I have always had a love-hate relationship with my body. Mostly I love to hate it because most of the people around me when I was young taught me that it was inherently defective, but certainly I have regarded it as a disposable commodity that will always recover, though sometimes slowly, to the (mostly physical) abuses I have dealt it.

If there is a wall in front of me, I have run through it.

Sleep was optional.

First aid for wounds, in the absence of band-aids, has quite literally been dirt and gravel so I didn’t have to come out of the game.

You get the picture.

Now closer to 60 than 50, that strategy doesn’t work very well. I am having to allow myself to recover (what a novel concept) from injuries large and small. If I don’t do adequate self-care, instead of limping along in agreement with every hair brained idea my mind comes up with, my body goes AWOL. It reminds me I am not in charge. This is a major adjustment.

I’d like to write more, but I have to rest now.