The Body Knows
by Crystal Craig

Breathe.

Deeper still.

Until the breath is not something you do,

but something you are.

Let this be the place where knowing is not in words,

but in marrow.

Where choreography is discarded

like dry skin that no longer fits.

You are not here to perform.

You are here to remember.

The body knows.

Before language, before culture, before shame—

It carries the howl of the wolf

and the patience of stones beneath rivers.

It remembers how to open,

how to strike the ground in rhythm,

how to bow to the storm

and rise again, wet and alive.

Move not how you were taught,

but how you were born.

Not the dance of mirrors and perfection,

but of muscle, grit, pulse.

Let your hips speak truths your lips have silenced.

Let your shoulders shrug off the names you were given

and reach instead for the sun, the stars, the storm.

We are not separate from the bees or the tides.

We are not guests on this Earth—

we are kin.

So move like the roots breaking open stone,

like pollen riding the breeze to unknown lovers.

The sacred is not still.

It writhes.

It gasps.

It shudders and laughs and shakes the dust from its belly.

Listen—

there is a rhythm under your skin

older than your name,

a beat that pulses like the feet of a thousand ancestors

dancing around firelight,

wild-eyed and sovereign.

Let them guide you.

Let the animal in you stretch its limbs,

the ocean in you rise and fall

without apology.

This is not a performance.

This is a prayer.

This is a reclamation.

This is where you drop the story

and speak in flesh.

So I ask you—

What does your truth feel like

in motion?

Not yesterday’s truth.

Not tomorrow’s.

This one. Now.

The truth that aches to be danced.

The truth that burns in your belly

and will not be silenced any longer.

Move it.

Breathe it.

Become it.

We are here.

Together.

Witnessing.

Waking.

WILD.