But now, not so much.

I never learned to knit though she tried to teach me in her frustrated impatient way subsequently pointing out that effort and practice was required. I now regret my inadherence. And, how much I now admire the clicking needles and synchronized movements of a skilled knitter.

Instead of spending time seated in focused concentration on a pattern, my feet beat the tattoo of my heart into the pavement of city streets and sidewalks, bike paths and forest trails. Running released me and gave me time and distance. I learned to use my body to escape my mind. Back then, knitting did not invite me and I think I missed out on the use of hands in rhythmic creation. On the other hand, I did refinish old furniture and hardwood flooring, banisters, and cabinets, but that experience involved more of the whole body.

I also never learned to play piano despite the lessons. And, the violin didn’t stick despite the special purchase of the music stand and other parental hopes for my achievements, despite the course at school. Much to their dismay, I didn’t practice during retreats to my room. When I did practice, the nagging voices which eventually produced compliance made it feel like torture, and no doubt the sounds corresponded as my frustration scraped across the strings.

I did, however, skate and won competitions and spun in circles of parental approval until the social ones in high school drew my attention. The rink became secondary, they divorced, and I found reasons to run. I ran marathons, and half marathons, and 10ks, and I ran nearly every day through every season. But more recently, I’ve noticed that running does not produce the relief it once did. So I slowed the practice, replaced it with other movements, and found strength in resistance. Yes, I’ve been a runner, but now, not so much.

I am one of three women gathered around a glass table at the back of a black and white themed hair salon. We are draped in black smocks to cover our clothes and each of us has a pastiche of foil and coloured paste painted into strands of hair which stick out at odd angles. I smile at this scene and begin to imagine backroom conversations among the stylists; ones where patrons bring pictures looking for transformation oblivious to the limits of their own physiology, ones where the demands exceed their abilities and require magical powers. And yet, these crafts people remain hopeful offering attention and suggestion and anti-aging in brush strokes. I wonder at my own physical vanity and decide to embrace it.

I walk home listening to a podcast and I hear Dr. Jud Brewer say, “We are learning to divorce ourselves from ourselves”, and the words arrest me. Wait, what? I think more on this and realize the truth and absurdity in this idea. I remember a male doctor telling me that I was “too young to be in perimenopause” when I described the profuse sweating at night, the difficulties falling asleep, and a few other physiological changes. I contemplate this scene in a doctor’s office. He used his textbook knowledge to place categories onto my experience; his ranges and norms and statistics guide his thinking while my life is guiding mine – what else could he do? It was beyond his own experience and in keeping with his training. And why did I need a category or diagnosis anyway? Now, well beyond this time, I realize the somatic divorce began much earlier.

Once home, I walk the dog, booties on his feet to protect him from the salt and mud which makes its way into the house despite my fierce defence. Joy bursts from his body on these walks, but we prohibit some of this; we need to deter the stick chewing – he swallows shards of bark and twig which later get vomitted up on the bedroom floor at night. He learns quickly that we deny this joy, so he decides to mark the stick with pee. Territory, I think, and imagine his inner monologue. If I can’t have it, then…