There is an old story about a girl,
Around 12,
Who asked her grandmother,
Where do my thoughts come from?
The grandmother smiled and said,
Good question,
But I'll raise you another good question.
Where does the weather come from?
The girl raised an eyebrow and said,
Hmm,
The sky?
The grandmother responded,
Ah,
So you're saying the sky is different from the weather?
The girl said,
I guess so,
Grandma,
But what does this have to do with where my thoughts come from?
The grandmother continued,
The weather is always changing,
Sometimes it rains,
Sometimes it storms,
Sometimes it's warm and golden and everything feels possible,
But no matter what the weather is doing,
The sky never becomes the weather.
The sky holds it,
The sky watches it,
And the sky allows it to pass.
The granddaughter sat with this,
And the grandmother leaned in closer,
Lowered her voice,
As if she were giving away the world's best kept secret,
And said,
You are the sky,
The part of you that notices,
Honors,
Witnesses,
Without getting swallowed.
The grandmother continued,
Your thoughts are just the weather patterns moving through your mind,
A thunderstorm of worry,
A drizzle of doubt,
A gust of judgment,
A cloud of comparison.
They come,
And they go,
But the sky,
The sky remains the same.
The girl,
Still curious,
Asks,
How do I really know that I'm the sky?
The grandmother waved the girl to come outside.
They laid down on the cool earth and stared up at the endless blue.
Clouds drifted,
Lights shifted,
Wind moved.
Watch closely,
She whispered,
Do you see how the clouds move?
But the sky doesn't chase them.
And the girl nodded.
Do you see how the sky doesn't argue with the clouds,
Doesn't try to push them away,
Doesn't panic when they get dark?
The granddaughter nodded again.
Do you see how the sky is big enough for storms and sunsets and everything in between?
A third time,
She nodded.
That's you,
She said.
You are the one who can watch your thoughts without becoming them.
You are the one who can witness fear without drowning in it.
You are the one who can hold the storm without forgetting the sun.
And right then,
The girl felt something shift.
Not a big shift,
Not a lightning bolt.
Just a small opening,
A widening,
A soft remembering.
Oh,
This is what I am.
The grandmother continued.
Once you know you're the sky,
Once you really know,
Not just in your mind,
But in your soul,
You stop freaking out about the storms.
Storms don't mean something is wrong with the sky.
They don't mean you're broken or behind or failing.
They just mean you're human.
A storm is just a storm.
A thought is just a thought.
And you,
My love,
You've always been the vast,
Wide,
Open sky.
Take a slow breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.
Release the weight of the day.
One more breath in through the nose,
Out through the mouth.
Release.
Shoulders get softer.
And with the next breath,
Give your eyes permission to feel heavy and close just a little more than they were before.
Notice the space behind your closed eyes.
And there,
Imagine a vast and open sky.
A sky so wide,
So blue,
So endless that you can feel your chest expanding by just looking at it.
And the sky embodies freedom and invites you to breathe deeper than you have all week.
So we do it again.
Inhale through your nose.
Open the mouth.
Exhale.
This time,
The jaw gets soft.
The ears get soft.
Again,
Inhale,
Nose.
Open mouth,
Exhale.
The hips get soft.
The feet,
The hands.
Imagine yourself standing underneath this big,
Vast sky.
You reach your arms out as if to give the sky a huge hug.
And when you do,
You notice you start to dissolve and merge into it because the sky,
After all,
Is you.
Your truest self.
The part of you untouched by fear or judgment or old stories.
And the sky,
Begin to notice the little clouds forming.
Each cloud a thought,
A memory,
A doubt,
A should,
A worry,
A whisper of comparison,
A leftover fear from long ago.
They simply arise because that's what clouds do.
That's what thoughts do.
Let one cloud come into view and simply allow it to pass through you.
You don't judge it.
You don't analyze it.
You just notice its shape,
Its texture,
Its weight.
And you greet it softly.
You embrace the movement through you,
The sky.
Whisper as if speaking to a small child that you love.
Cloud.
That's just a cloud.
Watch what happens.
Watch it float and drift across the horizon of you.
Notice you're not pushing it,
Grabbing at it,
Or climbing inside of it.
You're letting it be.
Another cloud appears.
Another thought.
Another worry.
Another ripple of the mind.
And again,
You whisper,
Cloud.
It's just a cloud.
Then cloud after cloud,
Thought after thought,
You watch them pass,
Each one dissolving into the spaciousness you are resting in.
Feel how wide you are,
How still you are,
How unbothered you are.
And if it feels authentic to you,
Go ahead and place your hand on your heart.
Warm,
Gentle,
Present.
Allow your hand to be a forever anchor back to this truth,
An anchor you can use time and time again.
Feel your heartbeat beneath your palm,
Steady,
Ancient,
Alive.
In your mind,
Whisper to yourself,
I am the sky.
I am the one who notices.
Allow those words to sink into your ribs,
Your lungs,
The quiet corners of your mind.
Feel the truth of them expanding within you.
You are the sky,
Spacious,
Loving,
Unthreatened,
Unbroken.
And again,
Your thoughts,
They're only the weather,
Passing patterns that cannot touch who you are.
Take a slow breath in and out.
Slow breath in and out.
Slow breath in.
Slow breath in.
Slow breath in.
