To find the gold in tension’s wake, and claim it as your own.

The "Waking Up" was just a sound, a voice inside your head, While actual bodies crave the click of relief’s quiet thread. A calmer parent is a prize that lives too far away, To shape the hand that reaches out and touches life today. (Chorus) The ghost of Skinner whispers now, "Discard the ancient app," The reinforcer must be real, not marks upon a map. Escape the rule, embrace the shift, the muscle and the bone, To find the gold in tension’s wake, and claim it as your own. We look for "Self" in empty space, but find a rigid wall, Because the rule-bound meditator waits for grace to fall. But behavior is a sculptor’s tool, it carves the stone with heat, It needs a payment paid in full before the task's complete. (Chorus) The ghost of Skinner whispers now, "Discard the ancient app," The reinforcer must be real, not marks upon a map. Escape the rule, embrace the shift, the muscle and the bone, To find the gold in tension’s wake, and claim it as your own. So sit and find the jaw that’s locked, the shoulders held so tight, And make the choice to let them go into the quiet light. That tiny drop of physical ease—the heavy breath’s release— Is more than all the theories told of "transcendental peace." (Chorus) The ghost of Skinner whispers now, "Discard the ancient app," The reinforcer must be real, not marks upon a map. Escape the rule, embrace the shift, the muscle and the bone, To find the gold in tension’s wake, and claim it as your own. The "should" is just a verbal chain, a shadow in the room, It cannot make a habit live or make a practice bloom. But if the lungs feel wider now, and if the pulse is slow, The organism learns the way that spirit cannot know. (Chorus) The ghost of Skinner whispers now, "Discard the ancient app," The reinforcer must be real, not marks upon a map. Escape the rule, embrace the shift, the muscle and the bone, To find the gold in tension’s wake, and claim it as your own.