The First Word Is Written

Why email, not the phone, is the ideal gateway to a man’s inner life.

Geoffrey

In a world that prizes speed and immediacy, the choice to begin this practice by email is a deliberate act of slowing down.

For a man accustomed to quick decisions and efficient communication, it may seem counterintuitive.

Yet for a process devoted to stillness and authenticity, written correspondence is the most fitting beginning.

It gives both space and time — space to think honestly, and time to find words that reflect what is truly meant.

Bypassing the Reflexive, Spoken Self

The telephone is a medium of performance. The moment a man picks up the phone, he steps into a role: expected to respond quickly, to sound composed, to say something useful.

That reflex is often protective, especially when the subject is intimate.

He may default to rehearsed phrases, polite detours, or problem-solving language that conceals what he really feels.

An email removes that pressure.

It offers a private pause before expression — a place to listen inwardly before speaking outwardly.

Without the social performance of voice, the written word allows the quieter, more authentic self to surface.

The Clarity of Written Reflection

Writing is reflection in motion. It compels thought to take shape, giving order to what had been vague or chaotic.

In crafting an email, a man must move beyond “I’m stressed” to consider why he is stressed.

He must decide which details matter, what he truly wants, and what he can no longer ignore.

This process of shaping language already initiates the deeper work of the practice — a first act of awareness before any meeting occurs.

A Mutual Act of Intention

The first email is not an administrative formality; it is a gesture of intent.

For the man, it marks his willingness to engage deliberately, rather than impulsively.

For Geoffrey, it provides a first glimpse of tone, attention, and readiness — an understanding that no brief phone exchange could convey.

Thus, the process begins as it means to continue: not with a ringing phone and a hurried performance, but with a quiet act of written honesty — the first word in a conversation that unfolds at the pace of real thought.

At first, I wanted him to come to my place. It was about control. But stepping into his world, into the quiet of the mountains, I had to let go. That was where the real work began—the moment I realised I wasn’t in charge.