Photo collage by author via Canva
The body remembers what the brain tells you to forget. SIr, can you feel what mine’s telling you? This masseuse is new. New to me, new to his job. I can tell by the anxiety that ripples off of him like eucalyptus oil. Fills my sinuses with his angst as he timidly massages my back. Asks me if he’s using too much pressure. What do my muscles tell you, sir? I need him to read my body's story, but alas, he’s too new to read between the sinew and fat. He brings out stones he doesn't know how to use. He places them where they fit, but they rapidly cool. One day, I will find the masseuse who will unravel my pain and free my body from what it holds on to. Let my story unfold on their table.
The body remembers and offers constant reminders. Sister, can you see my anguish as I sit before you? I rub my neck when talking about my job, relationships, and other pressures. I attempt to smooth the furrows of my brow, to release knots in my shoulders that our conversation alone cannot reach. Oh, body, must you complain now? I wish I could release the pain that logic tries to hide. Each morning, it shouts at me, waking from stilted dreams until my mind resumes control, numbing me once again. Twinges awaken when I turn my head to signal a waiter. Trauma muted by another mojito, and another, and another.
The body remembers and stores memories within one's DNA. How much of my shame resides within you, dearest? My daughter shares my build but carries herself differently. Yet I’m no longer shielding her within mine. She is entirely of her own design now. Are there parts of you that delight in what I once abhorred? Perhaps my ancestral trauma is nullified, not magnified by the half from her father. Perhaps her body won’t need to keep score. Perhaps she will actually confront and overcome problems that my brain had taught me to ignore to survive. Perhaps I, too, could overwrite my code and see myself as she sees me, as I see her.
The body remembers the past to guide you. Why does it hurt so much to recall that day? My body reminds me that whatever my brain reenvisions, or my heart calms, may still need more time to work its way out, to express that thorn at my side, to realign my chakras, and to unclench hidden tension wherever it may lie. Why did this have to happen to me? My body knows that letting go is not just something my mind detaches from, or my heart forgives, but that my body must transform, must release, must reforge. Then, only then, can I reclaim my body and say, My body’s a story of survival, a work of art, powerful and radiant to behold.
The body remembers when it couldn’t shield you, but now it will experience how you've become your own sword.
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