I am a physical interpreter of the world. I was raised by runners, grew up in ballet classes and cheerleading practices and track meets. I'm not a new-age anything, and am made uncomfortable by talk of auras and chakras, but I believe that the full moon and the low tide affect me. I understand things by how they happen around and within my body.
That tough time I mentioned got a little tougher. I notice the result, as always, in my muscles, in my legs suddenly weakened, my shrunken lungs. I feel hollowed, a rasping reed through which the wind cuts with every gust. I try to eat, but food feels like an invasion, an unbearable confusion. I sleep and dream of hopping planes to faraway places. I dream of escape, and of meeting generally damp-looking men who describe themselves as "physical phlebotomist poets." Most of the days I feel dizzy.
Most of the days I can bear this because I have been here before. When I get an emotional hit that's too big, my body absorbs the excess. It isn't pleasant, but I'm not worried. I've been here before and know that I will, again, feel hungry. I will, again, feel the strength wash into me like blood into a leg that fell asleep. It takes patience.
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