There is a meditation we do called heart breaths, my therapist and I. In it, I am meant to gather all the love around me in the air, and envision it as a color. All the energy inside my body I see I visualize I picture. Often, it is yellow. Gold. Sometimes pink or red. Once I have gathered all that love into the space before me, I am meant to breathe it into my heart.
It enters through the tips of my fingers. I watch it travel through my body, through my veins, now suddenly a liquid gold. Up my arms and through my scalp from all these different angles the colors like a thousand strings of yarn coming to a center in the center of my chest.
This is where love winds itself together.
When I am feeling sad about the world, and people, and all the hurt she teaches me to gather up the love and send it out. Projection. Sometimes the love and how it gathers is so strong and warm and filling that my chest feels tight. My ears ring with the sound of it. Sometimes there is so much of it I think that I can heal all of time and space. I am ethereal. I am something other than a body, something other than a self.
I leave the physicality of me and all the places that I occupy. Even my skin begins to disappear. In all the afterglow, I am leaving stardust for the universe to gather.
I am told this is a symptom of my traumas—my ability to leave my body. To enter into a space above the one that I exist and watch the world go on around me. And yet, sometimes, when I stray too far from my own skin, she teaches me the womb breaths, to tether me back down to earth.
When I breathe in deeply from the space beneath my stomachskin, the strings are blue, or sometimes green. They are never pink or red or gold or yellow, because those are elements of sky. Sometimes all the feelings of the wounded heartspace are so great I need to teach my body to come back to its own grounding. From here, the colors enter through the soles of feet. I watch them travel up my legs and wind themselves up tightly into mothernests beneath my ribs.
Everything is balance. All things inside the universe exist to us in imagery. If you listen closely, you can hear the colors in the moments all around you. A flower blooming, or a leaf that turns to red to orange to brown. The sound of red as it leaves our body, be it love or blood or something else entirely. The sound of bruises forming on the skin, or daylight turning into dark.
It is ascension, just as much as it is grounding. It is winding oneself back into the fabric of our time and space. Through breaths of color, we can visualize the world and how it knits itself together, all us tethered by fine strands from one body to the next.
Society teaches us autonomy. It teaches us a certain isolation that we are our own person our own choices our existence our own failures. It does not teach us how our blood runs with the tempo of the currents inside earth. It does not teach us how our angers shift and slide into the bodies of the person next to us and then the person next to them.
But if we listen, we will hear our words and sounds repeated in the way the universe exists both inside and around us. There is no you or me. There is only us and how we come together how we heal and how we love.
If you cannot teach yourself to hear the colors, you will never learn to share them.