Every cell in my body feels heavy. Even the mitochondria are tired of churning out the effort it takes to keep me running. I woke up unrefreshed but with a feeling that going back to sleep wouldn’t change that. Am I discouraged because I am tired or am I tired because I’m discouraged?
My coffee grounds were percolated as if hitting the strong option on the Keurig could somehow endow my brew with the power to change my cellular fatigue. I drag myself to writing group all the while knowing my writing is sprained and I worry it could be torn at the ligament—the piece that connects my words to any worthwhile meaning.
During our kindness meditation I learn to send wishes for connection and fulfillment and joy to myself. A younger me says ‘yes, that is what I want,’ while the older and fatter me, weighed down and nearly drowned by the years, struggles to believe in the hope, in the possibility.
We send kindness to body parts, but I need it distilled to a more microscopic level. I need someone to get in Ms. Frizzle’s school bus and with the diligence of a pair of Mormon missionaries, knock on each cellular door to spread the message of hope. Is it possible for me to be so kind to myself that I can receive it into every nucleus of every cell?
If there are nearly thirty trillion cells in my body, is it any wonder healing takes so much time and work? Somehow that thought leaves me less discouraged than when I began. I may not know a more efficient way to care for every piece of me, but at least I have somewhere to start.
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