Stillroot

I forgot how to rest.
How to lay my bones against the earth
without apology.
Without the ache of always becoming.

The world told me to move.
To build before I’ve breathed,
to speak before I’ve listened,
to bloom before I’ve rooted.

But I am learning the sacred hush.
The holy quiet
of a spine returning to its weight.
Of shoulders unclenching
like petals folding in at dusk.

I am not behind.
I am below,
deep enough to hold what’s coming.

So I sit.
So I sink.
So I remember:

Stillness is not a stopping.
It is a ceremony.
And I am the altar
where the first whisper arrives.

This is a poem that reflects the first rung of Thirty-Three Rungs to Remembering. A poem for the first breath, the first remembering. It is deeply rooted in our earthly human presence.