The Journaling Muse – Issue #51 The sound of your own breathing
A weekly journaling letter for slowing down and coming back to yourself.
Through colour, texture, and expressive journaling, the Journaling Muse offers a gentle space to soothe your nervous system and reconnect with your inner world.
Dear Reader,
Lately, I’ve been listening for my breath.
Not to change it.
Not to correct it.
Just to hear it.
Some mornings it feels shallow and quick, as if it’s already bracing for the day. Other times—often without warning—the exhale lengthens, the body softens, and something inside loosens its grip. I know the breath can calm the nervous system when it slows. I also know how easily I forget to use it when I need it most.
So this isn’t about doing anything “right.” It’s about remembering what is already here.
Winter has a way of revealing this. The quiet streets of Kraków before the city wakes. Candlelight reflected in dark windows. The sound of footsteps echoing through Wawel—crowded, and yet strangely still inside. Even in Ojców, among bare trees and stone paths, I notice how the breath adjusts on its own when I stop rushing it.
Sometimes the most generous thing we can offer ourselves is attention.
The breath doesn’t ask for discipline. It responds to kindness.
A Few Gentle Prompts
If you feel like writing today, try one of these—slowly, without judgment:
- What does your breath sound like right now—a whisper, a wave, a sigh? Describe it as if it were music.
- Recall a moment when your breathing shifted, even briefly—from tight to spacious. What was happening inside you, or around you?
- Write a few lines as if your breath could speak: “I carry you through…” “I remember when you…”
- Inhale presence. Exhale distraction. What single word arrives on the out-breath?
Let the writing end where it wants to.
Creative Invitation: A Breath Map
A way to make something invisible felt.
You’ll need a journal page or loose paper, and a pen or colors you like. Optionally, a feather, string, or soft cloth—something tactile.
Sit comfortably. Place one hand on your belly, one on your heart. Breathe naturally for two minutes. Notice the sound, the rise and fall—without trying to change anything.
From the center of the page, let your pen move outward—loops, spirals, soft waves—following the sense of expansion.
Then let the lines curve back inward from the edges. Slow them down. Let them soften or fade as they return.
In the open spaces, add one small sensory anchor: a sound in the room, warmth in your hands, a remembered scent. Or draw its echo—a ripple, a leaf, a quiet mark.
At the bottom of the page, give this breath a simple name: January evening.7:36 PM.The breath that stayed.
This page doesn’t need to be beautiful. It only needs to be honest.
You can return to it later—like a small talisman—to remember how your body already knows how to settle.
A Little Talisman for This Week
Let your breath find you before you think to look for it.
This page doesn’t need to be beautiful. It only needs to be remembered.
With warmth,
Beáta
PS: If you feel like creating together, I’m hosting a Dream Board session in the Tea House on Wednesday at 11:00 AM. It’s a slow, intuitive space—no goals, no fixing. You’re welcome to join live or simply watch the replay later.
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No matter what you choose, I’m thankful our paths have touched. 🌿
