The title of this guided meditation is The Forest Floor Within.
Start by finding whatever position is most comfortable for you to be in.
You might be sitting on a floor,
On a chair,
You might decide to lie down.
Whatever position gives you the greatest sense of comfort and ease,
That's the position you'll find now.
Make any small adjustments to your body to add to that sense of comfort.
And then let your eyes close.
Begin by noticing the weight of your body against the earth.
Feel the points of contact,
Perhaps your shoulder blades,
Your pelvis,
The back of your legs.
Let gravity do its work.
You don't need to hold yourself,
You're being held.
Take three natural breaths,
Not changing anything,
Just observing how your body breathes itself.
Notice the temperature of the air as it enters your nostrils.
Notice the slight pause between inhale and exhale,
That quiet threshold space.
Now imagine you're resting on the forest floor in the early morning.
The ground beneath you is soft with moss and pine needles,
Cold but not damp,
Damp with dew but not wet.
Notice how the earth holds you completely,
With no effort needed from you.
Can you smell it?
That particular scent of northern woods?
Pine resin,
Decomposing leaves,
The green smell of moss.
Maybe the faint sweetness of wild wintergreen.
Each breath brings the forest inside you.
Above you,
The canopy creates a living ceiling.
White pines,
Maybe some birch,
The occasional maple.
Sunlight filters through in patches,
Some bright,
Some dim.
This dappled light moves gently as branches sway.
Watch this play of light and shadow behind your closed eyes.
No two moments are exactly the same.
Listen now.
Perhaps you hear the call of a distant loon from a nearby lake.
The rustle of a red squirrel.
The creak of tree trunks swaying.
Or maybe just profound quiet.
The kind of quiet that has its own presence.
In the forest,
Nothing is wasted.
A fallen tree becomes a nurse log for new seedlings.
Decaying leaves become soil.
What appears to be ending is actually transforming into something new.
Notice how the forest doesn't rush this process.
Decomposition takes exactly as long as it takes.
A mushroom appears exactly when conditions are right.
Not before,
Not after.
There's wisdom in this timing that has nothing to do with calendars or clocks.
Think of your own creative nature.
Not as something that you must force or manufacture.
But as something inherent.
Like sap flowing through a maple.
Sometimes moving quickly in the spring.
Sometimes slow in winter.
But always present.
Even when you can't see it,
It's there beneath the bark.
Place one hand on your belly,
One on your heart.
Feel the natural rhythm here.
The same rhythm that moves lake waves against the shore.
That opens fiddle ferns in the spring.
That pulls geese south and calls them home again.
Your body knows about cycles.
It knows about rest and activity.
Just like the bears denning for winter.
The frogs buried in mud.
The seeds waiting beneath the snow.
Your creative energy moves in seasons too.
Notice if you've been trying to force spring in the middle of winter.
Or holding on to autumn when spring wants to emerge.
What season is your creativity in right now?
There's no wrong answer.
Every season has its purpose.
Your creativity doesn't require perfection.
The forest doesn't grow in straight lines.
The beaver doesn't apologize for its dam.
The mushroom doesn't question its right to emerge after rain.
The spider doesn't adoubt its ability to weave.
With each inhale,
Imagine drawing up nutrients from the earth through your roots.
Whatever feeds your creative spirit.
Maybe it's solitude.
Maybe it's connection.
Maybe it's play or rest or wild movement.
With each exhale,
Imagine releasing what you've been carrying that isn't yours to hold.
Others' expectations.
Old definitions of who you should be.
That voice that says you're not creative enough.
Original enough.
Ready enough.
Let it all fall to the forest floor.
It will become compost for something else to grow.
Now bring to mind one small creative impulse that's been stirring within you.
Don't judge it.
Just notice it like you'd notice a chickadee landing on a branch.
It doesn't have to be grand.
The forest teaches us that small things matter.
A spider's web holds morning dew and becomes art.
A single acorn holds an entire oak.
Lichen grows so slowly that we can barely perceive it,
Yet it can break apart rock.
Hold this creative seed gently in your awareness.
You don't need to know how it will grow.
You just need to acknowledge it's there,
Waiting for its season.
What conditions does it need?
Not what you think it should need,
But what it actually needs.
Maybe it needs more darkness,
Like seeds germinating underground.
Maybe it needs heat,
Like pine cones that only open after a fire.
Maybe it needs patience,
Like the 17 years a cicada spends underground before emerging.
Trust that you'll know.
The same intelligence that tells the turtle when to lay eggs,
That tells the tree when to drop its leaves,
This intelligence lives in you too.
Imagine now that tiny rootlets are growing from this creative seed.
They're reaching into the dark,
Fertile soil of your unconscious.
You don't need to direct them.
Roots know how to find water.
They know how to wrap around rocks.
How to create stability.
How to feed what grows above.
Above ground,
Maybe nothing is visible yet.
That's okay.
Most of the work happens in darkness first.
The mushroom's vast mycelial network spreads underground for years before a single mushroom appears.
Trust what's happening in your depths.
Begin to deepen your breath slightly.
As you do,
Imagine the whole forest breathing with you.
The trees exhaling oxygen,
You exhaling carbon dioxide.
This perfect reciprocity.
You're not separate from this place.
You're part of its breathing.
Wiggle your fingers and toes like roots awakening in spring soil.
Maybe stretch gently like a fern unfurling.
If you're lying down,
Take a moment to gently roll to your side and then press yourself to a comfortable seated position.
When you're ready,
Open your eyes slowly.
As you do,
Remember,
You are nature.
Not separate from it,
But woven into it.
Your creativity isn't something you need to earn or prove.
It's as natural as moss growing on the north side of a tree.
As inevitable as ice becoming water,
Becoming cloud,
Becoming rain.
Notice the quality of light in the room.
Take this knowing with you as you move back into your day.
You are both the forest and the one walking through it.
Both the lake and the one gazing at its surface.
Both the creation and the creator.
Let's take one breath together to close.
Inhaling and exhaling.
Feel your creativity as birthright,
Not burden.
As natural as breathing.
As patient as trees.
As cyclical as seasons.
This is your practice.
This is your creative life.
Already whole.
Already enough.
Already beginning.
Beginning.
