Julie Jewels Smoot

Among its standout tracks is "The Power of Presence," a collaboration with JS Worldbridger that captures the album's central message: healing and connection often begin not through action, but through attention. The partnership brings together expressive lyricism and thoughtful musical arrangement, resulting in a piece that resonates long after it ends.

The Space After Holding is a thoughtful ambient album created for therapists, counselors, social workers, coaches, healthcare professionals, and anyone whose work involves holding space for others. Rather than focusing on productivity or performance, the album gently acknowledges the often-overlooked transition that occurs after a day of deep listening and emotional presence.

Still Alive serves as the powerful conclusion to a three-part album arc that begins with The Ground Does Not Move, continues through Nothing Is Required of You, and finds its culmination here. Together, these albums form a journey through grounding, permission, and ultimately, resilience—a musical narrative that gently reminds listeners that surviving is not the end of the story.

This Surface Holds is a track from the album The Ground Does Not Move, a collection devoted to steadiness, orientation, and the quiet realities that remain dependable beneath uncertainty. There are moments when the nervous system searches for proof of safety. Not certainty about the future. Not guarantees. Simply evidence that, in this moment, something is capable of supporting us. This piece explores that experience.

I want to end this series by naming what the Sidereal Moon does not do. It does not lean in. It does not interpret your experience. It does not ask you to come closer. The Sidereal Moon keeps its distance—and that distance is part of its care. So much of what we are offered in healing spaces asks for intimacy, depth, or surrender. This listening steps away from those expectations entirely. It does not confuse closeness with safety. It does not assume that being moved i

This listening does not ask for togetherness to look a certain way. When the Sidereal Moon is heard in shared space, it does not ask people to synchronize—to feel the same thing, to settle at the same pace, or to arrive at a shared meaning. There is no emotional alignment required. Each body remains its own body. Each person keeps their own interior world.

You are not required to follow a rhythm here. The Sidereal Moon is often confused with cycles we are meant to track, honor, or move with. This listening releases that expectation. It does not ask you to notice phases, align behavior, or synchronize your inner state with time. There is no assignment. You may feel out of step. You may feel unchanged. You may feel nothing at all. All of this belongs.

This listening does not ask you to look inward. The Sidereal Moon is measured against the fixed stars. It is not concerned with what you are feeling, remembering, or processing. It does not invite emotional inventory or inner analysis. You are allowed to remain oriented outward. You may notice the room. The floor beneath you. The edges of the space. The simple fact of being here. Introspection is often framed as care.

When Venus is experienced in a shared space, it is often described as relational—bringing people together, encouraging harmony, inviting connection. For many nervous systems, especially those shaped by trauma, group spaces can feel complicated. Expectations of togetherness can arrive before safety does. The Venus gong does not require togetherness to look any particular way. You are not asked to merge with the group. You are not asked to synchronize emotionally.

I want to be careful with the word pleasure. For many people, pleasure has not felt free. It has come with expectation. With performance. With the sense that if something feels good, you are supposed to respond a certain way—or want more. The Venus gong does not ask that of you. It does not require enjoyment. It does not chase comfort. It does not assume ease is the goal.

Venus is often spoken of as love, beauty, softness, and connection. For many bodies, that language has not felt gentle. It has felt like expectation. Like pressure. Like being asked to become permeable before safety was established. The Venus gong does not ask that of you. It does not ask you to drop your armor. It does not ask you to soften your edges. It does not ask you to become emotionally available.

Jupiter is often associated with Sagittarius—the seeker, the philosopher, the inner teacher. That doesn’t mean answers arrive on cue, or that insight is guaranteed. It means something quieter becomes possible: space where understanding doesn’t have to be forced. The Jupiter gong does not explain. It does not persuade. It does not point you toward a conclusion.

Unity does not require sameness. The Jupiter gong does not ask a group to feel the same thing, believe the same thing, or arrive at the same insight. There is no emotional synchronization required. No collective mood to match. Each body remains its own body. Each nervous system keeps its own pace. Each listener stays inside their own experience.

I want to speak carefully here, because bodies hold for reasons. In many traditions, Jupiter is associated with the liver—an organ connected with processing, flow, and the holding of suppressed anger. This listening is not about forcing release. It is about creating conditions where holding may soften—if it is ready. The Jupiter gong does not demand emotional expression. It does not provoke catharsis. It does not ask you to “let it out.” For some nervous systems, holding

Jupiter is the first planet in our solar system where there is no solid surface to stand on. It marks the transition from defined terrain to atmosphere, from certainty to becoming. The Jupiter gong carries this quality. Listening here may feel different than listening to planets with firmer edges. There may be less sense of structure and more sense of openness. Less focus on where you are, and more awareness of the space around you. Nothing needs to resolve.

The Jupiter gong offers something different. Jupiter is associated with the benevolent father—not authority, not command, but support without intrusion. When this gong sounds, widening does not feel like being examined. It feels like being backed. There is no sense that you are doing it wrong. No feeling that you should be more open, more confident, more joyful.

So much of the language around growth carries pressure—be more, reach further, open wider. For nervous systems shaped by trauma, that kind of language can feel unsafe. It can feel like demand disguised as encouragement. The Jupiter gong does not do that. When Jupiter sounds, it does not ask you to push beyond yourself. It does not measure your readiness to grow. It does not reward optimism.

Chiron does not come to heal you. It does not arrive with remedies, methods, or solutions. It comes as witness. A witness does not intervene. It does not correct. It does not require change in order to stay present. The Chiron gong remains near what has endured without approaching it. It acknowledges pain without entering it. It stays with survival without asking it to soften or resolve.

Chiron respects this choice. You are not asked to move closer to sensation. You are not invited to drop inward. You are not encouraged to “lean into” anything. Listening does not require proximity. You may remain oriented to the room. You may keep your eyes open. You may stay aware of exits, walls, light, and sound outside the gong.

When the Neptune gong fades, there is no next step. No moment where you are asked to reflect. No instruction to integrate what you experienced. No suggestion that something should be carried forward. Listening ends cleanly. You do not need to hold onto the sound. You do not need to remember it accurately. You do not need to understand what happened while it was present.