Touch the earth, let her hold the heavy with you

I spoke these words to a client because these were words that had rubbed balm on my frayed nervous system, and guided me back toward some semblance of “together”, at a few pivotal moments. I spoke these words too because her heavy sometimes feels like more than just she or I can hold together.

“I feel the heaviness in my hips,” she whispered, “as if sand bags are pulling me down.” I visualized them pulling her from the crest of her pelvis down, down to the earth. Even if she hadn’t wanted to be here touching the earth, or here at all, the earth braces her feet and replies back, “I’m here. I’m with you.”

And so we find that which is solid, even if somewhat muddy or cracked dry, around us. We find those who can be solid in the moments when we feel ourselves breaking, dissolving. And we hope their hands can be steady enough to help sculpt us back until we can stand on our own again. Until we can offer our patched over form back out to them when they find themselves breaking.

For nothing solid is solid forever.