NZ Kaminsky's Blog - Posts Tagged "mindful-reading"
Mindful reading and healing through immersive storytelling
What if the men in romantic stories are not just characters... but keys to our healing?
I’ve been reflecting on an archetypal truth:
That many women throughout history, Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, and others, were not just writing romantic heroes or gothic figures…
Maybe, they were writing their way toward wholeness. Toward reclaiming trust in the Masculine. Toward meeting the inner man they never met in the outer world.
When a woman writes a man who is emotionally available, mature, protective, supportive, and attuned, she’s not escaping reality. She’s rewriting it. She’s reshaping her psyche. She’s giving her nervous system and her heart a new imprint — one of safety, sovereignty, and connection.
This is not fantasy. This is inner alchemy.
The stories we write or read can become medicine.
They can help us meet the Animus, the inner masculine, in his healed form.
Not as the critic, the aggressor, or the cold, absent father...
But as a partner, a protector, a stable presence who says:
"I got you. You are safe. You are whole
And maybe this is how we stop repeating the old patterns, inside and out.
To all the women writing or reading novels, poetry, or even daydreaming of love that heals:
You are on the path of the sacred scribe.
You are healing your lineage through immersive storytelling.
If I were a character in a book, I’d hope the pages would whisper:
“Her Animus, once an internalized tyrant, becomes her guardian, her supporter, her beloved, when she gives him a healthy form through a rewritten story.”
Natalie
Natalie
I’ve been reflecting on an archetypal truth:
That many women throughout history, Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, and others, were not just writing romantic heroes or gothic figures…
Maybe, they were writing their way toward wholeness. Toward reclaiming trust in the Masculine. Toward meeting the inner man they never met in the outer world.
When a woman writes a man who is emotionally available, mature, protective, supportive, and attuned, she’s not escaping reality. She’s rewriting it. She’s reshaping her psyche. She’s giving her nervous system and her heart a new imprint — one of safety, sovereignty, and connection.
This is not fantasy. This is inner alchemy.
The stories we write or read can become medicine.
They can help us meet the Animus, the inner masculine, in his healed form.
Not as the critic, the aggressor, or the cold, absent father...
But as a partner, a protector, a stable presence who says:
"I got you. You are safe. You are whole
And maybe this is how we stop repeating the old patterns, inside and out.
To all the women writing or reading novels, poetry, or even daydreaming of love that heals:
You are on the path of the sacred scribe.
You are healing your lineage through immersive storytelling.
If I were a character in a book, I’d hope the pages would whisper:
“Her Animus, once an internalized tyrant, becomes her guardian, her supporter, her beloved, when she gives him a healthy form through a rewritten story.”
Natalie
Natalie
Nonverbal communication can hurt — sometimes even more than words.
“The tongue can conceal the truth, but the eyes never!”
— Voland, The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
Nonverbal communication can hurt, sometimes even more than words.
A cold glance, prolonged silence, a dismissive gesture, turning away, avoiding eye contact, or a lack of warmth in body language can all convey rejection, disappointment, or disapproval. These subtle signals often bypass rational defenses and go straight to the emotional core, especially for those who are sensitive or attuned to others’ moods.
Because it's not explicit, nonverbal hurt can also be harder to name, confront, or heal from. It leaves space for self-doubt: "Did I imagine that?" "Am I overreacting?" Yet the body registers and senses it very unmistakably. Even before the mind can make sense of it.
It leaves invisible scars.
Have you ever felt that nonverbal communication can wound us, sometimes almost irreparably?
(The Master and Margarita is one of my favorite books of all time. I’ve reread it during different periods of my life, and each time it feels as though the wisdom embedded in this masterpiece has no bottom.
As ridiculous as it sounds, I have a superstitious, almost subconscious fear that something bad will happen every time I read it. Strangely, I can’t even remember if anything ever did, whether even once something occurred as a coincidence. But fears like that seem to have a wild nature of their own.
Natalie
— Voland, The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
Nonverbal communication can hurt, sometimes even more than words.
A cold glance, prolonged silence, a dismissive gesture, turning away, avoiding eye contact, or a lack of warmth in body language can all convey rejection, disappointment, or disapproval. These subtle signals often bypass rational defenses and go straight to the emotional core, especially for those who are sensitive or attuned to others’ moods.
Because it's not explicit, nonverbal hurt can also be harder to name, confront, or heal from. It leaves space for self-doubt: "Did I imagine that?" "Am I overreacting?" Yet the body registers and senses it very unmistakably. Even before the mind can make sense of it.
It leaves invisible scars.
Have you ever felt that nonverbal communication can wound us, sometimes almost irreparably?
(The Master and Margarita is one of my favorite books of all time. I’ve reread it during different periods of my life, and each time it feels as though the wisdom embedded in this masterpiece has no bottom.
As ridiculous as it sounds, I have a superstitious, almost subconscious fear that something bad will happen every time I read it. Strangely, I can’t even remember if anything ever did, whether even once something occurred as a coincidence. But fears like that seem to have a wild nature of their own.
Natalie
The Art of Slow Reading
I’m a slow reader. I don’t devour books. I savour them. I smile, I laugh, I cry. I pause to contemplate. I get angry at characters’ choices, argue with them when they lose their marbles, offer unsolicited advice, and cheer when they finally get their act together. I sip coffee with nuts and dates to calm my nerves, pondering all the ways I’ve been less than perfect myself, feeling a warm companionship with them. I learn from their mistakes, dive into my own psyche, process buried emotions, and relish the tingling sensations of finishing a good book, hungry for more.
Reading, to me, is an extraordinary way to expand our life experience in a safe space, living through others’ turmoil, turbulence, and despair, and coming out wiser, more tolerant, and hopefully kinder. It enriches our toolbox for facing life’s challenges, opens perspectives we might never have reached otherwise, and sharpens our senses.
If you’re a slow reader too, don’t compare yourself to those who speed through hundreds of books a year as if it’s a race to conquer. Maybe, like me, you see reading as a sacred ceremony, your personal me time. You light the candles, pull a soft, extra cozy blanket around you, crunch on carrots to regulate your nervous system, and slip into dozens of different lives in the most authentic, powerful way, curled up in your comfy chair, absentmindedly stroking your fluffy companion at your side.
Hugs,
Natalie
Reading, to me, is an extraordinary way to expand our life experience in a safe space, living through others’ turmoil, turbulence, and despair, and coming out wiser, more tolerant, and hopefully kinder. It enriches our toolbox for facing life’s challenges, opens perspectives we might never have reached otherwise, and sharpens our senses.
If you’re a slow reader too, don’t compare yourself to those who speed through hundreds of books a year as if it’s a race to conquer. Maybe, like me, you see reading as a sacred ceremony, your personal me time. You light the candles, pull a soft, extra cozy blanket around you, crunch on carrots to regulate your nervous system, and slip into dozens of different lives in the most authentic, powerful way, curled up in your comfy chair, absentmindedly stroking your fluffy companion at your side.
Hugs,
Natalie
