being my body

My head hurts. My back aches. My neck twitches with pain.
My body is weak and strong at once.
My body is broken, and my body is a miracle.

So much is contained within my body walls.
So much life —
filled with pain and loss,
love and laughter
and every breath I have ever taken.

I’m getting ready for a big procedure tomorrow. A procedure where my doctor will insert a catheter into the blood vessels of my brain and apply glue inside one of those vessels to close off a malformation.

Glue.

The same sticky stuff my students use to paste pom-poms on construction paper. Just today my partner fixed my coffee filter with extra strong, non-toxic glue.

I imagine the glue that will be inserted in my head is similar.

Non-toxic. Extra strong.

I wonder how my body will respond. My precious body has gone through more pain and stress these past several months than perhaps it’s ever endured. I was tossed around, flopping back and forth through the metal frame of a car with only my seat belt, the pillow of an airbag, my partner’s blessed wherewithal, and Divine Intervention to thank for my liveliness.

But the silver, sticky lining of it all is that this malformation was discovered in the midst of the chaos. This malformation was discovered before it was too late.

It’s almost frightening how often I have walked through the world not giving much thought or care to my body’s abilities. The privilege of being born able-bodied, no doubt. It took a near-death experience — an out-of-body experience — for me to realize just how lucky I am to be sharing life with this form. A fact I don’t ever plan on taking advantage of again.

As a way of treating myself before being tucked away in a hospital for several days, this afternoon I took a walk through one of my favorite places in Brooklyn, Greenwood Cemetery. I sat under a cherry tree. The blossoms had already come and gone, but the cascading branches bowed to the earth and made the most splendid private room for me to sit.

I sat there under those heavenly branches and listened to the birds sing. I felt the gentle breeze wisp around my face. I smelled the sweet smells of grass and clovers and freshness. And it was here, under this tree, that my body felt alive.

From my toes to the inside of my skull, I sensed my body.

It was responding, listening. Simply being.

An incomprehensible connection to life in the vast universe in which I exist.

Just as a leaf fell gently from the branches and landed beside my fingers, I understood the ancient wisdom that this experience was only possible through the body.

On the eve of this big procedure — an experience that will be both traumatizing for my body and life-saving — I kneel in profound gratitude for this sacred form that blesses me. This sacred form that is me.

Whoever said that our bodies are made of sin, did not sit under a tree in the spring and exist.