Good Friday

It may seem strange to do this on a very grey, cold, wet Good Friday, but I'm going to do it anyway: thank my physical body for working so hard to keep me alive. Over the last few years, I have occasionally said (and it wasn't hyperbole) that it was a miracle that I was alive. And it is, I guess I realize now, by any standard. In a bizarre way, my physical body has been as direct a reflection of the inner message that I spoke of last time ("you do not exist") as the outward circumstances of my life have been. I don't think I've abused it by most people's standards -- I haven't been an addict, or self-harmed, or jumped out of airplanes. But I also haven't been in a position to really take care of myself either. It's our physical body that is most, well, physical -- it "exists." What a bizarre time mine must have had trying to accommodate the contrary message that I didn't exist. What kind of crazy tightrope it walked, on the one hand hearing that message, but on the other, knowing that its primary duty was to keep me alive, even help me thrive. Through inexpensive and junk food, constant moving around, injuries that had to self-heal, and just plain aging, it has done just that. I have truly the most remarkable body. I am so grateful to it and love it so much.

These last ten days, I have felt rather like a bug on a windshield much of the time, squashed flat, exhausted, achy, and congested. It's not like my cells can turn on a dime, revive, and move 180 degrees in the opposite direction, any more than my soul can. But both body and soul are relieved to have finally faced the monster, to know it speaks rubbish, and to be singing the words "I dare to exist" to the most beautiful music I can muster from within. And if that isn't appropriate for the hours between Good Friday and Easter, I don't know what is.