Love Letters to the Body
We all have them—bodies, I mean. Some of us take them for granted, get angry with them when they fall ill, or worse—age. Some of us spend money altering them. But regardless of our attitude toward the body with which we came into this life, while we persist, they are our homes; where we live, and the vehicles by which we move through the world. In other words, we’re stuck with them until they no longer need us.
Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash
As a therapeutic bodyworker for more than three decades, I’ve witnessed inexorable decline but I’ve more often been awed by miraculous recovery. What has fascinated me the most is the body’s capacity to persist and thrive despite dire predictions.
Pablo Neruda wrote many odes to various objects such as a pencil, shoelaces, tomatoes, the waves, a decrepit movie theater, and of course, his socks. In the following pieces, I brought the idea of praising the ordinary even closer to home: to the body.
I wrote the first version with a somewhat detached perspective—as if the body was something I owned. Then, after some thought, I chose to change the pronouns to speak directly to the body.
So I give you two versions and invite you to write a letter or poem to your own body, for better or worse. But I do encourage you to explore the ways in which your body has served you, taken you places, healed from wounds, survived…
How to thank this persistent body? My body, my body—carved, split, buckled, and yet it rises each day. My body owes me nothing. Past my expiration date, still I burn. Wheeled onto the stage. I can walk, I said, but I was a case, a mystery—fourteen days of tests—blood, urine, shit, marrow, marrow, marrow… She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, the white coat said. Seventeen, I said, raising my head. They shushed me, a girl body on a gurney, while rows of white coats scribbled on their little pads. Not ectopic, appendix, bowel, cancer, or leukemia—an anomaly with a paucity of platelets. Wheel her out. On a gurney on a stage, I was a body boiled down to its blood. Organs playing bumper cars, Out, out, damn spot. My heart is a waterfall but the fire still burns, so come, come, yet again come. Now the body had lived thirty-seven years. Too many lovers, too many too soon, that’s why cancer has you, why we want your womb. I needed time—to lift the rocks, check for worms or rot. I dreamed of raw meat underground, clinging spiders, and drowned babies in the Indian Ocean. My teacher said You want to die. I should be dead. I made a baby instead. My body did that even though. Now I am a sixty-eight-year-old woman with some missing parts, long past due. But I’m walking, see? My body isn’t owed years, not one, no tears. My body is a good body, look. It owes me nothing. My body is its own reward.
\(***\)How to thank you, oh persistent body? You, my body—carved, split, buckled, and yet you rise. You owe me nothing. Your expiration has passed, but still, you burn. Wheeled onto the stage. I can walk, I said, but you were a case, a mystery—fourteen days of tests—blood, urine, shit, marrow, marrow, marrow… She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, the white coat said. Seventeen, I said. They shushed me, a girl body on a gurney, while rows of white coats scribbled on their little pads. Not ectopic, appendix, bowel, cancer, or leukemia—an anomaly with a paucity of platelets. Wheel her out. On a gurney, you were a body boiled down to its blood. Organs playing bumper cars, Out, out, damn spot. Your heart is a waterfall but the fire still burns, so come, come, yet again come. By now you’d persisted for thirty-seven years. Too many lovers, too many too soon, that’s why cancer has you, why we want your womb. I needed time—to lift the rocks, check for worms or rot. I dreamed of raw meat underground, clinging spiders, and babies drowning in the Indian Ocean. My teacher said You want to die. You should be dead. Instead, you made a baby. Even though. Now, you are a sixty-eight-year-old body with some missing parts, and long past due. But you are walking, see? You are not owed years, not one, no tears. You are a good body, look. You owe me nothing. You are my reward.
If you would like to have some fun writing your stories, musings, memories, or poems, consider writing with me. I offer single 2-hour online workshops as well as series, where you can enjoy the camaraderie of a small group.
AND… there are still spots open for a week in April of gentle yoga and generative writing in Spain.
