Lub dub. Lub dub. Through a stethoscope, I hear the onomopoetic beat. But sitting quietly alone, it is more a feeling than a sound. A steady pulsing in my chest, in and out, in and out, the rhythm of my life.
I am practicing being in my body. It’s not always easy for a writer who spends so much time in her head. It’s easier to locate my reader in time and space than it is to locate myself.
I stand and notice the weight on my feet. Is there more weight on the left side or right, on the ball or heel, on the inside or outside of the foot? I feel my pelvis, my hips, my knees. I don’t follow my breath — I feel it. Inhale, exhale. I notice a pause at the end of the exhale, before breath and life come back into my body. I feel my arms and legs. Can I feel the shape of my skin? Eyes closed, I hear birds and a neighbor’s dog. The sweet scent of lilacs takes me back to my childhood garden.
I’m becoming fluid inside my body.