The Body Does Not Forget how to Open

The body does not forget how to open. It does not forget the language of pleasure, of warmth, of surrender. Even in the absence of touch, even in the quiet years of stillness, it remembers. The skin remembers. The breath remembers. The pulse beneath your ribs still beats with the same ancient rhythm, calling you home.

This body, woven from sensation and story, carries the memory of every touch, every sigh, every moment of pleasure and pain. It is a vessel of experience, an archive of all that has been given and received. And still, beneath it all, there is something untouched, something pure, something vast and holy. A river of aliveness that has never stopped flowing, even in the moments when you could not feel it.

Healing is not an act of force. It is not something to be conquered or achieved. It is a return, a slow, reverent descent into the body, into the places that have been waiting to be touched with presence. The places that do not need to be pried open but to be held, to be honoured, to be listened to.

And so the invitation is simple. To listen. To soften. To meet yourself where you are, without urgency, without demand. To place a hand to your own skin and feel what stirs beneath. To close your eyes and follow the rise and fall of your breath as if it were a tide, carrying you deeper into yourself. To move, to sigh, to allow sensation to bloom where it will.