Our bodies are beautiful instruments. Lately mine has been a guitar playing a slow, wistful tune in a country band. The occasional twangs in my groin or hip flexor remind me of a radio station that I cannot change. The plucking of the guitar swells in my legs and I am in a dream at the start of a finish line for a race I cannot run. I feel trapped. While my guitar twangs away, my spirit is growing restless. Afterall, this is the only body I will ever have. I believe it's my duty as one who is blessed with the working instrument to learn how to play it harmoniously. I aim to be in tune with my natural environment, the rhythms of my heart, the pulse of my pumping blood. I am thankful to be able bodied and I want to show my thanks by literally jumping, whooping, jiving, sprinting, shivering, swelling up the crescendo of a hill while my breath burns in short, jagged gasps in my lungs.
Instead I am stuck in a repetitive chorus of slight limps and ice packs. It will be over soon. I know. I can already hear the sweet hum of a well-oiled machine revving all its joints. I see the musical notes on a page and they are starting to flicker more brightly with every day that passes. I step off the elliptical machine in the mornings and am overjoyed to feel the "shy"-ness in my groin abating.
The melancholy country band inside me is shifting its tune. The twangy guitar will be replaced with the snappy, finger-picking style of a bluegrass banjo. I will wave my fingers at the sky. I will hop out of bed in earnest. Tomorrow I am going to run on the treadmill.
For my few but lovely readers, may you find some time to exercise as well and delight in the songs your body sings. Play on...
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