The breathe begins in the silence and in the darkness, just in that space where the last breath has finished.
Follow it's path. It grows like plants that push-up from wet and fecund soil in that transition point between winter and spring. The moments that you watch, eagerly, for signs of life. There is a moment, perhaps a week, where if you look closely you can see the tiny buds arrived on the fruit trees.They are so tiny that they are almost still. The bare branch whips in the chill winter air. Unless you stopped to look, to really look, you wouldn't know that they were actually about to burst into their is-ness.
The beginning of the inhalation is like this, coming naturally and slowly.
It is world forming.
Without it, there is no creation, no life, a continued darkness from which nothing comes, unless there is a transmutation of spirit after all. Yet this breath arises and works it's way through rib cage to the top of the clavicle and the throat and fills the body with vitality, prana, chi.
At the top of this great expansion is pure light. It is summer. The bees are buzzing in your skull, tiny legs polka dotted with pollen. The translucent wings of dragonflies catch gold gold and white white from the great fire, agni, lit in the sky like all the songs you have ever heard sounding at once, and then the wings sparkle green green and blue blue.
The warm winds drift over golden fields of wheat ready for the harvest. When it is done with the open spaces it twirls through forest capillaries, lingers over arterial rivers and through them too, splashing over red banks, and the largest channels lead to the heart of the world, white aorta, white tunnels full of blood and life. The sun is high now and the sun rises to the tips of the plants the flowers on the buds that make the head grow light and dizzy.
Then because in nature everything changes with the seasons so to the breath must leave.
The contraction of the world is hardly noticeable at first. A leaf loosens from it's hold on the branch and drifts in the cooling air to the forest below, waiting for it's cousins to celebrate in a corroboree of decay. In the dying light they all gather in eddies on the pooling darkness. The night speaks now, calls them in. Everything changes colour. From deep russet reds to rich magentas to tangerine oranges to those the colour of dried blood, sanguine, dying, technicolour losses.
It is a celebration rather than a mourning. Nature knows that things will cycle back again. She just does not cry at the going down of day. The exhalation is a rejoicing. The spiders build webs to catch the panicking world. The diaghram knows how to move.
And in that silence between the breaths, the gathering of Winter, the darkness, the space not of loss but of potential. The soil might be dark and wet and cold but there is life there too, tiny worms and larvae and burrowing things, bacteria and microbes, breaking everything down. Things transforming. Deep in the earth is all creation, waiting to be born again.
And then, the inhalation.
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