Body: The entire material or physical structure of an organism (def. by freedictionary.com)
I feel my sense of my body changing in this new home. All of a sudden, I am taller, when 📷I think of my self, I encompass two-stories, two bedrooms, I am a tall, narrow thing. I didn’t think so much of it when we lived in the yurt, perhaps because the yurt was shaped so much like my body, round, that it didn’t feel like a new sense of self. Yet, this is very new. I now have an internal upstairs that mirrors this physical second story I’ve yet to have as an adult. My walls are now made of wood, not canvas. The furniture is big and heavy, a three-inch-thick slab of wood longer than my arms can reach is an island-counter in the kitchen. There is granite. There are decades of peeling paint poly-urethaned over to preserve the gorgeous way it’s peeled, like an abstract painting, like my freckled skin.
My body, this new body, is filled with vaguely-organized baskets and boxes. From here I can see the mending basket, the take-with-me-to-work basket, a fabric basket, another fabric basket, a chest of books and blankets and towels, a box that has a pair of Cooper’s jeans in it. All kinda disheveled, merely set down, and now staying in their disarrayed places set. I hope 📷my organs are more organized than this, but maybe not, disheveled bits of food, blood, nutrition, oxygen, sure, tuck it in here, or there, wherever there’s room.
I’m grateful and I’m wildly curious who I will become with this new body. This new
capacity for holding.
People often link homes to foundations, as if it’s this thing you are simply stepping on, rather than the skin and the mud and the faucet with which I fill my self. It’s a mother. It’s a body. It’s my body. And it’s growing me.