Saturn – Sleeping At Last

“You taught me the courage of stars before you left.”

There’s something undeniably spiritual about Saturn —
not in the religious sense exactly,
but in the way it opens something vast and quiet inside you.

This isn’t a song you listen to — it’s a song you feel.
It wraps around your chest like a blanket,
then slowly unravels you.

You don’t need to believe in God to feel like this is a hymn.
A hymn to impermanence.
To memory.
To the people who shaped us and then left —
whether by death, distance, or change.

There’s a tenderness in the orchestration,
a reverence in every pause,
as if the music itself is bowing to something larger than comprehension.
Grief. Love. Awe. All of it.

What strikes me most is that this song doesn’t try to resolve anything.
It just holds you while you remember.
While you ache.
While you marvel at the simple fact that something so fleeting could matter so much.

“How rare and beautiful it is to even exist.”

That line —
it hits like scripture.
And maybe that’s why, even though I’m not religious,
I’m deeply drawn to this song.
Because it carries the same reverence,
without requiring belief — only presence.

It’s a reminder that maybe the holiest thing we can do
is feel it all.
To honour what shaped us —
even when it breaks our heart.

Reflection Prompt:
Who or what do you still carry — not in your hands, but in your being? What would it look like to honour that, quietly, today?