On Feeling

Pondering the many gifts of our generous bodies.

Every day when I wake up, the first thing I do is open the blinds. I like to see the day I’m entering.

We had a lovely, warm weekend here—on Saturday, we played in the front yard barefoot, no jackets. We could see the grass again, after a couple months of consistent snowfall and days cold enough to keep it on the ground. My son, who is walking now, took a two-legged stroll down the block for the first time, enjoying the dry concrete, the sun on his face.

Then, to my surprise, this morning I looked out the window and everything was covered again in snow.

I grew up in Michigan, so I wasn’t caught off-guard by the return of winter weather so much as I was just not expecting it today. Still, I am happy to see it. There has always been something of a homecoming to me in winter, with all its slow going and stillness, its muted colors and quiet neighbors. The snow today is made of those big dawdling flakes that take their time falling, that in their landing make big fuzzy caterpillars on branches and railings and wires. It really is a beautiful day. Soon, I will take a walk to enjoy it properly.

There’s something about being outdoors on a day like today, with those frosty inhales and coldstung ears, the feeling of snow crunching underfoot, the slow dampening of hair and clothes. Winter puts me right back in my body. Winter, and the first sip of a hot drink, and my feet in Lake Michigan, and my hands at work in a quiet kitchen, and a hearty sweet hug from my child.

Remembering my body is not something that has come particularly easily for me. Like some of you, I wasn’t necessarily given the tools to feel especially integrated in this way. In fact, I learned relatively early to put as much space between my mind and my body as I could. The spirit is willing, or so the saying goes, and the flesh is weak. And what good to us is weakness?

Mmm. But there are many ways I’d like to rewrite this: I’m not entirely sure what to make of a spirit, but surely the body is keen, the body is knowing. The body is wise. The body is human, complex, limiting, wonderful. The body is a compassionate teacher, with so many simple, generous lessons—pulled muscles, burnt hands, scuffs and bruises, welling tears and tired eyes, hunger and thirst. I learn something about me every time I pause and notice my lungs fill, hold, sigh. I settle again into myself.

Perhaps the body is weak. But what’s wrong with that? The body is undeniably fragile, of course it is, but—and we should try to make our peace with this—so is life. My body is my living. She is all I know I have of life. She is the tender thing that gives me a place in the tender world, and whenever I will listen, she will teach me again to come to it all with kindness and praise.

So today I will wrap myself in a few more layers of clothing, and I will shovel my sidewalk, and I will meander a bit in the wintry afternoon. I will feel the cold in my toes, my ears, my nose, my lungs, my fingers. I will feel all that feeling.

What does it mean to be alive, anyway, if not this?

Writing Prompt: What are the things you do to connect with your body? How does it feel to be you in those moments?

Thanks so much for spending a little of your day with me. It’s been so lovely connecting with y’all in this way. Please let me know if there’s anything you’re particularly wanting me to cover or share more of in future newsletters—I am, as ever, so thankful for your feedback and participation :)

I have added some stock to my $5 Pre-Printed Overstock Prints, and still have lots of $9 Print-to-Order Overstock Prints available for y’all, if you’ve been waiting on a sale :) Thanks again for helping me keep my business sustainable and my waste low!

Wishing y’all a kind first Monday of March.

torri