Drape my body backwards over
something round,
press together the blades that
hold my wings, boldly
splay my hips, tip
my head away
and leave my mind
behind, throat
cried open, belly soft; try to
trust parts of me I cannot
see to support, ribs arched and
heart thrust forward
to receive.
What gives you joy?
Are you able to let yourself experience it?
How does delight live side by side with life’s difficulties for you?
I’ve had a hard time allowing myself to feel joy lately. I’ve been hunkered down, curled in on myself against the onslaught of physical pain and cognitive fuckery. I’ve been… not-OK.
The life happening around me is good, better than good, but the body (and psssst: brain IS body) in which I exist is failing me, in a most cruel and vindictive sort of fashion. And despite being genetically predisposed to self-deprecating humor (Eastern European Jew here, of the Ellis Island variety), even the darker parts of my laughter can feel inaccessible. It feels… dangerous… to let go enough to feel and express joy, or even some small bit of humor.
I want to repeat that, so I can recognize it and really start to dismantle it: it feels dangerous.
Because in the split second I crack a joke, pull a face, giggle at some absurdity, I’m leaving the comfort zone. (Confession/advice: binge-watching standup from non-cishet-white-male comics is therapeutic. Therapeutic, I say. Does insurance cover Netflix?) In the moment I react to some delightful input, the protective perimeter I’ve set up as a buffer is shattered.
And yet. The moments feel good, when I let them. They’re a release, and a relief, even if for just a few seconds. I want them to feel as safe as the pain does.
I want to be more at home in joy than I am in pain. (And thank you, Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock. Yes, I’m that old, damn it.)
I did once. I want to again.
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