I blame the pelvis.
Well, not so much with the not being an activist. It wasn’t much, just a blog post over on what I keep referring to as "the blog" or "the thingy." I should call it "the alliance blog," but I screwed up and made it seem too official, and now I feel awkward about referring to the thing I myself named. Ah, well. But it had to be named, and what else to call it? We’re allies, and we’re in Iowa, and it’s about marriage. But now we seem So Official, like we have press badges or something. I am alternately filled terror that someone will find out it’s JUST US (which is why I made Dan help me finally put the bio section in last night at 11PM, but I still feel like a fraud) and then sometimes filled with terror because instead of laughing they might find us very, very important, and then suddenly there’s pressure. Yes, my neurosis knows no bounds. Now you know why I’m running to Lulu for publishing. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to freak out over that, too.
This is where the pelvis comes in. I’m supposed to "be more in my body," which I believe I mentioned in the last post, the same post where I had a conversation with my root chakra and it told me it wanted a hot fudge sundae. Um, okay? It hasn’t been particularly enlightening since then, though I keep trying to listen to it. I guess I’m starting with the root because–well, it’s the root, and because it’s my low, low back and glueteal area (maximus and minimus–we play no favorites here) that hurt a ton and all the damn time, and everybody and their dog have assured me there’s nothing wrong excepting some weak muscles, but shit do they hurt. And in the meantime I feel like I’m on the rack because they’re wrenching and shoving my shoulders back into place, and I’m doing it too with exercises, and boy are my trapezius muscles unhappy, also all the damn time. So I’m talking to both of them, though mostly the root because it’s where I’m most uncomfortable. It’s an odd thing, talking to your pelvis. I mean, what do you say? "Nice spread?" Mostly I just try to "be" there, pushing my consciousness out of my head and imagining it instead in my seat. It’s oddly easy, though I don’t like it. It feels like trying to drive from the floor of the car, and it’s just plain uncomfortable, like when you were a kid and you went to a different church denomination for a funeral or GIrl Scouts or something. It looks like church, it feels like church, except for the part where everything is wrong about the church.
But, at the same time, good things happen. When I was phone banking on Thursday, cold-calling random Democrats in a vulnerable district, I felt awkward and gangly, and I was stammering (found out three hours later my throat chakra was completely shut off, no wonder), but when I pushed my consciousness down into my hips, I felt a bit more stable. Weirded out, but stable. When I was trying to wrangle my head out of OMG FIGHT FOR MARRIAGE FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT this afternoon and write, it was the pelvis that brought me back. And it was my pelvis that got me through the rough bits at my workout, because I could anchor there, too, and I got the image of my body being like a thick stalk of corn. Have you ever really handled a cornstalk (asked the farm girl)? They are TOUGH. All tall grasses are, actually, but corn is a right bitch. Bends over in the wind, but it’s thick and tough and strong, even when it’s dry. I felt like a stalk of corn, from my pelvis to my head, and it felt good.
It’s the pelvis holding me back, though, too, or I guess to be more honest, it’s me. Except from my perspective, if my body would just let me not be in it so much, damn it, everything would be fine. My body is saying, firmly and calmly, "No. Just deal with me." It says things like, "You won’t believe what we can do once you learn to accept me." Sure, fine, but I’m still not happy about it. I guess, for so long my body has been first this too-tall overdeveloped thing, and then it was too big for shoes, and then clothes, and then it was always hurting, all the time when I was growing up. I remember my legs just aching because my bones were growing so fast, and one bone in my foot was too slow, and it hurt my heels. And I have broad shoulders and a barrel for a chest, and I was always too big to be the lead in the play, or wear the pretty prom dress, or do so many things that I just said, "Well, fuck you, too."
I guess that’s what I say to my pelvis. "Why the hell should I be in you? You hurt me. Okay, I’ll grant you it feels kick-ass cool to pull that lat pull-down bar to my chest and feel my whole back working, and it’s totally awesome to row now, just plugging away, and I’m even getting good at the hip machine. I admit I walk around the weight room feeling cool, and yes, I am totally loving the tighter t-shirt without flab rolls. The jeans stress me out, because they’re expensive to keep buying, but yeah, as problems go, pretty good. But the shoulders bother me. I’m tired of taking drugs, and I don’t want to hurt. I just want to work. Why can’t I just work? Why have you taken my life and turned it from writing novels to going to the goddamn gym and eight zillion appointments?"
I’m not sure what it’s saying back. It feels something like "you need this" and "you’ll be stronger" and there are little shades, hints that I will find that all my work will be easier and better and more reliable and even if I let the body in on the gig. Or maybe I’m telling that to myself, because I do love to fill silence with story. What I do know is that I need to turn around and take a Voltaren, because that trapezius is getting serious about hurting.
I’m also getting a whisper that now my pelvis wants a cup of herbal tea. How profound.
Yeah, I know my body is my temple, and that the body holds all the pain, and it needs to be released. I know. Or, rather, I’m stating to get it. I just. . . well, when I think of my consciousness, it is so very in my head. It is right behind my eyes. Going down the elevator even one stop feels odd and uncomfortable and vulnerable, and I don’t like to do it. But, given my few forays into trying, I can see that being more in my whole self really does pay dividends, and I can see the whisper that I "haven’t seen anything yet" might just be true.
For now, I’m just saying it’s my pelvis’s fault, damn it, because I am the petulant child in this scenario, and that’s a perk. And the pelvis is answering, "That’s okay."
I get the feeling I’ve already lost this war. Well, you know, fine. Just make it stop hurting, for good, and I’ll go wherever you lead, body.