Bodies

Our beings are poems of everything we ever were and are and may be.

Scars speak stories on the body's page. Postures are reflections of our spirit's shape. The face is our transmission to the world.

So personal, brutalists build up body armour to protect themselves from the tough tussle of their lives but these are false-ego bodies. Anorexics exercise ultimate power of denial to create skeletal frames. The obese make a fleshy cushion to insulate themselves against the world. The body knows its own contours of comfort and proportion.

Our auric field, our skin and flesh and bones, our blood and emotions and deeper feelings that bubble up from transpersonal realms.

A true smile is not a chosen action but an effect of the whole body's pleasure.

Every scratch, spot, wound, mole, freckle, line and hair is sacred.

There are an infinite images that are not us and yet we rush to these altars and miss the reality of our own holiness.

To be holy is to be whole in an embrace of our entirety, our simplexity, in all its particularities and needs and quirks.

I have learnt to love the sneeze, the pulse, the involuntary reaction. These are me. I am human first - all other identities span out from that.

My body is not science - though science has its theories. My body is a poem and I do not claim to understand its meaning yet it fascinates.

There is no love without appreciation. There is no meeting without presence. We are never other than we are and no place other than here and now.

There is movement yet the stillness is ever-present.