At first, the body hesitates,
searches for form,
wonders how to move.
But a single moment of stillness is enough
for something to begin to settle.
The feet touch the ground
as if discovering it for the first time,
the knees relax,
the pelvis sinks with a sigh,
and the spine lengthens
without anyone forcing it.
The breath comes of its own accord,
deeper, slower,
as if the air had found a path
that was always there.
The weight descends
with the gentleness of a calm tide,
and a timid lightness rises through the arms
until they float
effortlessly.
Before the visible turn
something has already turned within,
a small spiral,
almost secret,
which guides the movement
like a silent intention.
The steps do not advance:
they glide.
The arms do not push:
they open.
The body does not force:
it listens.
And in the midst of this learning,
an unexpected stillness appears,
a centre that does not move
even as everything around it changes.
Then the movement becomes natural,
as if the body were remembering
an ancient way of being:
gentle,
rooted,
open,
present.
Light, Love and Gratitude 🩷
~ Carolina Llonch
Translation by Jordi Awarita, Cathy Filion