Catapults, the Body


I’ve been thinking a lot about the composition of my body. I feel certain that I’m not the only human that has done so. While I was online, I came across an image of a woman at the age of 20, and an image of her grandmother at the same time:


(image found on Reddit.)

Seeing this picture reminded me of a journal entry I wrote September 6, 2012.

>>>>  I run down the hill. The hair in my ponytail sways back and forth, going speedily, the rate at which it goes is faster than the motion of my hips. My chest bounces up and down and my bum echoes the motion. My arms swing back and forth and I feel my muscles expanding. My skin is slowly misting with sweat. I breathe the morning air through my nose, it recycles and comes out my mouth. In spite of all that I put my body through- I still love it’s pieces. . .

My body keeps a better record of my life than I can keep with my pen. The scar on my left wrist, the sun tan lines, the freckle on my back- all are there- and all have a story to tell. My nails were painted, but last night I scraped the paint. My hands curl when I’m writing- and my legs are crossed when I sit. My eyes- a place that has seen anger, sadness and most of all, laughter and love. My brown and curly hair that is soft and fuzzy. My arms, thinner, but still carry stretch marks that will probably always abide there. My wrists are so skinny and little, one of the purest part of skin and bones on my body. My legs are covered in hairs, bristling against my pants. . . . My ears that can hear my sister asking how to spell a word. Someday they will hear my daughter ask the same question.

When I shower, I realize how much of me there is- but as I look at my thighs, I can’t hate them, for in the raw, there is something special. It is my body. And this body, this gift- is so special and perfect because it is imperfect.

These ears, toes, smile crinkles, they all came from my family. My collarbones, hipbones, and knees have been passed down from centuries of grandparents. My skin isn’t white- or brown- or red, it’s all of these. My arms are a pecan brown. My stomach, soft white with a glimmer of shiney-ness where stretch marks lie. My thighs are tan. My lips a purple pink. . . Yet, with all my un-eveness, I am here. And this is true- I am unique. . . . All the pecularities, they are gifts from my grandmas, grandpas, aunts. . . . I have been developed. (edited for grammatical clarity.) <<<<

I struggle consistently with remembering that my body is beautiful and that it is precious. Remembering that pieces of me were passed down until they culminated to form me, helps.

My body is an heirloom & it is a valuable.



I am starting to begin to recognize how my mind learns and retains information.

First, after reading or partaking in a lecture, it is helpful for my mind to do  manual labor. Washing dishes is the best, but cleaning up horse manure, or folding laundry are also quite effective. Further clarification on the dish washing- I find I have more thoughts and my mind makes more connections when I wash the dishes by hand. For some reason, the process of having all the dishes on one side, all dirty, and then slowly, them transforming into clean dishes is symbolic, I think. Maybe my mind relates it this way; I have all these thoughts, theories and facts in my head. As I organize dishes, my mind is organizing my new knowledge.

Second, If I have someone to share my knowledge with, I can further establish in my mind how I made connections. I even begin to see even more connections. It becomes a beautiful learning process. I get all excited and fluttery when my mind gets going like this.

Third, after my manual labor step, and I share my knowledge, then I write about the process, my mind further catapults.When I write out my thoughts, I start to really feel my mind expand. Actually, my soul expands when this happens. Being able to state as succinctly what my mind is wheeling through is thrilling. The sound of the keyboard being tapped to, my fingers trying the very best they can to keep up with my mind-thoughts.

I experience joy when my mind catapults this way.