When Things Go Missing, I Come Back to Me
To slow down, ground my energy, and reconnect with myself in moments when I feel scattered, frazzled, or out of sync—especially when I misplace something. This is a ritual of remembrance, where I soften into presence, receive insight, and return to my inner rhythm. This Saturday energy invites slowness, reflection, and trust in unseen guidance.
It always starts the same way. A pause. A pat-down. A question.
“Now where did I put it?”
My mind races through all the recent motions—standing here, placing that there, moving this, shifting that—but the more I try to trace the moment back, the blurrier it becomes. I feel the frustration and self-judgement bubble deeply in my guts.
I could rush. I could tear the room apart looking for it. I’ve done that before. Many times.
Instead, I choose something different. I stand in the middle of my room, arms loose at my sides, and exhale.
Today is Saturday. Saturn’s day. The day of time, of order, of structure—but not the harsh kind. This is sacred architecture, cosmic scaffolding, the stillness that holds everything up. I remember that I don’t need to force anything right now.
I soften my knees and let my body sway gently, just enough to feel the weight of my bones. I drop into my breath—long inhale through my nose, slow exhale through my mouth. Again. Again. Until I’m not chasing the moment anymore. I’m inside it.
Then I speak, low and easy, like I’m telling a story to the unseen.
“Something’s out of sync. I feel pulled in too many directions. Show me what I need to see. Guide me gently back to myself.”
My eyes close, and I place my right hand over my heart and my left hand over my solar plexus and sacral chakras. The beat beneath my palm is familiar. It reminds me that no matter how lost I feel, there is always a rhythm here. My rhythm. The one that doesn’t demand. The one that holds me even in the chaos.
A Graceful Somatic Return
I imagine I’m standing in a soft field, barefoot on cool, solid earth. I let my toes wiggle, even if they’re just in socks on the floor. I feel the floor hold me like soil would hold a seed. I whisper: I’m not floating away. I am here. I am rooted.
I start a slow scan. My awareness drops into my feet—are they tense? Do they want to shift? I rock gently side to side, as if I’m swaying with the wind in this imaginary field. I breathe into the space behind my knees. Into my thighs. I don’t rush. I let my attention settle into each place as if I’m arriving there for the first time today.
My hips—tight, clenched—start to soften. My belly, where so much frustration lives, feels like it can finally exhale. I send breath there. Warm, patient breath. Not to fix anything. Just to let it be held.
My chest expands, and I feel my ribs stretch open like wings. My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. I run my tongue gently along the inside of my teeth, then let it rest behind them.
I breathe into my neck, the back of my head, the crown of my scalp. My whole being begins to hum, not from doing—but from listening.
This is what my body asks for when I’m spiraling—presence, not performance. I don’t need to be found. I just need to feel.
A part of me wonders if the fairies are playing again. The ones who hide my things when I move too fast, when I drift too far from presence. I don’t feel punished. I feel redirected. It’s as if something greater than me is saying, “Not yet. Slow down. Touch the moment.”
I open my eyes and look around—not to search, but to see. A sock draped over a chair. A glass with a little tea still in it. A notebook left half-open. My space mirrors my inner world. And instead of criticizing the mess, I greet it like an old friend.
I move one thing. I fold something else. I hum a tune I don’t recognize. Maybe it’s a song from another life. Maybe it’s just what my nervous system needs right now. I let it come through.
This isn’t about the object anymore. It’s about reestablishing my connection. If the item returns, that’s beautiful. If it doesn’t, I’ve already found something more important.
I found stillness. I found myself.
Saturday energy wraps around me like a velvet shawl. It doesn’t scold. It doesn’t demand. It reminds me that I am made of time, made of rhythm, made of something ancient and enduring. And when I forget that—when I lose my way—it only takes a breath and a moment to return.
Because when things go missing, I come back to me. Every time.
I’m grateful for the ability to come back to me.
Thank you, Spirit.
Àṣẹ.