The sitter

She who sits. With legs weaving. Breathing. Watching. Feeling. She is the sitter. She is you. She is me. And everything in between.

She who sits in meditation moves our awareness with our breath, like a gentle bird carried in the palm of the wind. She softens our gaze. Settles our mind. She is our reason for coming to the mat. The sitter holds space while we meditate. She sets the rhythm of the footsteps of our breath along the path into deeper consciousness. And back. She guides us in the realm of our imagination. She is our presence.

She who sits in the birth of breath watches the rise and fall of our chest. She will place questions deep within our ears and trace the answers to the tips of our tongues. She curls our toes and shapes our hands and bodies into beautiful mudras, despite the pain. Her energy prickles our skin and deeper still. Lifting our heart. Surrendering our body. She is our witness.

She who sits in story holds the pen. Eyes closed, she writes life into a curling river. With froth and rage. And deep stillness. At times shallow enough to wash over our toes. And then. With a bottomless depth that takes away our breath. The surface a mirror for our tears to shed into. She is our creator.

She who sits with moving hands. Shaping nature. Honouring the cycles and tides. Moving energy to form mountains and valleys. Creating fire. The tips of her fingers shifting the directions of the rain. Her palms moving the earth’s breath. Slowing down time. Shifting perspectives. Knowing when to rest. Acknowledging memories deep within. Not taking more than she needs. Honouring the gifts of the earth. For things to start all over again. She is our culture.

She who sits in the beginning becomes the end.