Being Experiencing Itself
When I say “I,” what am I actually referring to?
At first glance, I point to this body — these hands, this face, this voice that speaks, this chest that rises and falls with breath. I say, “This is me.” But if I slow down and observe more closely, something begins to shift. This body is seen. It is perceived. It is felt. Which means it is an object within awareness.
And yet, I am aware of it. So the deeper question becomes: If I can observe this body, can I truly be only this body?
There is something within or perhaps more accurately, something as — this body that makes it alive. Without that unseen presence, the body does not move. It does not speak. It does not think. It does not desire. It does not write books or dream of transformation. Without that animating presence, it becomes still, inert, matter.
This body, by itself, has no independent authority. It does not initiate movement from its own substance. It responds to impulses that arise from something subtler — something unseen but undeniable.
That “something” is what I call Being.
Not being as a verb, but Being as the fundamental fact of existence.
Before this body was named. Before it accumulated memory. Before it formed opinions about itself.
Before it carried pain, ambition, history, or identity — There was Being.
Being is the silent fact that “I Am.” Not “I am this” or “I am that.” Simply I Am.
The body is an expression.
The mind is an instrument.
The personality is a pattern.
But Being is the source.
When I examine my own experience, I notice something profound: every action of this body depends on an invisible interior presence. My hand moves because there is awareness of intention. My voice speaks because there is awareness of thought. Even the thought “I am this body” appears within awareness. If awareness were absent, nothing could be known. If consciousness were absent, nothing could be experienced.
Therefore, the true foundation of what I call “myself” is not the structure of flesh, but the presence that makes the flesh animate.
This body does not wake itself. Something wakes in it. This body does not choose itself. Something chooses through it.
This body does not experience life. Life experiences itself through it. And this is the turning point: Being is experiencing itself as this body. The body is not the source of Being. It is the vehicle of expression.
When I say “I,” I have habitually meant the body-personality complex. But when I look deeply, I see that the body changes. The personality changes. Beliefs evolve. Memories fade. Cells replace themselves. The child I was is gone. The teenager I was no longer exists. The body has transformed many times.
Yet the sense of “I Am” has remained constant.
The content of experience changes — but the fact of Being does not.
There is a silent continuity that has never aged. A presence that was there in childhood, there in adolescence, there in adulthood. The body matured. The world shifted. Circumstances changed. But the underlying sense of presence — simple, aware, existing — remained untouched. That presence is not produced by the body. The body appears within it. This is where identity begins to dissolve and deepen at the same time.
If there were no Being, this body would be a lifeless arrangement of elements. The heart would not beat. The brain would not process signals. The lungs would not expand. The eyes would not see.
But even more radically — without Being, there would be no experience of heartbeats, no experience of thoughts, no experience of sight.
Experience depends on awareness.
And awareness is not a property of matter; it is the condition in which matter is known.
So when I speak of “myself,” I am invited to question: am I this body temporarily animated by something else, or am I the animating presence temporarily expressing through this body?
From one perspective, the body seems primary. It appears solid, visible, tangible. Being seems abstract. Invisible. Elusive. But in direct experience, it is the opposite.
The body is known because I am aware. Thoughts are known because I am aware. Emotions are known because I am aware. Awareness is primary. The body is secondary. Even the feeling “I am this body” is something that appears within awareness.
So what I truly am cannot be confined to the object I observe. When I sit still and simply notice, I discover that I am not making awareness happen. I am not generating existence. I am not manufacturing presence. Being is already here before I attempt to grasp it.
Breath happens. Thoughts arise. Sensation appears. And awareness silently contains them all. This is not a mystical claim. It is an experiential fact available in this very moment.
Close the eyes. Notice the body. Sensations appear. They are known.
Notice a thought. It appears. It is known. Notice an emotion. It appears. It is known.
What is constant?
The knowing. The knowing does not strain. It does not age. It does not argue. It does not announce itself. It simply is.
That is Being.
And this body — Tonkile’s body — becomes the localized expression through which Being tastes its own existence. It sees through these eyes. It hears through these ears. It writes through these hands. It speaks through this mouth.
But the true “I” is not confined to the organs. It is the field within which organs are experienced.
If the animating presence withdrew, this body would collapse into stillness. That fact alone reveals the hierarchy: life is not produced by the body; the body is sustained by life. And yet, this life is not owned by the body.
You do not manufacture the pulse of existence. You discover yourself already breathing. Already aware. Already present.
Being is self-existing.
And here is the profound shift: Being is experiencing itself as this particular perspective. Not as an isolated entity, but as a unique expression. The individuality of the body does not deny the universality of Being. It localizes it.
Just as one ocean can appear as many waves, Being appears as many bodies. Each wave has a shape, a lifespan, a movement pattern. But the water is the same. When I identify exclusively as the wave, I fear disappearance. I compare heights. I compete for significance.
When I recognize myself as the water appearing as this wave, a deeper stillness emerges. The body becomes an instrument rather than an identity. This does not diminish the body. It sanctifies it.
The body becomes sacred because it is the living altar through which Being expresses itself. Its movements are expressions. Its creativity is expression. Its love is expression. Even its struggle becomes part of Being’s unfolding self-awareness.
From this perspective, there is nothing for the body to do by itself. All doing arises from Being. Even the thought “I must achieve” arises within Being. Even the fear “I may fail” arises within Being. The body does not independently generate these impulses. It channels them.
But here is the subtle clarity: Being is not forcing the body like a puppeteer. It is not external. It is not separate. It is the very core of what I am. It is closer than breath. It is not inside the body in a spatial sense. The body appears within it.
This reverses our habitual assumption.
We think consciousness is inside the brain. But in lived experience, the brain is an object of perception — known through awareness. Even scientific understanding is processed within awareness.
Thus, the body is a configuration within the field of Being. Being is experiencing itself as Tonkile — not limited to Tonkile.
This dissolves the illusion of separation without erasing individuality.
The body continues to act, speak, create, build, teach, write, love. But the sense of doership softens. Action becomes participation in the flow of Being rather than personal ownership of movement.
The statement “there is nothing for this body to do without the presence within it of something that makes it move” becomes not just philosophical but experiential.
In silence, that presence can be felt. In deep stillness, it becomes obvious.
There is aliveness before effort. There is awareness before thought. There is existence before identity. And that existence is what I truly am.
The body is not the originator of Being; it is the theater in which Being performs.
And perhaps the most beautiful realization is this: Being is not seeking anything outside itself.
Through each body, it explores perspective. Through each mind, it explores interpretation. Through each heart, it explores love. Through this body, it is exploring what it is like to be Tonkile — in Eastern Cape, in this moment in history, writing these words.
Not separate from life. Not apart from consciousness. But life itself, localized. Being is experiencing itself. And this body is its current expression.
When that is seen, even faintly, the weight of isolation begins to lift. The body still functions. Responsibilities remain. Work continues. But the inner center shifts from contraction to openness.
The doer relaxes. The witness clarifies. The presence remains.
And the simplest truth stands quietly: I am not merely this body. I am the Being through which this body lives.