Welcome to this meditation.
The Garden of Unburdening.
A somatic release.
I am Rookwood Moon,
And I am so glad you are dedicating some time for yourself.
Settle into your seat as if you are rooting into the rich,
Dark silt of a riverbank.
Feel your weight sink,
Supported by the ancient earth that has held every story ever told.
Invite your eyes to close,
Drawing a velvet curtain between the world outside and the world within Take a breath that tastes of rain-drenched earth and sweet clover.
Let it travel deep into the bowl of your hips As you exhale,
Imagine a silver mist leaving your lips,
Carrying away the surface static of the day Bring your awareness to your breath,
But don't try to tame it Let it move through you like a slow winding creek You are safe.
You are held.
You are the architect of this sanctuary.
Imagine you are standing in a hidden courtyard at twilight.
The walls are overgrown with honeysuckle.
And the air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and wood smoke.
In the center is a pool of still dark water.
We begin the scan at the crown of your head.
Imagine soft golden moonlight washing over your scalp.
There is a tightness here,
Like a locked gate.
Simply notice it.
Breathe into the space between your eyebrows Let the moonlight melt the iron bands around your jaw.
Feel the mossy softness of the garden air pressing against your skin.
Move your awareness down to your throat Move your awareness down to your shoulders.
This is the place of the unsaid.
If your shoulders feel heavy,
Like they are carrying the weight of old ancestors,
Imagine that weight dissolving into the soil beneath you.
Travel down into your chest and heart space.
Here,
Trauma often feels like a bird trapped in a cage.
Don't force the cage open,
Just sit with the bird Notice the rhythm of your heart,
The persistent,
Brave drum of your existence.
Let a warm amber light flood your lungs,
Creating space where there was once constriction.
Bring your attention to your solar plexus and belly This is where we bury the words we want to say but don't.
Words like no,
Stop,
Or please help.
If you feel a knot here,
Imagine it as a tangled vine of ancient ivy.
Use your breath as a gentle sun to warm the vine until it softens,
Its grip loosening from your spirit.
Descend now into your hips and pelvis,
The deep well of the body.
Feel the density here.
Trauma can hide in the bones like cold winter frost.
Visualize a hearth fire burning nearby.
Sending waves of heat through your thighs,
Your knees.
And down into your ankles.
Let the fight-or-flight energy that has been vibrating in your calves finally drain into the earth,
Returning to the roots of the trees.
Feel your entire body now as a landscape of shadows and light You are not broken.
You are a forest that has survived a long winter and is now greeting the spring.
The moon in your garden is high now,
Casting a protective pearlescent glow over everything you have released.
The air is still and kind.
The Earth has taken what you no longer need to carry slowly begin to stir.
Wiggle your fingers,
Feeling the renewed pulse of life in your hands.
Rotate your ankles,
Reclaiming your ability to move through the world with agency Take a deep,
Expansive stretch,
Reaching toward the sky as if you are a willow tree shaking off the rain.
Bring your hands to rest over your belly,
Feeling the rise and fall of your breath.
Seal this practice with an intention Say something like,
My body is a sanctuary,
Not a cage.
I release what is old to make room for what is new.
I am here and I am safe.
When the world feels ready for you,
Gently open your eyes
