The Bathing Debate

I found myself, quite perplexed, observing a rather animated discussion on the Internet — of all things, about bathing. The participants, otherwise respectable members of a Northern club, chattered away with abandon, their arguments flowing as freely as a brook in spring. To them, bathing was nothing more than a self-indulgent luxury, an exercise in mere well-being rather than a necessity of hygiene. They dismissed the notion of its practical value, reducing it to sheer vanity. Lamentable.

I pictured them, as a thought experiment, transported to the unyielding heat of Rio de Janeiro. The sun, unrelenting, bearing down upon them; the air thick with humidity, clinging to their skin like a wet woollen cloak. And then, inevitably, the scent — the ripe, unmistakable musk of human exertion, its pungency announcing itself well before its bearer appeared. A harsh yet inevitable reminder of reality, unsoftened by the forgiving chill of their northern climate.

What reigning arrogance — one I scarcely recognise — imbues these club members with the belief that they alone possess the truth? As if the world revolved around their horns. Horns, indeed, for free men do not generalise, nor do they allow pride so inflated it renders them incapable of passing through a doorway.

How utterly complacent, this blithe dismissal of the bath, spoken by those who rarely break a sweat! A luxury, indeed, to argue against washing when the very air around you keeps you unblemished. But let them stand beneath a tropical sun, let them feel the betrayal of their own bodies against their theories. Soon enough, they would understand: some truths must be felt before they can be reasoned.

Comments

Research shows that parental warmth shapes our worldview — how might acupuncture offer a reparative experience in adulthood?

It is becoming increasingly clear that our worldview — whether we perceive life as welcoming or hostile — is shaped far more by the emotional bonds of early childhood than by material hardship or environmental risk. A recent study, published in Child Development , revealed that an adult’s sense of safety, beauty, and benevolence in the world is deeply rooted in the warmth received from parental figures — more so than in their exposure to poverty or danger. This finding resonated with me on a personal level. Time and again, I encounter patients in clinical practice who, despite being outwardly successful and high-functioning, carry an abiding sense that the world is cold, fragmented, even threatening. In acupuncture sessions, it is not uncommon to witness how such emotional imprints — stored not only in the mind, but also in the body — manifest as chronic anxiety, diffuse pain, insomnia, or emotional detachment. Through the lens of Chinese medicine, these states reflect imbalances...

A Pause Between Heartbeats

Time doesn’t tick. It breathes — unevenly, almost nervously. Sometimes it opens itself like a window you didn’t know was there. And inside that window, someone waits. Not with urgency, not with despair. Just a subtle weight: Will you come? Will you listen? You don’t need to prepare. You don’t need a speech. You only need to stop — to let the world stumble for a moment while you say, Yes, I’m here. That small pause, almost nothing, can be everything. Not everything in the dramatic sense. Everything in the sense of air when it was almost not enough. It’s not about how many minutes. Time has never obeyed clocks. What matters is the shift — leaving the room, the page, the self — to enter someone else’s trembling. Someone asks, not out loud but between words: Can you see me? And if you do — even for a beat — something sacred happens. Not salvation, no. Just a flicker of light that says, You are not alone. And that flicker, believe me, can change a day, a night, sometimes a life....

The Progressive Misreading of Silence

At 5, I entered rooms like a murmur. I was already listening for something behind the noise — something older than voices, softer than footsteps. “He’s such a well-behaved boy,” they said, smiling with relief. But what they mistook for virtue was only quiet intuition. I was not good. I was attuned. At 11, I had mastered the art of presence without weight. I could sit by the window for hours, watching the wind pass through the trees like thought through the body. “He’s quiet,” they would say — gently, but with a trace of discomfort. They couldn’t name the feeling of someone watching without need. At 17, I was called “mature.” But maturity is not a virtue — it is a scar. I had already seen the shape of endings before others saw beginnings. Friends came to me like tide to stone, hoping to be held. I held them, yes — but not always with words. Sometimes silence is the only honest offering. At 24, my stillness no longer charmed. The world asked for brightness, momentum, performa...

The Hyggelig Journey

Search This Blog