On Coming Home to Your Body

Coming home to the body is a through line for me these days: learning how to listen to the body, trust her messages, and honor her wisdom.

In my yearning to heal from my old friend vertigo, I see many doctors. I know they're each doing their best to help me, and have my best interests at heart. And sometimes their messages hit tender places inside.

When I get hooked I remember something I learned from poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. After her son died, she filtered people's words through a heart translater, hearing their messages as, "I love you," even if their words came out wonky or ouchy.

Her generosity is a great help to me, as misattunement is one of my wounds. My hunger to be met can cause me to be tender, prickly and shy - even judgmental towards those with whom I don't feel heard.

So on this day, when a doctor offered her advice, I can see how she, too, was saying, "I love you. I want to help you." And after that first shock, she told me the story about how she talks to her body with gentleness.

This juxtaposition - of demand and gentleness, of listening and misunderstanding - became a weaving I explored in this poem.

On Coming Home to Your Body by Karly Randolph Pitman

with thanks to Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

When the physician says, sometimes you need
to tell your adrenal glands to calm the fuck down,
your body recoils, as if she's been slapped.
Why would you talk to your body this way?
As if she isn't already doing everything she can?
But then you remember your friend's advice -
to hear another's words, no matter
how confusing, as I love you.
You wrap your arms around your back,
cradle the butterfly glands
nestled above your kidneys.
What secrets do they hold?
What memories swarm under your skin?
If they scream for your attention,
perhaps there are good reasons
for their need for care.
Listen, they say.
Hold the places that feel alone.
Rock your body with the rising waves.
Your worry is not an indictment against you.
It's okay that you feel afraid.
Your body, in her infinite wisdom,
senses danger and rises up to protect you.
Sensitivity is not a curse, but your companion.
See? She says. You can discern the difference
between welcome and dismissal.
When others leave you bereft,
please don't abandon yourself.
Your fierce desire that others will hear you?
Listen to yourself with these ears.

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With a grateful heart, Karly