So often, I'd show up to yoga class or school and someone would look at my leg or my arm and say, 'how the heck did you do that??' I'd look down, confused, and there it would be--some huge, honking bruise I had no idea was there. I'd shrug and blame clumsiness.
And while it was true--I was clumsy (am still, to a certain degree; proprioception and I are not simpatico), I began to wonder how I could be *that* clumsy. How could I be *that* careless with my body and its surroundings that I'd get these marks with no memory of them? That led me to mindfulness and a whole slew of other discoveries.
It only occurred to me much later to wonder if I was that careless with this body, how careless was I with my mind? My soul/spirit/inner child? What kinds of scars was I leaving there? My inner dialogue, which I knew, generally, had the vocabulary of a drunken, very angry pirate, must be wreaking all sorts of havoc.
So, bravely (I thought), I sat down and listened. And then stopped. Holy cats--too much. I decided, perhaps, it was best just to kick out the pirate and move forward. Because, really, if I was to evict the abuser, what good would it do to give him one last hearing-out, so to speak?
It was a prudent choice, and I'm much more careful now (although certainly not perfect--there's still a goth teen in there who loves experimenting with foulness every so often...) with this mind/body I'm inhabiting for this lifetime. And maybe that's all we can ask--a little mindfulness and a lot of gentleness. A lot of forgiveness. And a lot of leeway for tripping on the unexpected obstacle.
Well, that. And a big, portable, first-aid kit...