I'm a bit more flexible than the average Joanna, so today while shaving my legs in the shower, I saw on the back of my thigh that I had a new mole. A surprise mole. A mole that wasn't part of me before, but now it's fully fledged and formed on my body for who knows how long. How did it get there? I haven't worn shorts in a while. And how have I never noticed it before, because I swear I shave on a fairly regular basis.
I moved my body back from its contorted position with my razor poised on the opposite leg. As I moved it up from ankle to knee, behold! Another mole awaited for me, this one raised. No, hold on, that's a...that's a scab. That's dried blood. Was I eight years old again and scraping my knees without noticing? My assumption has been that I would be consciously notified every time I bleed, but obviously this is not the case.
I suppose this could've been from the many occasions I've been practicing yoga in the mornings. I don't have a mat, so the carpet has been serving in its place, and maybe I got carpet burn at some point. Or perhaps I banged my knee on the coffee table and didn't find it memorable enough to check for bodily harm. It could happen. There was one time when I accidentally kicked the dresser by my bed and only realized ten minutes after that my sock was bloody and my toe throbbing. This probably paints me as someone who doesn't look after her body. I won't lie; that could be the case. As a martial artist, I have a high pain tolerance. Throbbing doesn't bother me.
Still, that scab confused me. But it shouldn't, when I think more on it. I'm doing stuff in the world, after all, active in all kinds of different ways and moving about. Even when I'm working specifically on my body and paying attention, I miss the ways it subtly evolves. So it's no wonder when I'm focusing on other things that parts of me still cut and bleed and heal and change and grow without my notice. I grow calluses on my feet when I walk, but I don't feel those. I practice writing everyday, but I haven't found improvement yet (or the opposite, thank goodness). I read and read and read for hours, hoping for enlightenment and a large brain and knowledge to seep in instantly and make me suddenly wiser, but honestly those growing pains sound terrible, and anyway they haven't come.
So I guess that mole and that scab are just evidence that I'm still alive. Which is nice. Being alive, I mean.
I moved my body back from its contorted position with my razor poised on the opposite leg. As I moved it up from ankle to knee, behold! Another mole awaited for me, this one raised. No, hold on, that's a...that's a scab. That's dried blood. Was I eight years old again and scraping my knees without noticing? My assumption has been that I would be consciously notified every time I bleed, but obviously this is not the case.
I suppose this could've been from the many occasions I've been practicing yoga in the mornings. I don't have a mat, so the carpet has been serving in its place, and maybe I got carpet burn at some point. Or perhaps I banged my knee on the coffee table and didn't find it memorable enough to check for bodily harm. It could happen. There was one time when I accidentally kicked the dresser by my bed and only realized ten minutes after that my sock was bloody and my toe throbbing. This probably paints me as someone who doesn't look after her body. I won't lie; that could be the case. As a martial artist, I have a high pain tolerance. Throbbing doesn't bother me.
Still, that scab confused me. But it shouldn't, when I think more on it. I'm doing stuff in the world, after all, active in all kinds of different ways and moving about. Even when I'm working specifically on my body and paying attention, I miss the ways it subtly evolves. So it's no wonder when I'm focusing on other things that parts of me still cut and bleed and heal and change and grow without my notice. I grow calluses on my feet when I walk, but I don't feel those. I practice writing everyday, but I haven't found improvement yet (or the opposite, thank goodness). I read and read and read for hours, hoping for enlightenment and a large brain and knowledge to seep in instantly and make me suddenly wiser, but honestly those growing pains sound terrible, and anyway they haven't come.
So I guess that mole and that scab are just evidence that I'm still alive. Which is nice. Being alive, I mean.
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