Take a slow breath in through your nose,
And exhale through your mouth.
Again,
Inhale,
Feeling the air move into your lungs.
Exhale,
Letting your shoulders soften.
Allow your body to become heavy,
Supported,
Safe.
Now imagine you are standing on a quiet shoreline.
It is early morning.
The sky is washed in soft silver and pale blue.
The sun has not fully yet risen.
The air is cool against your cheeks.
You can smell salt in the breeze,
Clean,
Alive,
Full of mineral.
Listen,
Waves rolling in,
A hush,
And then a gentle retreat across the sand.
The rhythmic pull and release.
Feel the sand beneath your bare feet.
Is it cool,
Damp,
Slightly sinking under your weight?
Notice the tiny shift of sand grains as you stand there.
You are at the meeting place of land and sea.
Behind you,
The steady ground of your human life.
In front of you,
The wide,
Breathing ocean.
Feel the wind move your hair.
Touch your arms.
Brush across the back of your neck.
You are not here to escape.
You are here to remember.
Somewhere along the way,
You learned to live mostly on land.
To be practical,
Capable,
Reliable.
To hold children,
To hold emotions,
To hold it all together.
And in doing so,
You may have folded part of yourself away.
Like the Selkie of the old stories.
A seal woman who would lay her skin upon the shore in order to walk among humans.
Her seal skin was not ugly,
Not shameful.
It was her freedom,
Her instinct,
Her belonging to the deep.
But sometimes it was hidden,
Taken,
Or simply forgotten in the busyness of living.
As you stand on this shoreline now,
Feel into your body.
Where have you adapted so well that you forgot your original rhythm?
Where did you place your true skin?
Pause.
Let an image arise.
Perhaps you see it resting in a sea cave,
Damp and glistening in soft light.
Perhaps it is tucked beneath a smooth stone.
Perhaps it is closer than you thought,
Folded gently inside your own chest.
Take a slow breath in,
Like a wave gathering strength.
And exhale slowly,
Like it's sliding back into the sea.
Inhale the cool salt air filling you.
Exhale your jaw softening.
Now walk toward where your skin rests.
Notice the temperature of the air as you move.
Feel the texture beneath your feet.
Smooth rock,
Soft sand,
Scattered shells.
Kneel down.
Reach your hands out.
Is it cool and sleek beneath your fingers?
Heavy,
Shimmering with droplets of seawater.
This is yours.
Not a version of you from the past.
Not something you outgrew.
A part of you that adapted and waited.
Slowly lift it.
Feel its weight.
Feel the quiet power in it.
And when you are ready,
Place it around your shoulders.
Let it settle across your back.
Notice what happens inside your body.
Does your spine lengthen?
Does your breath deepen?
Does something soften in your belly?
You do not need to leave your life.
You do not need to abandon your children,
Your responsibilities,
Your home.
You simply allow your ocean self to exist within it.
Feel the tide move in your breath.
Inhale,
Your ribs expanding like the sea swelling toward the shore.
Exhale,
Your body releasing like foam dissolving into sand.
You are both land and water.
Both mother and mystery.
Both steady and wild.
Ask gently now,
What rhythm is calling me back?
Not a dramatic change.
Just one small tide.
Painting again.
Walking alone at dusk.
Setting a boundary.
Resting without guilt.
Let a word form in your mind.
This is your pearl from the deep.
Hold it.
Feel the wind on your face once more.
Hear the waves still moving,
Faithful and constant.
You were never lost.
You were only adapting to the season you were in.
And now you are remembering how to wear your own skin again.
Take one final slow breath in.
Taste the salt in the air.
Exhale slowly.
And when you are ready,
Gently return.
