There's something, quietly, soothingly,
in the gentle
tumbling of the rain
in the gossamer
of the sun when its
in my unpretentious-chic middle-of-the town
Caribbean jungle vibes
in the lazy mornings
rolling around in my
to the rhythm
of my spinal fluid
down and along
like a helium balloon
I'm an atom
If you think you know how to take it slow, think again. Life here on the Caribbean coast forces a different kind of rhythm on you. If you go for a lunch break, be prepared for it to take just an hour to have your food made, one slice of plantain placed slowly and lovingly in the fry pan, after an another.
You can dwell in anxious impatience, about how you’re going to be late to a commitment.
Or you can surrender into the opportunity to explore just how slow your body might really want to move.
The practice of giving Craniosacral therapy is also inviting me to slow down in deeper ways than ever before. I’m learning how the subtlest of touches can cause powerful healing ripple effects throughout the whole body. I’m learning to cradle the bodies I’m working on, with more tenderness than I would even hold a child, each second thinking: how can I be slower, more gentle, more loving?
The focussed attention with which I must move and work means I essentially spend the day in meditative trance, and it’s having profound knock on effects for my own general state of calm and wellbeing.
I’m getting into bed at 7.30pm each night, cradling my own body, exploring its contours and noticing just where the placement of a loving hand can really make the difference. Breathing into those aching spaces, listening and following them as they start to expand, and expand further, inviting in warmth and love and light.
How often do we just stop to hold ourselves tenderly? To place a palm on a part of our body that’s hurting or simply longing for calm, grounding, touch?
We can give ourselves the love we crave
and the healing we desire.