About My Brother's Legs
As Above, So Below
Hi! My name is, Mark and this is about my brother's legs!
Some stories don't announce themselves with fanfare or flashing signs. Some arrive quietly—like noticing, one day, that your brother's legs are bald. Not shaved, not scarred, just… bare. At first, I dismissed it as the creeping signature of age, the slow fade of hair where once it proudly grew. But the more I saw it—the more I really looked—the more I understood that his legs were speaking. Or perhaps the universe was speaking through them.
You see, my brother's head is also completely bald—a smooth crown unbroken by a single strand. It was easy to accept that, to joke about genetics or the passage of time. But his legs, like his head, seemed to reflect something deeper, something hidden in plain sight. As above, so below—the old axiom flickered to life in me like an echo returning home. There was no randomness here. His body was revealing a symmetry, a closing of a loop, a kind of cosmic mirroring that neither of us had noticed until it became impossible to ignore.
This is a story about my brother’s legs. But it is also about connection, the strange ways the universe stitches its lessons into skin and hair and bone. It is about the merge—the quiet invitation to see the whole instead of the parts. And perhaps, more than anything, it’s about what happens when we finally start to look.
And in that realization, I felt something else stirring—a deep awareness that what we notice is what we attract. Awareness itself is a magnet, pulling towards us the same wholeness we see in others. By recognizing the completeness in my brother’s reflection, I was also calling forth that same completeness within myself. The more I noticed the merge in him, the more I began to draw those same harmonies into my own life—people, moments, lessons, all weaving together with the silent rhythm of "as above, so below."
This is a story about my brother’s legs. But it’s also about connection—how the universe hides profound truths in the most ordinary places, waiting for us to notice. It’s about the pull of awareness, the attraction of completeness, and the quiet invitation to remember: we are already whole. We just have to look.
And so, I close this with deep gratitude.
Thank you, Chris, for showing me your legs—for offering them, not just as limbs that carry you, but as living expressions of time, movement, and the subtle poetry written across our bodies.
Thank you for sharing with the world the beauty of change, the quiet language of symmetry, and the reminder that through our bodies, the universe speaks.