Transmission without curriculum

Transmission Without Curriculum

Can intimacy be a legitimate teacher of intuitive knowing?

Some teachers do not teach with words.

Some students do not arrive seeking lessons.

Sometimes intuition moves between two people as recognition—

not instruction, not possession, but transmission.

This is the kind of knowing that does not announce itself. It does not carry a syllabus or demand comprehension. It arrives quietly, through the body first, through resonance, through the subtle agreement between two nervous systems that recognize safety, memory, and possibility all at once. It is not learned. It is remembered.

I did not know I was entering a classroom.

I did not know I was becoming both teacher and student.

When I was Boricua, I ate domplines and habichuelas, mero en La Boya y almuerzos en La Terapia. I moved through the land with the appetite of someone returning to herself. My language softened. My body listened. I was mistaken for a jibarita, teased with the suggestion that I could provide parrandas por la noche y viandas en la mañana. They saw something ancient in me—something rural, rooted, unperformed. Something that belonged to the land and not to the gaze.

When he surrendered himself to the land, I knew in that moment that my jibarito de Nueva York had arrived.

This is how intuition speaks: not in declarations, but in recognition.

The body knows before the mind asks permission.

When I say “when I was Boricua,” I do not mean nationality. I mean embodiment. I mean the moment when my body remembered its original cadence. I woke up in cuartos that felt like portals—rooms that held us while timelines rearranged themselves. Each morning we were less separate than the last. A tightening thread. Un hilo apretando. Remembering. Teaching. Breathing.

This is where the teacher-student binary dissolves.

Because who is instructing whom when both are remembering?

I was the person he knew, and yet I was new. Not because I changed for him, but because I released what no longer belonged to me. Old pain fell away without ceremony. In the immediacy of presence, intuition sharpened. I felt myself being gifted—not with answers, but with devotion to my own intuitive truth.

This is something intimacy can do when it is not rushed, extracted, or owned.

It creates a field where truth can surface safely.

My tantric exploration was not a technique; it was a listening. Desire was no longer a craving but a compass, responding in real time to what felt aligned. And yet, this ship of relations—of perspectives, of mirrored chess moves—confused both our worlds. Intuition does not always simplify. Sometimes it complicates in order to reveal what has been avoided.

What is so dangerous about wanting the world for another?

What is so threatening about knowing you are the glue touching the wound you are healing—while learning how to live again in union, in knowing, in tailor-designed prayers and realities beyond comprehension?

With cosmic intention, not fantasy.

With hands open, not grasping.

Anointed in gratitude for what is being healed together.

This is where the lesson lived. Not in outcome, but in posture.

I thanked him—not for choosing me, but for igniting in me the courage to feel again. To enjoy the essence of moments. To respect sacred silence. To walk through cloudy decisions without demanding clarity before trust. Intuition does not promise certainty. It promises coherence.

One Thursday, in November, we woke under a full moon at the edge of the Caribbean Sea. And the question arrived—not as anxiety, but as curiosity: What will become of this?

My body ached for his tenderness. My soul led my spirit into prayer. There was a constant tug-of-war between what I once called “high emotional regard” and the undeniable reality of desire. Not shame. Not denial. Just truth.

This, too, was instruction.

I had pre-experienced the encounter hours earlier in Playa Vayena. As the sun departed, I watched the farewell of that November day, already feeling what was to come. The body often rehearses truth before the mind catches up. Intuition does not wait for permission.

The last rays touched my skin as he searched for where to take us that night.

“Would you like a dome in the mountains or a beach house?” he asked.

The question itself was a mirror.

Expansion or surrender.

Elevation or immersion.

We chose the edge of the ocean.

Each step toward the house was a step toward union—not the romantic kind, but the somatic kind. The kind where bodies remember how to speak without performing. Without hesitation, we met in kisses that felt inevitable, not impulsive. What we saw. What we felt. It duplicated the knowing I had already received hours earlier by the sea.

This is how intuition confirms itself—through repetition across dimensions.

The intimacy shifted. His kisses softened, not in restraint but in intention. Every sense in my nervous system responded. This was not about conquest. It was about attunement. Our bodies entered an energetic exchange—tantric not because it was named, but because it was present.

I felt devotion, not urgency. Repair, not escape.

Memories mended themselves.

Veils lifted without force.

Pleasure.

Passion.

Two souls.

Right time.

Right place.

Right frequency.

This was not indulgence.

This was alignment.

There is a moment when belief collapses into knowing.

Belief reaches outward.

Knowing fills you.

Knowing devours you.

Knowing locks and unlocks simultaneously.

Abandoning old stories.

Rekindling sensation.

The touch.

The experience.

The essence.

The becoming.

No longer denying that readiness had arrived.

In thirty-seven human years, this Gemini tour around the sun—the pearl of the south—offered me one of the most exquisite confirmations: to be desired without being consumed, admired without being owned, satisfied without being erased.

And suddenly, every small intuitive nudge I had ever followed made sense. The moments of believing planted long before that November night revealed themselves as preparation.

Today is the seventh—the day of perfection. The beach remains my refuge. She hugs me. She heals me. I will always hold this experience in that corner where soul and spirit coexist—not as an attachment, but as evidence.

Evidence that intuition is trustworthy.

Evidence that intimacy can instruct without imprisoning.

Evidence that love can pass through without staying.

I wait—not longing, but open—to see, hear, feel, and live another love experience in this lifetime.

Ella fue.

She was the one who remembered.