Close your eyes gently and take a breath that is not for control or for performance,
But for landing,
Soft and slow,
As if your whole being were settling back into its natural shape,
Like mist curling over still water at first light.
Take a second breath,
A little deeper,
As though drawing air from someplace older than memory,
From the quiet at the center of your chest that has waited patiently for your return.
Let it fall out of you gently,
Like water leaving the hands of someone no longer needing to hold on.
And now one more breath,
Long,
Wide,
And kind.
Let it arrive not only in your lungs,
But in the spaces that haven't been visited in a while.
And as you exhale,
Imagine your whole self settling,
Like a stone coming to rest on the riverbed,
Soft and undisturbed.
Imagine now that beneath your feet appears a wide stone staircase,
Ancient,
Curved with moss at its edges,
Worn smooth by many footsteps before yours.
You begin to descend,
Not rushed,
Not hesitant,
But with the quiet knowing that each step takes you further inward,
Toward a place you have always known,
But rarely visited.
Five,
The light above begins to fade,
And a softer glow rises from below,
Like moonlight remembered in dream.
Four,
The sounds of the world begin to dim,
Not disappear,
But blur,
Like the hush of snow falling on distant rooftops.
Three,
You feel yourself becoming quieter inside.
As if even your thoughts are slowing to listen.
Two,
The breath moves freely now,
Like a small stream flowing through a familiar valley.
One,
You arrive.
Before you is a path,
Soft earth,
Dappled in light,
Winding through tall trees whose branches stretch like old arms holding stories.
Walk gently now.
This is not a path to anywhere new,
But a return.
These trees know you.
The wind knows your name beneath your name.
After a short walk,
You reach a clearing,
A sacred place,
Tucked between the hush of bark and leaf.
In the center of this space,
There is a table,
Not made of wood or stone,
But of memory,
Silence,
And old truths.
It does not ask questions.
It does not demand perfection.
It simply waits,
As it always has,
For your presence.
You approach and take your place.
The seat fits you well,
As though it was carved for the shape of your soul.
Now breathe,
Not to relax,
But to arrive.
When you're ready,
You may call forth a presence to join you.
It may be a feeling long avoided.
It may be a version of yourself that never had the chance to speak.
It may be sorrow,
Anger,
Shame.
It may even be joy that was never trusted.
Whoever comes,
Invite them with quiet respect.
Let them take their place across from you.
There is room.
There is time.
You sit now,
Not in battle,
But in counsel,
Not to fix,
But to witness,
Not to heal,
But to remember that nothing was ever unworthy of love.
Let them speak,
Or not.
Let them weep,
Or not.
Let them be without shaping or softening.
Let them be without shaping or softening.
Let them be without shaping or softening.
Let them be without shaping or softening,
And in that same stillness,
Offer yourself the same quiet acceptance you have extended to them.
If the heart tightens,
Let it do so without judgment.
That,
Too,
Is part of the ceremony.
If the breath shakes,
Honor it like a drum beaten softly in the dark.
You are here.
You are with them,
And you are accepting them,
And that is enough.
Perhaps in time,
One of these visitors,
One of these shadows once banished,
Offers you something small,
A memory,
A word,
A feeling you once buried so deeply you forgot it was yours.
Receive it with the same reverence you would offer a sacred relic found buried under centuries of silence.
Now you know that you are not here to be emptied of darkness,
And you are here to be whole.
The table does not ask you to become light.
It only asks that you sit with what is.
And when you sit in that stillness,
A warmth begins to rise,
Not from outside,
But from the deep interior flame that has waited for your return.
You are not broken.
You are not late.
You are not too much,
And you are not too far gone.
What you are is sacred,
Not the polished parts,
But the one who stayed at the table when it would have been easier to leave.
Now,
Gently,
Feel the place begin to blur like mist at dawn.
The table fades,
But not its truth.
Your guest does not vanish.
They walk beside you now,
No longer hidden,
No longer feared,
But accepted.
And as you rise slowly,
Returning along the path through the forest of yourself,
You carry not a burden,
But a knowing.
The staircase unfolds before you again,
Each step an invitation back to breath,
Back to body,
Back to the rhythm of the day.
One,
You are returning to the waking world.
Two,
But you do so with a piece of yourself reclaimed.
Three,
The shadows no longer need to chase you.
Four,
Because you turned to face them,
And you did not turn away.
Five,
Open your eyes slowly,
Not back into the noise,
But forward into your life.
You have sat at the table of your truth.
You have heard the silence behind the story,
And you have remembered.
You leave this place not fixed,
But returned.
Not empty,
But reminded that what lives in you,
In shadow and in silence,
Is not in the way.
It is the way,
The sacred way.
