Three pink peonies lean out of a mason jar, their dark green leaves hanging like corn husks from bumpy stalks. A white cabbage moth flits past the window.
It's lunchtime and I'm home. I'm not even slightly hungry, but I consider what I have to eat.
I didn't do such a good job of staying inside my skin this weekend, and after seeing the Bodies Exhibit at the South Seaport (www.bodiestheexhibition.com) I can't say I really want to stay inside my skin. Last night at Alexander Technique my instructor suggested we try to feel things inside ourselves--our lungs or stomach--and I winced. Uck. All those unfamiliar shapes touching each other in there, wiggling, keeping me alive. I feel the same way about them as I do parts of my car's engine--any moment now the alternator or my spleen will rebel. Corrode, stop working, explode. The same way my emotions do, or life does.
I look to other people for help, advise, encouragement. But ultimately I'm back here, inside my skin, trying to be my own help. It's incredibly frustrating.
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