01. There is an eye in the body that does not blink.

There is an eye that lives in your palms when they rest on the earth. There is an eye that opens when you press your hand against a tree or lay it over the heart of someone breaking apart. An eye that sees not with vision, but with heart and knowing. It reads the longing of spirit. The heaviness or weightlessness of silence. The electricity beneath someone’s skin.

The palms are ancient eyes.
Every touch is a gaze. Every offering a gesture of foresight.

Before the eyelids of the face ever opened, your palms reached for the mother, the waters, the cord, the moon. Your hands were your first prayers. And they still are.

We have forgotten that the body is all eye.
Yielding and grasping your environment, the seen and unseen.
That your feet see the memories lying in the ground.
That your thighs see through intentions raining down on you.
That your belly sees grief in others before it arrives otherwise.
That your spine sees what’s behind you.
That your tongue sees betrayal before the mouth confesses it.

This is the embodied eye. This is the watcher within.

In the old stories, when Osiris was dismembered—cut into pieces by his own brother and scattered across Egypt—it was not just a myth of death. It was a myth of fragmentation, of forgetting wholeness. His body, like our own, became many eyes strewn across the land. Each piece buried in a different temple, each one holding a different kind of sight. And it was Isis who, with wild grief and unrelenting magic, traveled the land to gather him back together.

She re-membered him.

She touched each piece of him, laid her breath into each severing, and saw him whole again. And in this reconstitution, a new power was born—Horus, the Falcon-Eye, the clear-sight born out of pain and restoration. He carries within him the Eye that watches and protects, the Eye that returns what was stolen, the Eye that pierces illusion. This Eye is not born of innocence—it is born of the process of being torn apart and reassembled.

To walk the path of guardianship is to become the Eye of Horus.

Can you see with the help of Horus how the eyes of the child are twin black holes that have swallowed empires and still hold the spirit of every stolen olive grove in their depths. When they blink, prophets stir in their graves. When they weep, the earth rewrites itself, each drop as scripture.

To be a guardian is also to have the courage to walk dismembered on earth, feeling every sensation as a glyph carved into your bones of sensing. It is to reclaim every fragment you abandoned—every gut instinct ignored, every vision dismissed, every voice that you told yourself wasn’t real—call them back. One by one.

It’s about re-membering yourself into a vessel of vision. It is about learning to see without looking. To know without proof. To touch with the seeing hands of the priest-kings and the milk-breasted goddess who wakes the dead.

And when you do this—when your palms are eyes, when your chest opens like an eye-lidded sun, when your tongue moves like a one-eyed oracle—you become a seer of space and kin, not just a ‘keyper’ of things.

You can walk into a room and feel what’s hiding in the walls.

You can touch a hand and know what they haven’t spoken.

You can feel the shape of a lie, lying in your lower back.
You can smell the stench of systems and mainstream media.

You can feel it—the glitch beneath the glamour, the rot beneath the gloss.

The eye knows the taste of deception; it licks the air and smells the metal tang of falsehood.

You can wake in the night and know that something is watching you from the otherworld.

You may think this is paranoia. But this is perception.

Your body is a constellation of ancient watchtowers.

Your palms are altars. Your eyes are serpents. Your mouth is a flame. Your belly is a drum.

And when the world falls to pieces, as it has, again and again—it is the embodied guardian, the wild seer who will gather it, piece by trembling piece, with the same tender vision of Isis.

You will touch the flesh and say:
“I take care of you.”
You will pick up the bone and say:
“You are part of the whole.”
You will breathe the eye back into the body, and the body back into the world.

And when you rise—when your full sight returns—you will not look with just two eyes.

You will look with all of you.

And what you see, you will protect.

Saoirse don Phalaistín
Eyes on Palestine