A young student once asked his master how to transcend the body.
The master handed him a clay pot and said,
Carry this everywhere.
At first the student cursed its cracks,
Its weight,
Its awkward shape,
But over time he noticed it held water,
Reflected moonlight,
And protected seeds.
Finally he realized it's not something to escape,
It's what lets me live,
Serve,
And shine.
The master bowed and simply said,
And so it is with your body.
I share this zen fable with you because what if your body wasn't a cage to escape,
But a vessel to cherish?
A vessel that's been speaking to you all along,
And you've been too busy editing or comparing to hear it.
We overlook the body when we see it only as a shape to fix,
An ornament to display,
Not a home to inhabit.
We overlook it when we ignore its quiet whispers,
The shoulders that ache for rest,
The gut that clenches when we say yes but we really mean no,
And the tired eyes begging for pause.
When we move on autopilot,
When we trust strangers' opinions more than our own,
When we push past pain and call it strength,
We forget that every scar is a survival story,
Every curve a quiet rebellion,
Every breath a new beginning.
But what if today you chose to see differently?
To meet your body as a companion,
Not something to conquer,
But something to know.
And in the words from Nayira Waid,
And I said to my body softly,
I want to be your friend.
It took a long breath and replied,
I have been waiting my whole life for this.
You see,
Your body,
Your companion has never asked for perfection,
Never needed punishment.
Today we're not here to fix or sculpt,
We're here to listen,
To return,
To trust.
Feel the shape of your body resting here.
Notice where it meets the earth or the seat beneath you.
Inhale and feel your ribs gently expand.
Exhale,
Let your weight melt downward.
No parts to tighten,
No parts to hide,
Just presence.
So trust your body and shed your doubt.
Where do echoes of old stories live within you?
Stories of being too much,
The wrong shape,
Too soft,
Too large,
Or too small.
Where did these come from as they were never yours to begin with?
Who handed them to you?
Was it a passing comment,
A careless glance,
A hand-me-down beliefs that never fit your shape,
Voices that never felt your softness,
Perhaps misguided intentions,
But deeply wounding impacts.
Today you get to decide what stays and what goes.
Today you guide with kindness,
Not judge with harsh echoes.
Breathe in gently with empathy.
Imagine these stories being removed like weeds,
Old echoes you no longer need to hold.
See your body as a living garden.
Each curve,
Each mark,
Each function,
A plant or flower with its own story,
Its own need.
You don't shout at flowers to be taller or thinner.
You don't judge a rose for not being a tulip.
You water,
You prune,
You observe each season patiently.
You notice which plants thrive in sunlight and which need rest in the shade.
So invite yourself to see your body with a beginner's mind as though stepping into a garden for the first time.
Ask yourself,
How might my experience change if I saw my body as a garden to tend rather than a problem to fix?
Ponder now and allow yourself to sit with what arises,
Like the aroma of a garden blooming within you.
How might my experience change if I saw my body as a garden to tend rather than a problem to fix?
Remember,
It's not only about seeing,
But also about how you nourish and speak to each plant,
To each part of you.
Ask yourself,
What does my body do for me rather than how does it look to me?
Move as a celebration,
Not as a punishment.
Eat as an act of honoring and savoring each flavor.
Rest as a replenishment to enrich your roots and speak to yourself like sunlight on new leaves,
Gentle,
Affirming,
And warm.
Empowerment isn't about instantly loving every leaf and branch.
It's about shifting from war to relationship,
From conquering to knowing.
So pair movement with gratitude for the functions they offer.
Trust your body.
Shed your doubt and simply celebrate the ways that you move about.
What does my body do for me rather than how does it look to me?
Now,
When a critical thought arises about your belly,
Your thighs,
Your skin,
Pause.
Instead of tightening or turning away,
Ask gently,
What does this part of me need from me right now?
Listen without rushing to fix.
Offer a soft phrase back.
I hear you.
I support you instead of punishing you.
Imagine speaking to this part of you as you are now.
As you would a dear friend,
A beloved pet,
Or a small child with warmth,
Patience,
And unwavering care.
Feel how even one moment of kindness can soften the edges inside.
It's a language of gentle tending.
One question,
One kind phrase at a time.
Now let all words fade.
Settle in the stillness.
Your body,
Your garden,
Your breath,
Your home.
And I will leave you to practice contemplating these questions,
Or perhaps a bit of both.
What does this part of me need from me right now?
What does my body do for me rather than how does it look to me?
And how might my experience change if I saw my body as a garden to tend,
Rather than a problem to fix?
Listen without rushing to fix.
Offer a soft phrase back.
I hear you.
I support you instead of punishing you.
When you're ready,
Begin to find your breath again.
A soft wave rising and falling.
A quiet friend always waiting.
Feel the shape of your body,
This vessel that carries you.
Not something to escape,
But something that lets you serve,
Live,
And shine.
Like the student's pot,
Cracked,
Strong,
Holding moonlight and seeds all at once.
You might hear the echoes of those soft words,
I want to be your friend.
You whisper to your body,
I have been waiting my whole life for this.
It replies.
So sense the garden within you,
Each curve,
A vine,
Each scar,
A root,
Each breath,
A drop of rain.
Your body,
Not a battlefield,
But a living,
Breathing garden to attend.
A place of wild,
Resilient,
And quiet becoming.
And remember,
Not mine to conquer,
But mine to know.
My body,
My partner,
Wherever I go.
Carry this as your secret seed.
Your soft chant,
Your quiet revolution.
A promise you make each morning,
Each mirror,
Each meal.
To move not as a judge,
But as a teacher.
To grow,
Not through war,
But through tending.
To walk,
Not to fix,
But to arrive,
Again and again,
Here.
When you're ready,
Slowly open your eyes.
May your mind,
Your body,
And spirit be abundant with peace,
And with the knowing that your body is not a battle to endlessly roam,
But it's your best partner,
Your teacher,
Your temple,
Your home,
Today and every day.
Namaste.
