Monday, July 7, 2014

Body con


I am at the stage in a project where I am more than half done, I am past all the false starts and thinking how to proceed, I have a clear idea now where I'm going, and I just want to get to the end, to draft the whole thing out, to see it whole so I can know where to patch, where to layer in more details, the redundancies that need fixing. I am eager to be done with this, to see it accomplished so I can move on to the next thing, all the next things waiting in the wings. I am past the stage of being able to intermittently work on two or even three other things while I do this. It requires my full attention now to get it done. I refused to put on street clothes today, so that the breezy blue day outside my window wouldn't tempt me. My son said he would go to the store for us, to pick up my prescription and get sundries for the house. He doesn't work on Mondays, and he has slept most of the day, rousing himself at mid afternoon to make a call related to his EMT/ firefighter ambitions. He then spent an hour in the shower and emerged wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts, a grey tank tee and flip flops and now he's headed out the door. What must it be like, I paused to wonder, to be able to throw on any old thing and still look gloriously made, as he did, filling my doorway, a handsome well proportioned man child, warning me that my list was going to be expensive. I shrugged and thanked him and turned back to my now fixed and sprightly computer, marveling that such a perfectly articulated and optimally functioning body could have ensued genetically from this pain body I live with, and never talk about, except for now, here.

14 comments:

  1. Sweet Angella. I am struck by the words you've chosen. Have you read Eckhart Tolle? He uses the words 'pain body' to describe psychic pain we carry due to our early lives, and our gender, and our race. Your son's body is beautiful in it's way, and so is yours, every bit as much. Perfectly articulated, all your lovely cells.

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    1. Vesuvius, my cousin, the healer, told me once that the pain in my lower left extremities is a psychic cyst (maybe she used other words), born of pain and guilt I have internalized. That doesn't mean, of course, that the symptoms are based in the physical as well. But I do try to remember that I am not this pain, and sometimes it backs off a little. Thanks for your caring comment, friend.

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  2. First of all, this is simply exquisitely and beautifully written.
    I'm serious, dearheart.
    And I know. On all levels- seeing my children strong and beautiful and healthy and how did this happen? How did this come from me? And yet I know that they, too, will reach an age where they have a pain body. It is the fate of almost all living beings. I see it in my dogs, my husband, I know it in myself.
    I find myself complaining about my pain sometimes, maybe to one of my kids and I think, "Shit. I've got to stop this. It's going to get a lot worse before I die." But you know, it's our reality. No, I don't want to be like my mother who complained endlessly. God, no. But every now and then it feels very freeing to simply say, "I hurt." Because we push it down and push it down and try to just go on with it and that is fine, that is good, but eventually, we have to admit it, even to ourselves. Perhaps especially to ourselves.
    I love how you describe this phase of your work. I know what you mean and it is a good place to be, the horse has been given its head, it races towards the finish line.
    One more thing- your son and I dress alike. I am wearing cargo shorts, have been wearing flip flops on and off all day, and my tank top is purple. But I would NOT go out into the world looking like this. I'd at least put on a bra.
    Ha!
    Love you so much. I mean it.

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    1. Dear Mary, I love that you and my boy dress alike! Thank you, dear one, for understanding the all of it. You always do. Hugs.

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  3. Isn't it shocking to see them turn into men? Mine is nine, and already it's in his shoulders and his gait. He still has the baby tummy and cheeks but those are melting.

    The way you've described him shines with love, and respect for the person that he is. You're everything I hope to be in a mother. xo

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    1. Chrissy! I love that you're back! And yes, watching their man faces emerge from their smooth baby faces is really one of life's wonders. Your son is at such a great age, but really, they are all great ages. I think when we hope to be a good mother to our children we are halfway there. xo

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  4. oops, not sure if my comment went through?

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    1. Susan, I don't think it came through...

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  5. what i said was; i love to see you focus on your work, blocking out the world, not getting dressed. you are a laser, sharp as 20 diamonds, and when you get your work where you want it, you can go out in any old thing and be just as beautiful as you are.

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    1. Susan, what a fabulous image! I love it! Thank you for this; it will sustain me through this day. You understand so well what this process is like. Love, dear friend. And thanks for resending your comment.

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  6. Such mysteries, our bodies. How they carry on. How they fail us. How they give us so much pleasure.

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    1. Denise, I am fascinated by the idea that our cells are always replacing themselves and every few months we have an entirely new body. What might I do with that idea!

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  7. Your writing always hits me right in the middle, in a good way, mind you. This one hit me in the middle and stayed with me throughout the day,doing dishes, taking the dog for a walk, chatting with my son, ... and, upon reading it again, made my face wet- I am not a weepy person but for some reason, or many, this hit me in the weepy zone. I GET this completely . And you are so incredible!! LOVE!- oh and yes, I do agree with Susan, you could wear a hefty bag and look fabulous!

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    1. Dear Linda Sue, thank you for being here and for the openness that allows you to receive this in the generous and empathetic way you have. I am sending loving thoughts to you and if there is pain anywhere in our bodies, I am imagining it gone. xo

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