This morning's inspiration: Poppies growing through cracks in the sidewalk. .
Last night I had a commitment til almost 12:30am, then I stayed up another 3 hours editing for a deadline. Now my body won't let my wearied mind sleep any more. So it goes. My body is used to getting battered by my mind, which was taught to ignore its signals, its needs, its value. My mind is split - part of it is well aware how damn incredible it is to have a body, a body that moves and can dance and love and so much. And my mind is also incapable of shutting out poisonous messages of all varieties, about the size of my body, all the ways it should be smaller, thinner, etc. Or, alternatively, the endless loop of guilt about my many privileges that tells me to ignore the needs of my body, starve it or numb it, use its youth & strength for some greater cause, to absolve me of the outrageous inequality I was born into, to somehow atone for the whiteness of my skin. This part of my mind rejects any call to be beautiful, to in any way buy into society's notions of what it wants from a female body. This part of my mind is almost puritanical in telling me that the needs of my body don't matter, that my body is simply meant to be a vessel put to service in making the world a slightly less fucked up place. (My higher self knows that those sorts of means corrupt the ends; my higher self isn't always in charge.) But that wasn't what I meant to write about.
I meant to write about an epiphany I had; I meant to write away the acute dose of pain I feel this morning. Maybe it's the wisdom of the body. Maybe it's the delirium of another night on 4.5 hours of sleep. I am thinking now of how hard I have worked the past few months, the days I have scraped my inner reserves as a spatula might scrape the last batter from a mixing bowl. Thus emptied, I go to sleep exhausted. The next morning I rise to a replenished never-ending to dos, and most days, I go right back at it. On the one hand I'm proud of this work. On the other, in the clarity of this morning it looks a lot like a response to grief, hopelessness and deep pain. .
But then there are the poppies, rising through the cracks. It'll be alright.