There is nothing more freeing than the quiet undoing of strain,
the moment I no longer push, no longer brace, no longer try.
The trees do not effort their reach— they simply grow.
The river does not force its flow— it moves where space allows.
And my body, when I trust it, unfolds like breath expanding,
lengthening without demand, balancing without effort,
finding its own way home.
What quiet directive still remains, beneath habit, beneath holding?
I listen, and instead of controlling, I allow.
If the wind can shape the world without pushing,
if the bird can rise on unseen currents,
if movement can arrive without grasping — then so can I,
And so can you.
by Lucy Ascham
