The Grace of Rising and the Wisdom of Falling

 There is a hidden rhythm woven into the heart of life—a movement both upward and downward, outward and inward, like the tide, like the breath. At times, we are called to rise, and at other times, we are asked to fall. Both are sacred. Both are necessary. And both reveal something essential about the soul’s journey.

To rise well is not to rise with arrogance, nor with the fevered ambition that forgets the earth it came from. To rise well is to rise in joy, in lightness, in freedom—like a bird lifting into the sky not because it must impress the heavens, but because the wind has found it and whispered, Now. There is a kind of rising that is not striving. It is simply the heart remembering its wings. In such a rising, the self does not abandon the ground, but carries it upward in memory, in gratitude, in song.

There are mornings when such rising feels natural—when something within us responds to the dawn with gladness. On those days, it is easy to feel part of the great turning of life. But there are other days, perhaps more frequent than we wish to admit, when the thought of rising feels heavy, when the soul lingers in the shadows and the body struggles to find the will to stand.

In those moments, rising becomes less of a leap and more of a quiet return. It is less about flying and more about unfolding. Yet even in these slower risings, there is beauty. The slow bloom of courage in a weary heart is no less radiant than the sudden joy of a bird in flight.

And then, there is the falling. We are not taught to fall well. From childhood, falling has been wrapped in shame, in failure, in the fear of being seen weak. But the trees do not regret the letting go of their leaves. They release them in due season, and the falling becomes part of the dance.

To fall with grace is to fall without resistance. It is to allow what must end to end. It is to recognize that there are chapters which must close, identities which must loosen, dreams which must be laid down—not as defeat, but as part of the sacred cycle of growth. No leaf falls in vain. Even in its descent, it nourishes the earth. And so do we.

We are not meant to rise endlessly, nor to hold on forever. There is wisdom in allowing ourselves to fall, when it is time to fall—whether into silence, into rest, into the arms of another, or into the unknown mystery that asks us to trust. Such falling need not be met with regret. It can be embraced with reverence, knowing that what falls into the earth does not vanish, but becomes the ground of something new.

In a world obsessed with ascent—more, better, higher—it takes courage to move at the soul’s pace. To rise not for applause, but for the joy of movement. To fall not in disgrace, but in deep trust that the cycle is not broken, only continuing.

There is a kind of maturity that arrives when one has lived through enough risings and fallings to see that both carry their own blessings. In rising, we touch the sky. In falling, we touch the earth. And between the two, we learn what it means to be human: to be held in gravity and grace at once.

May we learn to rise with joy, not expectation. May we rise because something within us is ready, not because we think we must. And when the time for falling comes—and it always comes—may we fall gently, with open hands and a heart willing to trust the descent.

For it is not only in rising that we are made whole, but in every return to the soil, every surrender to change, every letting go that teaches us how to belong to life again.

I love You,
Alma