The Myth of the Breeze

I attended an all day writing workshop yesterday where we were asking to participate in a number of free writing activities. Prompted only be the phrase "I remember a time when...," I was surprised by the things I wrote about when I was asked to stop thinking and keep writing. We were asked to share our writing, no matter how bad we assumed it to be, after completing the exercise. It is embarrassingly uncommon for people to share their most impromptu and formless work. This was one of my exercises.

I remember a time when my body ached as a child. My mother always called it growing pains. Pain that your body feels when it begins to stretch and shift its shape. The pain was dull and begged me to tug on body parts and stretch my legs out and twist my back. The pain was a sign for me to let my growing body become used to it changing form. I am not sure how long the time was between growing pains and grown pains. Perhaps no longer than ten years. Now I sit at 25 and can discuss my ailments as an adult, can discuss my grown pains. But the pain now is different. It begs for stillness and relaxation. The knots in my neck are at times alleviated only by me keeping my head pointed towards the floor, much in the same direction as it is pointed now. And when I lift, my chest pops and my neck acts as though it has forgotten how to hold my head up straight. My mind must actively tell it to do so, lest it fall and examine nothing more than the sidewalk. I am suddenly reminded of myself at the checkout to a store, straining to make eye contact with the salesperson but feeling that sting in my back.