Our Bodies Remember the Bodies

After lunch, I felt that surge of sleepiness and considered lying down to "do a meditation," which is often code for "nap." Today, I decided to take a walk instead. I turned off our street down something that's bigger than a path but smaller than a road, fit for farm vehicles and feet.

Within moments, I was surrounded by row after row of rainbow chard, followed a bit further down by tomatoes, peppers, herbs, and those might have been eggplants but don't quote me.

I made a mental note to wear sneakers or boots next time, as dirt coated my sandals. Goldenrod edged the fields and tiny yellow butterflies with an occasional monarch flitted in and around the clover and tall grasses.

I remembered how my Aunt Nancy, of blessed memory, when she'd come this way from NYC to visit, would walk in the woods and take these giant, gulping, audible deep breaths, like full-throated expressions of oxygenation and release and gratitude.

And I am reminded of how walking can take us out of ourselves and back to ourselves at the same time, how it can bring me both into the present moment and also invoke the past so powerfully.

Our bodies remember the bodies of those who are no longer embodied. And the land marks time in its own way, from promise to bountiful harvest to dormancy to renewal.