Lyrics

Before I rise,
I learn the ground.
Before I open,
I listen down.

There are four small places
where the earth meets me—
inner heel, outer heel,
two quiet mounds beneath my feet.

And somehow
that is enough
to begin.

I used to think becoming
meant reaching for the sky,
but every structure teaches
another way to rise.

Start where the body touches.
Start where the weight is real.
Let the smallest point of contact
teach the rest of you to feel.

From the feet into the ankles,
from the knees into the hips,
there is wisdom in alignment,
in the way one movement shifts.

Not forcing myself upward.
Not asking to arrive.

Just finding my foundation
and letting it become alive.

Bottom to top,
root before reach.

The body has a language
it was never taught to speak.

Lengthen before turning.
Breathe before you move.

Sometimes being held correctly
is what gives you room to choose.

From the ground up,
I am learning how to rise.
Not by leaving earth behind me,
but by meeting it with my life.

From the ground up,
every part belongs somehow.
There is freedom in the structure,
there is softness in the how.

I don’t have to reach the heavens
before I know what holds me now.
I can build myself
from the ground up.

The spine remembers five directions,
five ways of meeting space—
folding inward, opening backward,
turning toward another face.

Lengthening through the center,
bending softly to the side—
flexion, extension, rotation,
ways the body stays alive.

And when I fold,
the back of me grows longer.
When I open,
I make room around the heart.

Some movements ask for tenderness,
some movements ask for strength,
but none of them are separate
from the place where they begin.

A pelvis tips,
the whole shape changes.
A hip turns out,
another draws in.

The body is not broken
when it changes its position.
It is simply finding
the safest way within.

From the ground up,
I am learning how to rise.
Not by leaving earth behind me,
but by meeting it with my life.

From the ground up,
every part belongs somehow.
There is freedom in the structure,
there is softness in the how.

I don’t have to reach the heavens
before I know what holds me now.
I can build myself
from the ground up.

Knee over ankle.
Feet follow knees.

Fingers spread wide
and the weight starts to release.

Shoulder blades widen.
The spine becomes long.

The core holds the center
without making it hard.

Front hip opens.
Back hip turns in.

Lengthen before twisting—
then slowly begin.

There are so many ways
to inhabit one body.

So many ways
to come home.

Trikonasana…
two hips speaking different directions.

Adho Mukha Svanasana…
length through the spine.

Virabhadrasana…
steady over the ankle.

Not shapes to conquer.
Places to listen.

From the ground up,
I am learning how to rise.

Every bone becomes a sentence,
every breath rewrites the line.

From the ground up,
I don’t need to force the form.

I can meet myself in structure
without making structure small.

Maybe freedom isn’t floating.

Maybe freedom is knowing
where I stand
when everything begins to move.

From the ground up.
From the ground up.

I remember
how to rise.

Foundation first.
Then space.
Then movement.
Then grace.