People ask me what I mean when I say embodiment, and it’s a subtle thing, really. If you are busy all the time, you run the risk of missing it – that is, until you are faced with debilitating pain, chronic aches, or unexplained disorders. But that is really not what I’ve come here to talk about. For me it’s much more fun to talk about what I’m experiencing in this process, which is more like watching grass grow than going to a doctor for a prescription and a more sadly standard cure. My way, of course, is worlds more empowering and fulfilling. There are so many dimensions to what I want to talk about, so it’s hard to know where to begin, and like I said before, it’s subtle but life changing – winding but profound – when you commit yourself to it as a way of life.
Mammals lick their young. Watch a mother lion lick its cub. This activity is nothing like what happens when a stressed-out working mother bathes or otherwise cares for her young. When a mammal in nature cares for her young she is relaxed herself. The motion almost a meditation.
When I was on the roof the other morning, just before sunrise, I thought of her in that warm meditative place, as I rolled an empty olive oil bottle around on the knotted and burning fibers of my muscles and ligaments and attachments, along the length of my lower leg. As the sky had turned from twinkling stars to glimmering-on-the-rim to rosy and then bright, I rested in my quiet place inside. As the hardness of the green glass met the various places on the leg I adjusted my motion so as to appropriately meet each complaint, each whimper, each outcry of rage for having been neglected and taken for granted for so long with not so much as an ounce of consideration for its never failing loyalty and devotion. Imagining the mother, adjusting the pressure of her tongue so as to have the desired effect…the seemingly compulsive motion of the tongue designed to work out the knots, soften the stressed and defended places and render the tiny thing completely undefended…never having to ask for warmth, closeness, connection, or attention to its needs.
Since I took up the practice of bringing the bottle with me to the roof, originally for the purpose of rolling my feet, I notice that I walk on cobblestones a lot easier and with a whole lot more grace and agility. Since I have been working on my quads and lower legs, I have begun to build a relationship with my legs. They tell me where they hurt, but only if I ask. They tell me how much pressure to use, but only if I’m present. They tell me what they want, but only if I’m unhurried. And, despite some old fear that their needs can never be met and that giving them attention will be a colossal mistake, they soften. The pain subsides and I discover more about my legs that I never knew before. No-touch zones turn to touch-with-care zones. Touch-with-care zones turn to burning-like-fire zones. Burning-like-fire zones turn to boy-that-feels-good zones, and on and on it goes.
Along with this relationship I’m building with my legs I am making connections about various parts of my body and how they work together. For example, I had a bodywork session with a German friend (who worked with my shoulder blades, asking me to engage muscles I had no idea I could operate), who left me with an increased ability to – might I say delight in – lowering my shoulder blades, pulling them down against the contracted and chronically tense and indistinguishable muscle mass around my neck and shoulders. With her help, I made some progress, and with the next bodywork session I expect to reclaim another formerly estranged and exiled body part.
I noticed, the other day, a sweet sensation of delight after pulling up some leg warmers over my leggings. A sensation I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before. I wonder in astonishment. How have I gotten to be this age without knowing how the various parts of my body relate to one another in a kinesthetic way? I’ve taken the anatomy classes and I’ve memorized a lot of anatomic terms, but it’s the finding of them in my body that’s always alluded me. It’s the knowing of them sensually that I’ve tragically missed. And in re-membering each one – slowly, tentatively – I understand why I cut them off in the first place. There is so much information stored there!
This morning, for example, tending to my leg, and all those burning sensations, I begin to make connections in my mind. This is about an old story that started when I was 15 or 16. Wanting to run but can’t run, my inner 16-year-old tells me. Wanting to run but can’t run wanting to run but can’t run. My life depends on it, and I can’t run, but needing to run. It burns.
I have not always had the presence of mind, the inclination, the patience or the curiosity to explore that sensation I called pain and shoved aside with disgust. I was stronger than that. No self-respecting person admitted to pain, much less indulged in giving it attention.
But my attention and curiosity turns any pain into an important piece of information I can use to take care of myself. Pain, as it turns out, is not better ignored. It is better used to tend to real needs and real wounds, which with a little care and attention, eventually melt into pure consciousness, connectedness and bliss.
Now I am not afraid of becoming a slave to my old wounds and pain. I stroke and caress. I tease out the knots. I soothe the burning muscles into submission. Now, as I do this, I know that as my body relaxes, as I care for it and become better acquainted with its nooks and crannies, a million tiny connections are made, sending signals to my brain that I am okay, that I am worthy of attention, that I deserve care, that my needs are not too much, and that there is nothing wrong with my body that a little TLC can’t make right.