To sigh is to regulate.
A way for us to take in a large breath, resetting the nervous system.
There is also a divine air of giving up.
Giving up on trying so hard.
To sigh is to embody giving up.
To pray to the somatic goddess of doing less—emphatically saying, “Alright, already!”
with our voice and our body.
For what is our voice, if not energy?
And what is making noise, if not letting some of that pent up-ness go?
When we make noise, we take up space.
When we grunt,
when we sneeze,
when we laugh,
when we cry.
How much space is safe to take up?
When we laugh, is it coming from somewhere deep in our bellies?
When we sneeze, do we tighten our bodies and make a quiet, “Achoo” sound?
How much are we holding on to?
How little are we trying to make ourselves?
And what if we got big?
What if we made noise?
What if we moved when we felt moved to?
Yelled when we were angry?
Cried copiously when we were sad,
or sighed heavily when we had just had enough?
Would we look crazy?
Or, would we feel?
Would we grieve and, likewise, praise those goddesses and gods of despair?
Would we play with ourselves?
Would we ask to play with others?
Would we be free?