Take a breath in through the nose, long and slow, and let it fill the lower belly first, then the ribs. Hold it at the top — just a beat. Then exhale through the mouth, audibly, lips parted. Let the breath make a small sound on the way out. Do this three times.

Each exhale, soften the jaw. Let the shoulders drop a half-inch. Let the eyes go slightly unfocused.

You are still standing. You are still held.

Now, bring your arms out to your sides — not stiff, just open. Palms facing forward. Feel the stretch across the chest, the slight opening at the front of the shoulders. This is not a performance of openness. It's a physical fact: the chest can hold more when it's not folded inward.

Hold this shape and breathe into it. Ribs expanding with each inhale. Notice what it feels like to take up this much space.

After three breaths, let your arms lower.

Lift your gaze. Not strained — just up. If you're indoors, find the far corner of the ceiling. If you're outside, find the sky.

This is the Sagittarius gesture: not looking at your feet, not looking at the next step. Looking out. Looking toward.

The full moon that rises in this sign is not asking you to abandon your roots. It is asking you to find out how far your roots can reach while your eyes scan the horizon.

Stay here with your gaze lifted. Let yourself imagine that what you can see stretches far beyond this room — miles of open country, a wide sky at dusk, the horizon as a line you could walk toward for days without it disappearing. You don't have to go there. You only have to know it exists.

Breathe into that knowing.

Now, slowly, lower your gaze back to level. Keep your feet pressing into the floor. Feel both things at once: the ground beneath you and the expanse ahead. The heaviness in the legs and the openness in the chest.

This is what integration feels like in the body. Not choosing one or the other. Not grounded instead of free, not expansive at the expense of rooted. Both, simultaneously, held by the same spine.

Place one hand on your belly and one hand on your sternum.

Ask yourself — not as a performance, just as a quiet, honest question: What truth am I ready to see from here?

Don't reach for an answer. Let the question sit between your hands and the warmth of your own body.

If something comes, let it come. If nothing comes, let the not-knowing be its own kind of honesty.

Take one final full breath — in through the nose, arms coming back out to the sides as the chest fills. At the top, pause. Feel the fullness.

Then exhale slowly, arms returning to your sides, the breath releasing all the way to the end.

Let your gaze rest at the middle distance. Feel your feet. Feel your chest. Feel the space between this body and the horizon.

You don't have to choose between where you stand and where you're looking. That was never the choice. Roots and horizon belong to the same body.