Our Bodies, Our Healers
We are diagnosed with chronic illness only after struggles with recalcitrant bodies. For weeks if not months if not years, our bodies have refused to do what we ask of them. Doctors and healthcare workers suggest we do this or that and the results are disappointing. By the time the diagnosis comes, our bodies are often seen as burdens.
After my diagnosis, I went to battle against my illness using my body as a weapon. I started a special diet, exercised diligently and flirted with meditation. When my illness continued to progress, I felt I had failed and that, once again, my body had failed me.
Adding insult to injury, activities that once brought us comfort and joy may become difficult and plunge us into grief. Recently I met a woman who was a bel canto soprano before her MS diagnosis. Unlike me, she has no visible disability, but she can no longer sing.
Betrayed by our bodies, we forget that they may also bring healing. We experience through our sensual bodies.
We look at a loved one’s face, appreciate a beautiful color and marvel at a wonderful view.
We are moved by lovely music, charmed by warbling birdsong and excited by the beat of drums.
We wake up to the smell of coffee, relax into the perfume of lavender and reminisce at the scent of roses.
We luxuriate in velvet, slink in silk and bounce in rubber.
We are comforted by chicken soup, surprised by a taste of lemon are seduced by a piece of chocolate.
Our senses bring us alive. Our senses nurture us.
When I am low on energy and hope, I find myself making lists and building structures that I think are about nourishment. I flee to schedules of diet and exercise and meditation just as I did in those early days after diagnosis. Now I recognize those moves as attempts to exert control.
Putting things on the calendar is fine, if they are there as reminders. As soon as I start to beat myself up for a lapse, as soon as I hear the monster voices, that’s a signal to back away. It’s an invitation to ask “what will nourish me most right now? What will make me feel most whole?”
Bringing myself to this moment and my lived, sensed, experience, I sink into grace and gratitude.
We don’t need to spend a dime or move from our chairs. We just need to pay attention. As John Muir put it, “the grand show is eternal.” Our bodies bring us unending beauty and continuous entertainment.
Opening our senses wide to the miracle of life we are made whole.
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