Anise Moon
I am not here to fix.
I am here to witness.
To see you in your beauty—
earth and rivers,
moon and sky,
stars and tides…
this is the heart of my bodywork practice.
Bodies speak stories.
They speak more powerfully than any language can articulate.
They are maps to truth, whispering to my fingertips.
It isn’t as simple as saying tight shoulders mean stress.
I’ve cradled scapulas and sternums
and felt a vibration between holding and trusting—
a rhythm only my arms can interpret.
Sometimes, a river rises beneath my hands
and splits into a quiet stream,
tracing down the torso, into the femur,
reminding me: where there is pain, look elsewhere.
Stories don’t always arrive so neatly.
The body doesn’t always announce its process.
Sometimes it’s in the way breath deepens
when my hand rests at the lower back.
Sometimes it’s the way the sacrum meets me like a fist.
I don’t need to know your past to sense what lingers.
I don’t need the details of who caused harm
to feel how the world has pressed too hard.
It isn’t the story itself that matters.
It is the felt sense—
the body remembering safety,
the body relearning trust.
And I am honored by those
who are brave enough to let my hands listen.
By those willing to listen to themselves.
This is life work, and it isn’t easy.
☾
Picture the sky. Wide, endless.
Clouds scattered and wandering.
Your body is that sky,
and the adhesions in your tissue are clouds waiting to be met.
The pads of my fingers run along breathful fibers—
mapping weather: rain, fog, the breaking of light.
We are taught to divide the body
into muscles and compartments.
But the body is not that simple.
It is whole.
Interconnected.
A web of fascia and pulse—
a mystery alive with history.
So when your back aches,
it is not simply a “knot.”
It may be memory asking to move,
survival once worn as armor,
now loosening what no longer serves.
The body may exhale,
or tremble, or flood with tears.
Eyes may flutter behind closed lids
as the inner map is redrawn.
Heat may rise.
Coolness may sweep through.
These are releases,
the body shifting weather.
Sometimes, after such a wave,
what helps is simple:
sipping water or tea,
feeling ground beneath your feet,
stretching gently into the new spaciousness.
The body knows.
The body waits beside you.
The body longs to be free.
Memories don’t disappear,
but they can soften.
They can reshape.
They can be rewoven into gentler threads.
☾
I am not here to fix.
I am here to witness.
To see you in your beauty—
earth and rivers,
moon and sky,
stars and tides.
I am here to hold you in your discomfort,
your vastness,
and guide you back to the places you remember:
the cosmos within your own skin.
Bodies speak stories.
I am listening.
