Hello,
Welcome to this guided meditation inspired by the awakening of spring.
I invite you to find a comfortable seat,
Perhaps on a cushion,
Near an open window,
A back step,
A garden bench,
Or simply a quiet corner of the floor,
Wherever you have to feel most comfortable.
Allow your spine to lengthen gently upward,
As though a thread of silk is drawing the crown of your head toward the pale morning sky.
Allow your hands to rest open on your thighs,
Down by your side,
Again wherever is most comfortable.
Palms could be facing upward,
In an act of ready to receive.
Slowly lower your gaze or close your eyes,
Whatever is most comfortable.
There's nowhere else to be,
This moment is already complete.
And as you're settling in,
Just take a moment to notice how you feel.
Observing your breath without judgment,
Connecting to the presence,
This moment in time.
And I invite you to slowly inhale through your nose for a count of four,
Feeling the belly and ribs expand fully,
And then hold at the top for the count of two,
A moment of pure stillness.
And then exhale through slightly parted lips for a count of six,
Releasing every remnant of sleep,
Or letting the day go,
The worries,
Anything that doesn't serve you.
We're going to repeat this three times,
Each breath a little deeper,
A little more spacious than the last,
And doing this at your own pace.
Breathing in through the nose,
Holding,
And then releasing through parted lips,
Allowing yourself to feel that,
The inhale,
Exhale,
And the sweetness of the pause,
That moment of pure stillness.
With your next exhale,
Allow your awareness to gently expand beyond the room.
In your mind's eye,
Picture yourself stepping outside into the early morning light,
The early morning air of a spring day.
The hour is young,
Perhaps six,
Or even earlier,
Seven.
And the light is that particular gold rose hue that exists only in the first half hour after sunrise.
It has no name in ordinary language,
Only in the language of the body.
Allowing yourself to feel the coolness of the dewy grass beneath your bare feet,
Soft,
Yielding,
Slightly cold.
Each blade holds a perfect bead of moisture.
Above you,
The sky of the most tender pale blue stretches wide,
Unmarked by a cloud,
Luminous as the inside of a shell.
You settle onto a wooden bench at the edge of a garden.
Wisteria climbs the fence behind you.
Its first purple clusters hang heavy and sweet.
Apple trees are dusted with white blossom,
So delicate it seems the branches are dreaming.
You exhale,
And you belong here completely.
Breathing in the sweet fragrances,
The coolness of the morning air.
Taking it all in.
Reminding yourself that the earth doesn't hurry toward spring.
She arrives on her own time,
Her own way.
And then taking a moment to just observe your breath.
Not as something you do,
But as something that happens through you.
The light passes through,
Allowing the body to breathe itself.
And then I invite you to inhale through the nose,
Again for the count of four,
Drawing in the scent of blossom and cool earth.
And then hold for the count of two.
Feel the breath fill you like morning light filling a still room.
And then let it go.
Exhale completely through the mouth for the count of eight.
Soft as mist rising from the warm ground.
And then resting in the empty moment before the next inhale.
And practice this cycle a few more times at your own pace.
With each round,
Allowing the body to settle.
A little deeper into the bench,
Into the morning,
Into itself.
Breathing in the fragrances.
The mist rising from the warm ground.
Blossoms around you.
Cooler.
Feeling that coolness.
Fragrance.
Notice how breathing and living world around you share the same rhythm.
Apple trees exhale what you inhale.
You exhale what the blossoms need.
You are not separate from this morning.
You are woven into it.
As naturally as the spider weaves its thread between the fence post-breath.
Before anyone wakes and sees it.
And you belong here.
When ready,
Returning to your own natural rhythm of breathing.
And as you inhale,
Visualize a gentle breeze moving through the apple blossom.
Petals trembling.
Scent lifting to the air and traveling toward you.
And as you exhale,
Imagine that same breath becoming a small ripple across the dewy heavy breath.
Moving out.
Touching everything.
You are still center.
The breath moves in and out like the tide.
A natural rhythm.
An ebb and flow.
Morning communion with nature.
And as you are sitting here,
The scent surrounds you.
