All my life I’ve dragged my body around behind my mind.
I’d be sitting at the computer and suddenly think of a resource I needed from another room, or something cooking on the stove that needed tending. And I don’t quite know how to explain this, but my mind would just start going over there.
And my body would be like “Wait for me!” as I blundered out of my chair, nearly knocking it over, possibly tripping on something, my head and shoulders bent forward, my mind literally pulling me to whatever destination I had in mind.
I did not ever first think about what I wanted, giving my body time to collect itself and rise with dignity and move gracefully to that place.
I was a human version of a train wreck.
When I sat, hunched over my desk, leaning into my computer, my book, or my sewing. my posture suffered. My breathing and bodily functions were affected by the scrunching up of lungs and organs.
When I ate, I inhaled my food as if I had an agenda and I was already late.
I did not have the grace to eat slowly, to make conversation with my husband, to comment on the tastes, smells and textures of the food, the care taken with the table setting, or any other aspect of the time and effort that went into the preparation and presentation of the meal.
As if devoid of all sensory perception and completely lacking in graceful manners, I ate, immediately got up from the table, cleared the dishes and washed and dried them.
My husband, who not only cooks fabulous meals, but believes in candlelight, tablecloths and flowers as normal dinner table settings, was left sitting alone in his chair,
As a young girl it had been drilled into me that a clean kitchen was the hallmark of a good wife and mother, and since I had so much to do, the sooner it was cleaned up, the better. Right?
Lately, I have made a substantial effort to change. I have decided, late as it is in my life, to acknowledge my body as a vital, omnipresent part of me, and to give it due time and attention. But how? After a lifetime of neglect, it’s going to take a big rethink.
Margaret Jean 