Welcome back.
Tonight,
You find yourself.
At the back door of your house.
One you hadn't noticed before.
And when you open it.
.
.
Cool air kisses your face.
And you step out beneath the moon.
You notice a garden that stretches before you.
Wild.
Overgrown.
Almost.
Holy.
Graves mingle with blossoms.
Every headstone carries a name and a story.
The soil smells like endings and beginnings shared.
And created in the same breath.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Each inhale draws life from the earth.
And each exhale.
Feeds it back.
You are both the gardener and the ground.
You feel your feet press into the soil.
Spread your toes a little.
As if they were roots testing the ground.
Inhale through your nose,
Imagining you're drawing energy from the earth.
And exhale through your mouth.
Releasing everything that no longer wants to grow.
Let your body sway slightly.
Like a tree learning its balance.
Let your breath be the wind through the leaves.
And say softly,
I am rooted in my becoming.
Pick up your tea now.
It steams curl upward,
Meeting the moonlight halfway.
This cup is the rain your soul planted for itself.
Take a slow sip.
Taste the sweetness meeting warmth.
And let it travel down your throat like a vow.
Every part of me is worth watering.
And as the warmth settles into your belly,
Feel your heart unfurl.
Pedal by pedal.
Memory.
By memory.
Kneel now or in your imagination or posture.
Put your hands in the cool earth.
You see a small marker that reads self-worth lost age 9 next to it.
Joy.
Died defending others.
And another?
Trust.
Missing in Action.
Touch each stone and marker gently now.
And whisper.
You are safe here.
The ground trembles,
Not in fear.
But of recognition.
Tiny shoots push through the soil where your tears fall.
They glow faintly.
Fed by tenderness and curiosity.
Another voice rises.
From beneath your palms.
It's your inner self,
Smudged in dirt but smiling.
You didn't kill me.
You just stopped visiting.
Breathe through any ache that follows.
Let guilt turn to gratitude.
And you kept the seeds,
Even when you forgot the garden.
Look around you now.
Every grave.
It's starting to sprout.
Every loss is compost for compassion.
And the moon paints silver veins across each leaf and stem,
Like magic enchanting in your self-love garden.
You realize.
Self-love isn't about erasing pain.
It's about letting pain fertilize peace.
Take another sip of your tea.
Imagine it pouring light.
Into the roots of every bloom.
Feel warmth rise up in your spine replacing self-criticism with quiet pride.
You are not healing in spite of your darkness.
You are healing through it.
Imagine now,
Standing slowly.
Brushing the soil from your hands.
Inhale the scent of life after rain.
And with each breath.
Picture vines of light climbing your legs.
Curling around your ribs blossoming at your heart.
Say it aloud.
I am the bloom and the burial.
I grow even from what tried to end me.
Place your free hand now over your heart.
Hold your cup in the other.
Sip again.
Small.
But relevant.
Let the warmth and the heartbeat merge until you can't tell them apart.
Stay here.
Let silence hum through you like bees moving from flower to flower.
Repeat after me.
Every wound blooms into wisdom.
My softness is fertile ground.
I do not fear cycles of decay and renewal.
Love grows easiest in soil of honesty.
I am alive and that is miracle enough.
Look back once more before you go.
The garden glows.
Faintly and mystical.
Constellation of blossoms spelling your name across the earth.
Whisper.
Keep growing for me.
And as you walk towards the house,
The scent of roses follow.
Your hand still feels dirty,
And that's perfect.
Proof that you've touched life with your own bare tenderness.
And as you step inside,
Carry the sound of leaves rustling behind you.
Take one last breath in.
And a long sigh out.
You have learned to love.
What was once lost.
And now.
It loves you back.
