Spirit and Flesh
For a long time now, words have interested me as a place where the body and spirit meet. My body makes it possible for me to articulate words: to say them aloud (or hear them), to sign them in the air with my fingers, to write or type them on a page or computer screen.
Yet words are also spiritual creatures; they only mean what they mean because we believe they do, and agree in that belief with others. And like all spiritual things, language is larger than me as an individual. It existed before me and will continue long after this body of mine has turned itself into nourishment for the earth and air. I can contribute to langauge in meaningful ways with what I write and say, but in the end words transcend me; they are a stream all their own in which, in my lifetime, I will dip only my small cup.
I find myself thinking about this because I'm considering the words I and others now use to talk about my body. These months of running have changed my physical shape and the ways people name the body they see when they look at me.
Clothes I used to wear now sag and billow on my frame, so much so that I've had to start acquiring a new wardrobe. My posture has altered, my lungs work more easily (even when I run hard), and my toenails are a bit more bruised than they used to be.
The words others use deal speak mainly about the weight I've lost. They talk admiringly of how "thin" or "skinny" I've become, and I certainly enjoy hearing that; I'd even like to lose more. But more than that single measure, I like what I can do with body that I haven't been able to for decades. My skin feels better on me. My legs can carry me farther and faster that I would have thought possible a year ago, and my only desire to lose weight now is so that I can become faster. I've regained a strength and stamina I thought I'd lost forever. I eat and sleep better, and drink hardly at all, not from prudishness but a sheer lack of desire.
The word I use to describe myself isn't "thin" but "healthy." What sense of what that word really meant has shifted. Suddenly, I find different words meeting and speaking to my body, and I find my body embracing them, changing in response to them. These new words have altered my sense of the relationship between this "self" and these muscles and bones and blood; the physical change has released new words on the page, including these.
Together, the body and the words have carved out a new spiritual space in which I'm trying to keep moving, to keep writing. Suddenly, more seems at stake, and sometimes I worry that (1) I'm becoming increasingly insufferable or (2) whatever sense I'm making isn't coming through to anyone else, including those I love most, or both. In this new vocabulary and space, I've come to think that that's what healthy means. It isn't weight or words but a coming together. The mystery is to discover what words will emerge next.
Yet words are also spiritual creatures; they only mean what they mean because we believe they do, and agree in that belief with others. And like all spiritual things, language is larger than me as an individual. It existed before me and will continue long after this body of mine has turned itself into nourishment for the earth and air. I can contribute to langauge in meaningful ways with what I write and say, but in the end words transcend me; they are a stream all their own in which, in my lifetime, I will dip only my small cup.
I find myself thinking about this because I'm considering the words I and others now use to talk about my body. These months of running have changed my physical shape and the ways people name the body they see when they look at me.
Clothes I used to wear now sag and billow on my frame, so much so that I've had to start acquiring a new wardrobe. My posture has altered, my lungs work more easily (even when I run hard), and my toenails are a bit more bruised than they used to be.
The words others use deal speak mainly about the weight I've lost. They talk admiringly of how "thin" or "skinny" I've become, and I certainly enjoy hearing that; I'd even like to lose more. But more than that single measure, I like what I can do with body that I haven't been able to for decades. My skin feels better on me. My legs can carry me farther and faster that I would have thought possible a year ago, and my only desire to lose weight now is so that I can become faster. I've regained a strength and stamina I thought I'd lost forever. I eat and sleep better, and drink hardly at all, not from prudishness but a sheer lack of desire.
The word I use to describe myself isn't "thin" but "healthy." What sense of what that word really meant has shifted. Suddenly, I find different words meeting and speaking to my body, and I find my body embracing them, changing in response to them. These new words have altered my sense of the relationship between this "self" and these muscles and bones and blood; the physical change has released new words on the page, including these.
Together, the body and the words have carved out a new spiritual space in which I'm trying to keep moving, to keep writing. Suddenly, more seems at stake, and sometimes I worry that (1) I'm becoming increasingly insufferable or (2) whatever sense I'm making isn't coming through to anyone else, including those I love most, or both. In this new vocabulary and space, I've come to think that that's what healthy means. It isn't weight or words but a coming together. The mystery is to discover what words will emerge next.
posted by A Pilgrim at 12:20 AM
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