Flowers and blossoms.
You begin to listen.
Simply listen.
From somewhere in the old oak at the garden's edge,
A robin begins to sing.
The sound is liquid and unhurried.
A thread of clear notes rising and curling in the morning air.
Then answering from across the lane,
A song to brush.
Then the cascading conversation of a blackbird.
Unhurried and utterly sure of himself.
As though he composed the whole morning.
And is simply reading her off.
Listening.
Listening to the birds sharing their song.
You don't need to label or chase or coin any single note.
Allow the bird sound to be like rain.
Touching everything at once.
Asking nothing in return.
If a thought rises,
It's okay.
Treat it gently.
Like a bird that has landed on the bench beside you.
Acknowledge it.
And watch it fly away on its own.
And I invite you to bring your attention now to the spaces between the birdsong.
The brief silences in which the garden holds its breath.
These silences are not empty.
They are full of listening.
Full of presence.
Your mind can rest in these silences.
Exactly as the birds rest in the hard branches between their songs.
Noticing.
You're in no hurry.
You don't want to burn anything.
If something comes up that doesn't serve you,
Release it into the garden.
It has room for all of you.
Allow awareness to drift downward into the body.
The way warmth sinks loose soil after sunrise.
Beginning at the crown of the head.
Feel the morning air touching your hair.
Your temples.
The soft skin of your forehead.
Let the brow be smooth.
The jaw unclench.
The tongue resting softly at the roof of the mouth.
And then moving awareness down through the throat.
Wide and open.
Into the chest.
With each inhale,
Feel the ribcage bloom outward like a flower.
Opening with each exhale.
Let the chest soften and settle.
Trusting the ground beneath you.
Trusting the vent.
Trusting the earth that is always,
Always there.
Bring attention to the hands.
Resting open on your thigh.
Perhaps the skin is cool.
Perhaps there is the faintest warmth when morning light touches your fingers.
These hands are extraordinary.
Capable of tremendous tenderness.
Let them rest.
Let them simply be hands.
Open and unheld.
And then on the next inhale.
Send the breath all the way down into the base of the spine.
The sitting bones.
The soles of the feet.
Feel yourself heavy.
Solid and warm.
Like the oak tree.
Which has stood through a hundred springs and will stand through a hundred more.
Feeling it.
Feeling it through your body.
You do not have to hold yourself right now.
The earth is doing that.
Just allow the earth to receive your weight completely.
And go.
Being supported.
The sun has moved a little higher now.
Its warmth touches your cheek.
Your left shoulder.
The backs of your hands.
In the garden,
Insects have begun to wake.
Low,
You can hear humming weaving through the blossoms.
Everything is quietly,
Persistently,
Joyfully alive.
And before you leave this morning garden.
Take a moment to simply be grateful.
Not in a performed or effortful way.
But small,
Uncomplicated gratitude.
Of being a living creature on a spring morning.
Breathing.
Hearing.
Present.
The gift of this day has already been given.
You received it simply by waking up and showing up.
I invite you to take the deepest,
Slowest inhale of this entire practice.
Filling your lungs completely.
And let the belly and ribs and even the collarbones rise.
And then hold for a moment at the very top.
Feel that fullness.
That aliveness.
Then release the long,
Awful sigh through the mouth.
Letting it be generous and unhurried.
Feel the body soften.
Feel the morning remain with you.
Even as you prepare to re-enter the day.
Gently begin to deepen your breath.
And then returning back to its natural rhythm.
Wiggling the fingers.
Rolling the shoulders softly back and down.
If your eyes are closed.
Let a little light infer.
Think slowly as a cat blinks in the sun.
Unhurriedly.
Complete.
When you are ready.
Opening your eyes fully.
Looking around at wherever you are.
A soft,
Unhurried gaze that brought you to the garden.
You carry the morning with you now.
It is in the way you hold your shoulders.
It is the length of your exhale.
It will be there wherever you choose to return.
May you move through this day with the patience of the trees.
The lightness of the birdsong.
And the quiet confidence of a morning that knows.
Without any effort at all.
