Yesterday I shared a moment about watching my son shovel snow and realizing that we don't replace versions of ourselves as we grow.
We layer.
And it made me think about the body.
It made me think about how the body remembers in ways that the mind can't always explain.
And I want to gently explore that with you.
So find a comfortable position,
Maybe sitting down or laying back,
And allow your body to sink into whatever is supporting it.
Giving a little bit of your weight over to be held by that support.
I invite you to allow your breath to move naturally just where you are,
With no judgment,
Just allowing your inhale and exhale to happen naturally when they're ready.
There's nothing to perform here,
Just presence and awareness.
I invite you for a minute to notice the weight of your body.
Maybe the weight of your thighs or your head.
Notice the weight of your chest or your feet.
Notice the dance of your ribs as you breathe.
Maybe the rise and fall of your chest or your belly.
Just notice your body right here,
Right now,
Doing what it needs to do.
Might you take a minute to imagine your lungs as a library.
It doesn't have to be dramatic.
Imagine what that library of your lungs looks like.
Are there shelves,
Books?
What's the lighting like?
Is it ancient?
Might you imagine how many stories there are to tell from this library in your lungs.
And might you imagine that each inhale is turning a page,
And each exhale is placing something back gently.
Each inhale is turning a page,
A story in this library,
And each exhale is gently placing something back.
Every version of you has breathed in this body.
The toddler,
The child,
The teenager,
The version of you that grieves and hopes.
All of these versions of you have breathed in this body,
And they are not gone.
They are written into you.
I invite you to bring your awareness to a version of you that feels easy to love.
Let that version near.
Let that version in.
Now,
Gently,
Notice if there is a version of you that you don't visit very often.
You don't need details of this version.
You don't need to relive anything.
Just the acknowledgment that they too once breathed in this body.
They were doing the best they could with the awareness they had.
Nothing that you have been needs to be erased in order for you to grow,
To expand.
Just let your breath move,
Inhaling who you are now,
And exhaling with compassion for who you have been.
Inhaling who you are now.
Exhaling with compassion for who you have been.
You are layered.
You're not replaced.
You might take a hand,
Place it on your ribs,
Or your heart,
Or your belly if that feels good to you,
Or you might leave your hands right where they are.
This library is not locked.
The archive is alive,
And it's alive within you.
You carry every version of yourself forward,
Not as weight,
Maybe not even as an anchor,
But as wisdom.
Take one deeper breath,
Inhaling through your nose,
Opening your mouth and letting it out.
And when you're ready,
Gently open your eyes.
Look around your space.
You might notice colors,
Shapes,
Sounds.
And remember the library of your lungs is always open to you.
The breath remembers.
Namaste.
