Find a still and quiet space. Let your body rest without striving. Let your breath settle, slow and steady, like the fading ripples of a wave after it reaches the shore.

Now turn inward—not away from life, but more deeply into it. Into the body that carries you. Into its warmth, its weight, its ever-changing form.

This body is yours, but not forever. It was given, not chosen. And it will one day return to the earth, not by punishment, but by design.

As student of ancient wisdom, we look at death—not with fear, but with lucidity. To keep it near, not to darken our days, but to brighten them with urgency and grace.

Feel your breath. That quiet rhythm is not endless. One day it will stop. The heart will fall silent. The hands will loosen their grip. The flesh will return to soil, and the story will end.

And yet—see how it moves now. See how life continues, moment by moment, flowing through this fragile form.

Consider how often we speak to ourselves with harshness, with impatience—as if this body were an object to perfect, to punish, to sculpt into permanence. But it was never meant to last. It was meant to serve, to sense, to carry you for a while, then to dissolve.

You are not here to outlast time. You are here to touch it.

Touch this breath. This skin. This pulse. And feel gratitude—not in spite of the body's impermanence, but because of it.

The crack in the vase lets the light pass through. The bruise on the fruit reminds you it is ripe. The aging of the face is the echo of laughter, of sorrow, of seasons passing through.

You are not decaying—you are unfolding.

Like all things in nature, you rise, you bloom, you fall. And in that arc, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to regret.

Feel the truth of that in your bones. The body will age. It will ache. It will slow. And in time, it will die. But right now—it lives. It holds your awareness like a chalice holds water.

Let that knowing soften you. Let it free you. There is nothing to protect. Nothing to postpone. Only this breath. Only this moment.

You are a temporary form of something eternal. You are a brief flame in the wind—bright, real, and already enough.

So care for the body not because it will last, but because it won’t. Let that be your tenderness. Let that be your devotion.

As you return now to the world around you, carry this quiet clarity. Carry the gentle joy of being alive today, in this form, for a little while.

And when you look in the mirror, or stretch your limbs, or feel tired in your bones, remember: this is not decay. This is the rhythm of nature, playing out in you.

Take care, my friend. Let each breath be a thank you. Let your days be spent wisely. And when the time comes to release this body, may it be with peace.