The Descending Breath. Where the soul walks into its own night to find the seeds of dawn

The descent is not weakness.  It is life-force learning how to move in the dark.  Like the horse, the soul does not fall, it enters the night with breath, instinct, and trust.

Let us step softly now, beloved, down into the hidden valleys of your being.

There is a field waiting underground, where the seeds of remembrance have been sleeping in silence.

Ya Rahīm, wrap our descent in Your Mercy.

Before the lamp of the heart is lit, before the inner niche glows with Divine Light (Qur’an 24:35), the soul often must pass through its own darkness, the valleys of fear, pride, guilt, shame, loneliness, and grief.

This is the moment when inner material begins to stir: memories without clear timelines, emotions that arrive without explanation, images that feel young, raw, or overwhelming.

The descent can feel disorienting, even frightening, like a child sensing something under the bed, because it is like entering rooms of the heart that were closed for survival.

In Tasawwuf, this movement is known as al-hubūṭ li-sabab al-ʿurūj: a descent for the sake of rising.

It will feel like collapsing but it is not.

It will feel like failing, but it is not.

It will feel like regressing but it is not.

It is a sacred yielding inward, a gentle falling into what was once too much to feel, so that it may now be held in awareness, breath, and mercy.

This Breath will feel like falling; but instead, it is a return to the forgotten chambers of the self, to the unlit places where longing began, to the soil where the seeds of the heart were buried long ago.

The Valleys of the Nafs/The Inner landscapes of the Self

Each one of us, at different moments in life, is invited to walk through inner landscapes.

Not all at once.

Not in a neat order.

Not by force, for these landscapes are developmental in nature.

They arise to nourish us through different seasons of living. Each one carries intelligence, protection, and a lesson shaped by its time. The invitation is not to reject any of them, but to learn how to be present within all of them without belonging fully to any of them. They often become more visible when life asks us to grow beyond who we once needed to be.

In the language of Tasawwuf, these movements of the self are called the nafs. In psychological language, we might call them inner states, protective strategies, or layers of the self. They are not enemies to be defeated, but expressions of how the soul has learned to survive, adapt, and remember.

The nafs ammārah / the commanding self

Once supported survival, protection, and rooting. In descent, it may appear as urgency, control, defensiveness, or fear of losing ground. It is the part of us that learned to guard life when safety was uncertain. It is not wrong, it is vigilant.

The nafs lawwāmah / the self that reflects and questions

Awakens conscience and self-awareness. Here, the heart begins to notice misalignment, regret, and inner conflict. This layer can refine the soul, but it can also flood us with guilt or shame when old wounds surface. It is the place where we first feel the tension between unity and separation.

The nafs mulhamah / the inspired self

Opens access to inner resources: creativity, vision, intuition, longing. In this landscape, meaning begins to shimmer even in darkness. Yet here, too, the psyche may idealise, project, or cling to images of hope as it searches for orientation in the unknown.

And slowly, not as an achievement, but as a settling

The nafs muṭma’inna / the peaceful self

Begins to rest. First in acceptance. Then in trust. And eventually in a quiet contentment with what is. This is not perfection, it is intimacy with reality.

We all experience these inner movements, they are essential in our lives, but these valleys are not crossed through effort or analysis, but through presence, breath, in awareness, gentleness and sincerity.

Every shadow must be honoured, for every shadow carries a fragment of the return to Love.

Ibn ʿArabī reminds us that the soul’s journey is not a straight ascent toward perfection, but a movement through worlds, from subtle to dense, from unity into multiplicity, and back again.

The descent into the self is not a mistake. It is how consciousness comes to know itself in form.

Each layer of the self is a station of experience, a place where the Beloved takes on texture, instinct, emotion, imagination, conscience, longing, so that nothing of human life is excluded from the possibility of remembrance.

In this sense, the valleys of the nafs are not stages to overcome, but landscapes to be inhabited with awareness, until each one reveals the quality of the Real it was carrying in disguise.

