Pleasure is something we were all born knowing.
It lived in our skin,
In the soles of our feet,
In the way we touch the world with curiosity.
We didn't need permission,
And we didn't need a reason.
We just felt.
But somewhere along the way,
We were told to quiet that part of ourselves.
That pleasure was selfish,
Or dangerous,
Or too much.
And so we tucked it away,
And we forgot.
Not because we are broken,
But because forgetting was safer than being judged.
And forgetting was less painful than remembering the deep aliveness we were all born with.
Forgetting was safer than being misunderstood,
Punished for wanting more.
And yet,
Even now,
Something in you remembers.
You crave softness,
And beauty,
And warmth.
You long to feel your body as a home,
Not a stranger.
You long to touch joy without guilt.
And maybe it's been so long since you felt real,
Nourishing pleasure,
That now you don't know where to begin.
Maybe you don't know how to receive it without tightening,
And flinching,
And performing.
I want to reassure you that you are not alone,
And you are not too late.
Pleasure is not a luxury.
Not something you have to earn.
And not reserved for the healed or the holy.
Pleasure is a garden.
It already exists inside of you.
Even and especially when it is overgrown,
Forgotten,
Tangled in vines,
The soil is still there and deeply fertile.
Don't need to force a bloom.
You only need to tend the earth.
To clear away space so that that deeply fertile soil can bear the fruit that it was made for.
I would like you to bring your attention to your lower belly.
Place a hand there,
And just notice.
Is there warmth,
Or stillness,
Or movement?
Allow this center point,
The umbilicus,
Where you received everything you needed,
Right at the beginning of your sacred life.
Let this be your garden,
A lush,
Wild,
Living space within you.
With its own seasons,
And its own logic.
With the self-organizing system of nature,
Predictable and spontaneous.
Maybe you notice that your soil is soft,
And buds just beginning to rise.
Maybe some parts are still sleeping.
Letting yourself breathe deep the nutrient-dense air that your fellow green ones are gifting you.
Water this garden with your attention,
Your breath,
And your willingness to stay.
There is nothing to fix here.
Only something to remember.
Your pleasure is not a performance.
It is a deep and sacred truth.
Even if it comes in whispers,
And returns slowly,
It belongs to you.
You do not owe anyone your blue.
Keep tending your garden,
Green one,
And it will remember how to grow.
Take one last breath.
Allowing yourself to sink deeper into the truth that your body is nature.
Pleasure has been here all along.
