This kind of meditation doesn’t try to explain or convince. It doesn’t ask you to say the right words. It’s simply being here — body, breath, heart — before mystery. We don’t chase thoughts away, and we don’t hold on to them either. We let them pass, like wind over water. The words we use aren’t meant to fill the mind — they gently make room. With each line, there are fewer words, but not less meaning.
As the words fade, the experience remains. Our presence is our meditation. Our breath carries it. If your thoughts begin to wander — that’s alright. This meditation is not about keeping the mind still, but about gently returning when it moves.
You might return by whispering the words inside: “This Space…” Or by resting your eyes on something near you — a candle, a hand, the light. Or by feeling the ground beneath you — your feet, your hands, your spine. Whatever helps you come back.
Not forcing, simply noticing.
Not holding tight — just returning.
We’ll speak the words together once, slowly:
This space is where I am still and heal.
This space is where I am still.
This space is where I am.
This space is.
This space.
This.
You will find this meditation in its original context here:
