Before the sun finishes rising,
Before the mind leaps again into motion,
Give yourself this offering,
Stillness,
Space,
And sacred remembering.
Take a breath,
Not the kind the body does on its own,
But one drawn deliberately as if you were sipping the morning from the palm of the earth herself.
Let the breath fill your chest,
Then your belly,
And let it stretch out across all the tight,
Unspoken corners of your being,
The places that held themselves small while you slept,
The parts of you that braced against another day without knowing why.
Exhale slowly,
Not just air,
But residue,
Fragments of forgotten dreams,
Shadows left by yesterday's worry.
This is your time.
This is your dawn.
Let your awareness drop into the body,
Not as anatomy,
But as landscape.
You are not a machine with parts.
You are a mountain,
A riverbed,
A grove of trees swaying in the silence before birdsong.
Feel your feet upon the earth,
Even if they do not touch the ground,
For the earth remembers you,
Knows your weight,
Your rhythm,
Your returning.
Bring your awareness to the breath again,
And with it,
Let us call upon the four winds.
East,
Where the sun is born,
Bring clarity.
South,
Keeper of fire,
Bring courage.
West,
Where we grieve and let go,
Bring release.
North,
Where the stillness lives,
Bring strength.
Let your spine rise like the trunk of the cedar,
Straight but not stiff,
Awake,
Aware,
But unguarded.
Let the crown of your head become a vessel,
Open,
Receptive,
Listening for guidance not from above,
But from within,
Where the voice of your deeper knowing has waited all along,
Patient as moss.
Say to yourself,
Silently or aloud,
Today I walk with awareness.
Today I move not to chase,
But to meet.
Today I do not need to prove my worth to the sky,
I simply breathe beneath it.
Let the light of this new day find its way through the gates of your ribs.
Let it settle in your heart,
Not to awaken you,
For you are already awake,
But to remind you of what is essential.
Feel that light not as something outside you,
But as something ancient and internal,
Like the glow that lives inside coals long after the fire has fallen asleep.
There is no race,
There is no ladder,
There is only this moment,
And the moment that follows it,
Both of which are yours to shape,
Or simply to witness.
Place one hand on your chest,
And the other on your belly.
Feel the slow,
Rising sea of your breath.
This is the rhythm of the trees.
This is the language of animals.
This is the song of those who walked before you,
Barefoot and brave,
And still whisper to your bones through the silence.
Let them bless you now,
Not with words,
But with knowing,
Not with answers,
But with presence.
In your mind's eye,
See the day unfolding not as a test,
But as a path of stepping stones through mist,
No map,
Only feeling,
No destination,
Only return.
You do not have to get it right.
You only have to remain in right relation,
With yourself,
With the earth,
With the quiet agreements you make with the sacred each time you pause to breathe.
And if the world begins to pull again,
With its noise,
Its pace,
Its invisible clock,
Return to this breath,
Return to this stillness.
Return to the river beneath your ribs,
And drink from it as often as needed.
Before you open your eyes,
Speak this quietly into the soul of the day.
I walk slowly,
I listen deeply,
I speak only what carries truth.
I follow the rhythm of the quiet,
And I let the earth guide my step.
Now open your eyes not just to see,
But to receive.
Carry this quiet with you,
Not like armor,
But like water,
And may the spirit of mourning follow you gently,
Like smoke from a sacred fire.
Long after the sun has risen.
