Body of Connection
7 things
It’s 10pm on a Thursday. I’m in front of my mirror looking at the constellation of rashes across my whole front torso. At the inexplicable breakouts across my forehead. There’s a swell of panic I’m trying to keep down because I want to scratchpeelburn it all away. The redness and the itch make feel disgusting and dirty, recalling an ancient shame. When I was most depressed years ago, I hated being looked at — convinced that all my ugliness and unworthiness was expressed so plainly in the acne on my face. Tonight I say out loud to my rash and breakouts, “Fine, you’re ok. I like you. I love you.” Strangely, the panic subsides.
I saw an IG post that said something like, “Embodiment is shitty.” And it’s true; when you’re not constantly in your head or dissociated, it means that you’re with all of it: the wondrous and the hellish. The body never lies. The ways the mind negotiates with itself don’t work with the body. With practice you can learn to notice subtle sensations that arise in response to experience. Music that creates a vibration in the tip of your fingers. Food that makes your lower back sweat. Conversation that makes your heart leap to your throat. Control is not the currency here; curiosity is. What truths are here in the body before the mind’s interpretation?
I get ticked off at my dad for not making more effort to connect with his mother, my Ah Ma. He, who speaks her language, while I can only resort to holding her hands or buying her another pain relief oil she will not use. There he sits in the corner, calling his sister about the latest thing to fix in Ah Ma’s house. Then he falls asleep in the chair. Today, after years of refusing to do so, Ah Ma struggles out onto the porch with her walker, occasionally cringing with pain. She sits looking at the houses across the street and at the sky. I pluck off a pandan leaf for her, show her the pot of gorgeous caladium. I have to shout for dad to come out and talk with her. When he does, she beams at him, then asks him for grocery money, the same conversation they’ve had about three times already in the last hour.
For the past two months I’ve been on a weekly regimen of acupuncture and herbal medicine to address Liver Qi Stagnation. I could tell you about the results of this regimen but I wanted to zoom in on the 30 minutes when I lay in their dark room with acupuncture needles poking out of me. This is the usual sequence of events: I begin by trying to sense the currents of energy running from the acupuncture points (many times I feel nothing). Then I’m distracted by my thoughts, my to-do list, what I should cook later, an idea for work. Then I notice my distraction and try to focus on my breath. I ricochet between these three states until I find myself waking up to a knock on the door, signalling my time up.
Actually, everything I am writing about in this list is about wanting control.
The truth is if I’m not careful I could become obsessive about the health of my parents. And of course it’s all fear: fear of the day they will die; fear of what might ail them in 10 years time; fear that if they don’t do the mobility videos I send them their quality of life will eventually dwindle to nothing; fear (and this is a selfish one) of my own unravelling when I become witness to the ways their bodies betray them in old age. As I write this my chest is tight and the space between my ears is ringing and I’m struggling to get a full breath. I think that means I love them quite a lot.
I got my period on the day of the lunar eclipse, and I prayed to release what I needed to release. I cramped badly. Cramps, according to Traditional Chinese Medicine, is due to Liver Qi Stagnation, which is often caused by stress. The acupuncture and herbs were meant to “regulate” this, but — I’m not sure if they can regulate away my stressors. To relax, lately my favourite thing to do on the weekends is to lie down on the couch in the middle of the day and listen to music until I fall asleep. A new and uncomfortable thing for me (think of my to-do list, think about how much more I have to grow!). But riding the tidal rhythms of my body — which holds so much, all the time — this much I can do.
What I notice in my body right now: a fluttering aliveness in my heart, which I could take as anxiety or excitement or fear or wonder or grief or ecstasy. Life is So Much, All the Time. But sometimes, like right now, I feel capable of rising up to the rush, allowing myself to be swept away and trusting that the shore will meet me.