Over the years, I’ve noticed a quiet shift in how people arrive at Reiki.
In the beginning, students want clarity. They want to know what is happening, whether they are doing it correctly, and how to make it work better. Questions are natural, and they have their place. Explanations help orient the mind while the body learns something slower.
But for many practitioners, there comes a point where explanation no longer satisfies.
What they’re looking for isn’t another technique or a better description. It’s reassurance that what they’re already experiencing is enough. That the quiet settling they notice when their hands rest isn’t something they need to improve or refine, but something they can trust.
In teaching, I’ve found myself returning to this moment again and again. The moment when effort softens. When attention relaxes. When Reiki no longer feels like something we are trying to apply, but something already present and underway without our interference.
This kind of practice doesn’t lend itself well to long explanations or structured instruction. It lives in ordinary moments. In pauses. In what remains when we stop trying to get somewhere else.
For some time now, I’ve wanted a place to write from that perspective. Not as a course, and not as a manual, but as a steady, ongoing reflection on what it means to live with Reiki rather than perform it.
I’ve begun sharing those reflections in a new space called Living with Reiki. It’s where I’m placing shorter pieces drawn from daily practice, teaching, and the subtle shifts that happen when we let go of effort and allow practice to become ordinary.
This writing isn’t meant to replace classes or training. It’s meant to accompany them. To offer a place where practitioners can recognize what they already know, even if they haven’t had words for it yet.
If that kind of writing feels useful to you, you’re welcome to find it there.
— Brian
