have to reconstruct the insight or recall the whole story of the cracked cup — he only needed to remember that felt sense of loosening. To touch back into the body where acceptance had once bloomed was enough to re-open the doorway. The anchor was not a technique to force peace, but a gentle cue, a reminder that contentment was already possible, already here, waiting just beneath the surface of the next breath.
He hadn’t expected it to matter so much. It was just a cup — chipped along the rim, one he used every morning. Still, when it slipped from his hand and cracked against the sink, a familiar jolt ran through him. A tightening in the chest, a thought that flared up quick as lightning: “Not again. Why can’t I be more careful?”
The reflex was old, almost invisible. For years he would have followed it — berating himself, spinning stories of clumsiness and lack. But this time, something else happened. Instead of rushing into the narrative, he paused. The pause wasn’t planned. It arose with the crack itself.
And in that pause, he noticed: the body. The shoulders, tense. The breath, shallow. The belly, clenched. There it was — the real event. Not the cup. Not the story. But this pattern of contraction.
He stood there, hand still wet from the sink, and let the noticing deepen. The body began to soften. Shoulders dropped. The breath widened. The belly loosened. And with that softening came something utterly ordinary — and entirely new. A quiet sense of surrender. Not a resignation, not an effortful acceptance, but a contented openness to this. The cracked cup. The breath moving. The sound of water in the pipes. Life, exactly as it was.
Later, he realized something important: that softening in the body was more than a passing sensation. It was an anchor. A physical imprint of what it felt like to meet life without resistance. He didn’t have to recall the philosophy of acceptance or remember teachings about letting go. He only needed to recall how the shoulders had loosened, how the breath had widened. That bodily memory was enough to re-open the same doorway.
So when the next flare of irritation arrived — a late bus, an unkind word, a missed chance — he could return to the anchor. He didn’t need to think about contented acceptance. He could feel it, directly, by remembering that loosening. It became both a reminder and a portal: the body showing, again and again, that peace is not an idea, but a shift already available here, in the flesh.
And strangely, that cracked cup — resting now on the shelf with its scar running like a vein of gold — had become a teacher. Not because of what it symbolized, but because of what it anchored: the taste of surrender, etched into muscle and breath.
Here is a series of small “anchor stories” (different situations where the anchor reappears — in traffic, in an argument, in solitude), so it builds a practice-like thread.
1. The Bus That Didn’t Come
They stood at the bus stop, watching the minutes tick past. The usual tension began to rise — tight shoulders, shallow breath, the old story forming: “I’ll be late. This ruins everything.”
But then… a memory. That morning in the kitchen. The cracked cup. The way the shoulders had dropped and the belly had softened. They remembered — not as a thought, but as a feeling. Instinctively, their body mirrored it. Shoulders down. Breath wide. And just like that, waiting was no longer a problem. The bus came when it came.
2. The Argument at Dinner
Words had flown sharper than intended. Across the table, a friend’s eyes narrowed. Inside, heat surged — the chest constricted, fists clenched under the table. The familiar impulse to defend. To push back.
But then… the anchor. That loosening. They recalled it not by thinking, but by feeling into the body. Ah. Here. The same shift. The chest softened, the jaw unclenched. The words that followed were quieter. Fewer. And instead of escalation, the argument melted into laughter about old times.
3. The Empty Evening
Plans had been canceled. The apartment felt too quiet. A hollow ache crept in — “No one wants me. I’m forgotten.” It was an old echo, one that used to sting deep.
But before the spiral tightened, the anchor arrived. That bodily memory — shoulders down, breath wide. The softening wasn’t effortful. It was like falling into a hammock already strung. And suddenly the quiet wasn’t rejection. It was just space. Enough for tea, a book, and the hum of the fridge.
4. The Long Line at the Store
A sigh escaped before they noticed it. The line inched forward, one slow body at a time. Impatience pressed in — legs restless, chest tight.
Then… the anchor. The softening again, like a friend tapping the shoulder. They let it happen. Legs relaxed. The chest widened. And what appeared? The scent of oranges. A child giggling two aisles over. Light shifting across tiles. Waiting became… nothing more than standing here, alive.
5. The Sudden Grief
A song came on the radio. Their chest clutched — memories of someone gone too soon. Tears pricked. The old urge rose: “Don’t cry. Be strong.”
But the anchor whispered differently. Shoulders down. Breath wide. Letting. The grief flowed through, hot and clean. And underneath it — love. Not the brittle love of memory, but the spacious kind that asks nothing. The body itself knew how to hold it.
The Thread That Holds Them All
Each time, the shift wasn’t a grand revelation. It wasn’t an insight to be remembered, nor a technique to be perfected. It was the body’s memory — an anchor — showing the way back to the same place: contented acceptance of whatever life threw up.
They began to trust it more than words, more than concepts. Because no matter the story, no matter the trigger, the body knew the way home: the loosening, the widening, the breath.
And each time they returned to it, life itself unfolded without resistance.
Reflections for the Reader
You don’t need a cracked cup to find your anchor. The body already knows the way.
Try these:
Remember a moment when everything felt quietly enough. Recall the body’s posture, the breath, the felt sense. That is your anchor.
In difficulty, before explaining or fixing, notice: where in the body do you clench? What happens if you soften, even slightly?
Let the anchor be physical, not conceptual. It’s not a mantra. It’s not “remembering peace.” It’s shoulders dropping, chest widening, breath open.
Use it everywhere. In lines. In traffic. In arguments. In silence. Each time you return, you teach the body to return more easily.
The anchor isn’t magic. It doesn’t promise bliss. It simply ends the war with what is. And in that ending, life reveals its richness—banal and sacred all at once.
For more pointers and suggestions, check out this link to vince-bot using the website as its knowledge base.
Vince Schubert YouTube Channel
Free online meetups every Saturday at 9 pm (Sydney Australia time)
and one each Monday 7 am ( Sydney Australia time). This meeting starts at 6am and is only available to paid Substack subscribers.
and each Wednesday at 4 pm (Sydney Australia time)
and every Friday 7 am (Sydney time) - never published. Only available to participants who request it by email.
You can check your local time here:
Or visit the website for countdown timers to each meeting.
Please note that it's always the same time on the same link. Arriving late and leaving early is fine.
Click here to Join Zoom Meeting https://us02web.zoom.us/j/86991485768?pwd=WkIvNk9zS1Q0VlVMR3lENW12Um5DQT09
Here is a link to all of the published recordings.
Audio files can be found here:
There is also paid 1on1 (& also 2 on 1) guiding here: With vince &/or Marius
Although the website still requires a lot of work, there are resources here; WakingUpWithVince.com
..and more here; WakingUpWithMarius
If any link doesn’t work properly, please let me know. vinceschubert@gmail.com
Given the multitude of small costs (that add up to something significant) required to produce these offerings, please consider donating whatever you can comfortably afford. Moneys over and above running costs are directed to the establishment of Suan Jai Sanctuary.
..and remember - lots of little bits make a big bit. ❤️