The Real descends into form so that the heart may learn how to return.

Nothing in you is outside the reach of remembrance.

Contraction as Mercy

The descending breath is an invitation into contraction.

And contraction can feel painful

It can feel difficult

It is an struggle

Ya Qābiḍ draws the soul inward not to punish,

but to prepare it for the opening of Ya Bāsiṭ.

Like a seed hidden in the dark, you are not being buried, you are being planted.

Ibn ʿArabī reminds us that the descent into multiplicity is not exile from the Divine, but one of the ways the Divine comes to know Himself through us.

And Imam ʿAlī (peace be upon him) said:

“If the veil were lifted, my certainty would not increase.”

The descent removes veils not by denying darkness, but by allowing it to be seen without fear.

As Carl Jung echoes from another shore:

“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”

The Descent as Sacred Rite

Across cultures and mythologies, the same truth is told.

The soul must descend.

Inanna.

Persephone.

Isis.

Stripped of old garments, old identities, old protections, to be reborn nearer to the Source.

The descend is not punishment.

It may not feel either "spiritual" at all. Often, Spiritual bypassing it is just a numbing defence mechanism.

There is no space to “rise above.”

This is the courage to turn toward the forbidden rooms of the heart with tenderness and presence, that shame loses its poison and the buried seed begins to tremble with life again.

Rūmī whispers:

“Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.”

Do Not Fear the Descent

Do not fear this inward movement.

It is written into the soul’s map.

The seed must fall into darkness before it can rise toward the sun.

The bow must draw inward before the arrow can fly into the sky of Love.

Ya Qābiḍ, draw us inward in Your Wisdom.

Ya Bāsiṭ, open us outward in Your Mercy.

A Gentle Practice. The Descending Breath

For moments when the soul is moving inward and the way feels unclear

Find a quiet place.

Sit or lie down in a way that feels supported.

If it helps, place a cushion beneath you, or rest your back against something steady.

Before we begin, remember this:

A descent is not something you choose with the mind.

It is something the soul begins when it is ready.

And you do not descend alone.

When memories, emotions, or images rise all at once, when timelines blur, when fear, guilt, or shame appear like shadows in the dark, this is often the sign that the spiral has begun to speak.

The descent can feel like a child peering under the bed, imagining monsters where there are unspoken stories. Nothing is wrong with you. This is how the soul asks for tenderness.

Begin.

Place one hand on the lower belly. Place the other hand on the heart.

Feel the weight of your body being held by the ground, by the chair, by the earth beneath you.

You are not falling. You are being received.

1. The Breath Downward

Inhale gently through the nose for a count of 4.

Let the breath travel downward, as if it were slowly descending into the earth, into soil that knows how to hold seeds.

Pause softly for 2.

Allow whatever is present to be present, without naming it, without fixing it.

Exhale slowly through the mouth for 6.

Whisper inwardly:

“I trust this descent.”

Repeat this breath five times, imagining yourself not as someone lost in darkness, but as a seed settling into fertile ground.

2. When Images or Emotions Arise

If memories, emotions, or child-images appear, do not analyse them. Do not ask them to make sense.

Simply notice:

Something in me wants to be seen.

Let your hands remain where they are.

Let your breath stay slow.

Say inwardly:

“You do not have to show me everything at once.”“You may come in your own rhythm.”

Remember:

The descent is not about reliving the past.

It is about allowing the body to feel safe enough to loosen its grip.

3. Returning to the Heart

When the breath feels complete, bring both hands gently to the heart.

Feel its warmth. Its steady rhythm. Its quiet courage.

Say inwardly:

“Even here, I am held.”

Even now, I am not alone.”

Stay for a few breaths. Let stillness gather.

Closing

This is the Descending Breath, where darkness becomes womb, where fear softens into trust, and where the soul begins, quietly, to dream of dawn.

You do not need to rush the rising

.The seed knows when to reach for the light.