Food for Thought, or Worms

Beginnings are easy. They arrive so easily . . . “I could do that!” 

Then, the middle. I need a this, I need that. What!?! That’s not suppose to happen!  Wtf!!!  Then the, What was I thinking?!? I think I’m going to cry, I’m crying. . .  then the LOL’s. Then madness. The mess.  The clean up, or the walk away.

We rarely see the middle of life.  That picture is too big?  Why? Too close to see? Too slow? Isn’t this where life is lived? Where love is Loving? In the middle?

Who has time for that? skip to the end already!!! ARE WE THERE YET?!!!? Give me the answer to the story. Give me the success or the Failure.

Endings . . . happy, surprise, unwanted, or unjust.

Funerals, I could do that.

I’m posting a video of something I will never say, “I could do that.”

This week, as usual, has been about success and failure. The notion of the human body has been on my mind; does a corpse matter? At least once I week I hear this,  “It’s just a body, throw it away, feed it to the worms.”

My heart slips, my brow tightens, and a small thread of grief threads through my flesh; sadness and and a paper cut somewhere inside a place I never see blood.

Why? Usually I don’t know the person, but somehow the sudden rush to the end of a body, a life, this “toss”  feels a like burning a book that no one ever read or took of the shelf.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about the ways in which I think about my body, what I do, or don’t do with it.  As a person educated in the arts, I instantly think of how do I use my body to communicate? Uh Ohhhh  . . . I can instantly see how a person learns to throw their body away; I do it.  I never use my body as my primary tool of communication, my body isn’t even on my list for consideration. I use my body to help me use other tools to communicate, for example, my fingers use this computer to type. However,  I never use my body, or give my body the opportunity to express my unique human experience, or any of my feelings the way I might use other tools I use to communicate with. I use my face, or hands, but they are usually speaking for my brain or my heart, but not for my body. I ‘m sure my body hasn’t publicly spoken since I was  8 years old.  If I really think at about it, my body has been on lockdown, and told to shut-up for a long time.

For the majority of us, our bodies are work horses, they are practical necessities, they are workhorses. What happens to a workhorse when it can’t pull the wagon anymore?

We rarely stop to thank our bodies, marvel at our bodies for all the hard work they  do for us. These workhorses, these bodies,  often endure  vicious internal voices of endless scrutiny. As a culture of science, who knows exactly what it takes to move a muscle, how can any body be imperfect? How can we toss so much away?

I adore the sweetness of watching my cat stretch. What happens if we never marvel at the beauty of the movement of someone we love? Even if it’s just how they pick up a cup? What if we don’t marvel at the elegance of holding a scarf in the wind, or playfully handing over a flower?  It makes me wonder what part of humanity are we starving to death and throwing away? How easily we give ourselves to the worms from ignorance and silence?

I saw this video and I love it. This expression of love, of being this human and connected to body and environment, to voice. The voice of this human body is not silenced unlike mine.  I admire this voice, I hope I’ll stumble upon it one day in a setting much like this beach.  What if we heard about rouge dancers at the airport delaying flights  because of an over abundance to life, not take it? That’s crazy I could live with. I say, fight crazy with crazy. I like my crazy. 🙂








Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s