My fingers are so heavy. There is so much life in them. So much heavy space.
The space and the life reverberate, pulse together.
There is a symmetry of lungs between my hands; my fingers are ribs.
A sensation like breath travels the distance between thumb and forefinger.
The left side speaks to the right through a mirror of tendons and nerves.
Play this chord, imagine the notes to press, play the chord without moving.
Estuaries of preparation weave up my arms, under the collarbone, over the shoulders, up the neck, behind the face — the path shaped by which fingers want to move, and how. In which combination, in which order.
The movement of moving inside stillness:
it’s not just my mind that leaps and snakes and travels behind my quiet skin — not just organs, capillaries, fascia.
So much of me is living a life I barely know about.
The lives of my cells turn over, begin and end in multi-generations of generation.
Their cycle of beginning and ending animates my days and tows me through unconscious night.
The absence of pain is not neutral. It is not an absence.
It is a presence — vast, brilliant pointillism.
It is a full spring tide: a rising of wellness to the brim of being.
It’s how a plum must feel when ripe — skin stretched in gleaming transparence over an ocean of sweetness.
Globe. Golden orb. Water world.
It is not our skin that holds us in — but gravity, magnet, core.
Core, seed, kernel, pit — the end and the beginning.