How many words does it take to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop?
I don't know who taught me to write from my physical body, but when I sit down to do this it's a literal gut check - how is my breathing? How do my muscles feel? How are my feet? Writing meditates me from my head to my whole self and let's me fill my skin.
This morning my skin his bulging a bit around the alcohol processor, but otherwise, I am fit. Not feeling the feet too much, the ankles are strong and capable, calves tight, knees bending smoothly. Above the knee, in the backs of my thighs, I begin to feel the discontent. Extra weight, blue veins showing - age hits me there. I still have hope, though, that I can reclaim my legs. My ass sags, like the old illustrations from that Canadian cartoon. I dream that yoga will help me raise the rent down there and clear out the dead weight.
The gut, well, that's complicated. It's bigger than I like, but not very much. It's working hard on last night's fighting, too. My organs are all present, doing their good work, my spine is holding me up against the powerful tug of gravity. Below the diaphram but above the uterus is where things hide. Anger, pain, dreams I didn't know I was having, frustration, desire. They lurk in there and tangle my intestines in tar. I'm used to them, though, so I hardly know they are there until I write. Then I feel the old urges.
Today my heart is foggy with worry - the things below push up, shallow my breathing, tighten the beating of my inner fist. My armpits feel muscley, like the yoga is working, but only in that one spot. Neck tight, shoulders gripping on. My brain is a grey lump weighing me down. My ears feel pulled, eyes, though are clear. my scalp is relaxed against my skull.
This morning my skin his bulging a bit around the alcohol processor, but otherwise, I am fit. Not feeling the feet too much, the ankles are strong and capable, calves tight, knees bending smoothly. Above the knee, in the backs of my thighs, I begin to feel the discontent. Extra weight, blue veins showing - age hits me there. I still have hope, though, that I can reclaim my legs. My ass sags, like the old illustrations from that Canadian cartoon. I dream that yoga will help me raise the rent down there and clear out the dead weight.
The gut, well, that's complicated. It's bigger than I like, but not very much. It's working hard on last night's fighting, too. My organs are all present, doing their good work, my spine is holding me up against the powerful tug of gravity. Below the diaphram but above the uterus is where things hide. Anger, pain, dreams I didn't know I was having, frustration, desire. They lurk in there and tangle my intestines in tar. I'm used to them, though, so I hardly know they are there until I write. Then I feel the old urges.
Today my heart is foggy with worry - the things below push up, shallow my breathing, tighten the beating of my inner fist. My armpits feel muscley, like the yoga is working, but only in that one spot. Neck tight, shoulders gripping on. My brain is a grey lump weighing me down. My ears feel pulled, eyes, though are clear. my scalp is relaxed against my skull.