Having a body had been a relatively reliable source of delight and ease for most of my young life. Certainly, I developed the customary teenage body-image blues, and more times than I can remember, my knees got scraped, my ankles sprained, and my heart badly broken. But I always felt lucky that nothing significant had befallen me physically. No major bone breaks. No big surgeries. No hospitalizations. No serious illnesses. Just me and my body navigating life together, taking it all for granted — until I no longer could.
On a steamy August afternoon, after ten weeks of inpatient living, I finally left my New York City hospital for familiar environs, friends, and family in western Massachusetts. I had with me a plethora of gifts and get-well cards, a topography of new scars, and an inconclusive diagnosis of Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
As unimaginable as it now seems, I spent the next months in diagnostic limbo — again. Under the care of doctors at a local hospital, many things got called into question — again. More conflicting pathology reports, inconclusive biopsies, aberrant test results, differing opinions, and the development of new, confounding symptoms. I was informed that the treatment protocols for different diseases and types of cancer were high risk and at odds with each other, and that there would be deleterious results if wrongly administered. Uncertainty was not letting go without a fight.
That winter, I succumbed to increasingly intense back pain. We initially thought it was from the immense amount of time I was spending in bed. But as the pain worsened and the drugs required to keep me comfortable were exhausted, it became dire. I remember lying in bed in a haze, being asked to rate my pain level. I thought of those charts in doctor’s offices with faces numbered from 1 to 10. I wondered if there was a “12.” I had never known such pain existed, and it was hard to imagine I would survive it. I wondered how other people did. I meditated on women the world over who had given birth. It helped.
In early March, after half a dozen vertebral biopsies with indefinite results, and the day after my thirty-third birthday, I underwent a successful lumbar resection and fusion surgery at Massachusetts General Hospital to remove my cancerous L3 vertebra. Rods were screwed in place to stabilize and “cage” the majority of my lumbar spine, something I was told would keep me from spending the rest of my life in a wheelchair. Renowned orthopedic surgeon Henry Mankin woke me to tell me that I indeed had Hodgkin’s lymphoma that had spread to my spine — now stage IV — but that I was going to be okay, and one day I would come back to the hospital in an orange dress to dance the tango with him. I eked out, “Okay.” What else could I say to an invitation like that?
For a month afterward, there were a precious few days when I was able to leave the confines of my apartment and move my new body slowly around town. Invariably, an acquaintance would stop me to tell me how good I looked. It was always shocking to hear, but I could imagine how it might appear this way to the eyes of the unknowing. Months of pain and surgeries had thinned my body from Rubenesque to one that fit better within the narrow confines of “normal” on the ideal weight charts. Weight loss of this magnitude seems to warrant excitement, praise, and envy. My thinness triggered people’s ingrained assumptions about how well things must be going, and how happy and healthy I must be. It was truly an out-of-body experience each time someone remarked on how good I looked, when I felt like I was cheating death every day. I became more aware of the baggage we all carry concerning our bodies — and the gap that exists between what we assume when we look at another person, and what is true.
My illness taught me greater empathy for the wounded places inside everyone that we cannot see, touch, or imagine — and not to take what we see of each other at face value. So many of our illnesses, struggles, and disabilities are hidden, and many people who appear to have disabilities are, in other ways, far more intact than we might be. The most important parts of us long for the sincere invitation to show themselves and be acknowledged, in both our brokenness and beauty.
The surgery to remove cancer that had metastasized to my spine repaired me and readied me for treatment. But it did far more than that. It cracked me open, and taught me unmitigated awe for the capacities of the body to function, to repair and recover, to heal, and to carry on. It opened my eyes and heart to better appreciate the courage with which so many people live their days. The human capacity for tenacity and resilience is perpetually astonishing. I learned that our bodies are a never-ending blessing worthy of our full-blown, moment-to-moment appreciation and wonder — no matter what.
Our eyes see, but only our hearts look through things to find their meaning . . . Our ears hear, but only a listening heart understands. — Brother David Steindl-Rast
Our bodies are a miraculous, mysterious landscape. Though you may tend to think of your “body” as merely what you behold in a full-length mirror, or as the parts that clamor and creak for your attention, your body is actually far more than what you see and feel, and far more than even the inner workings of your formidable, yet fragile, frame.
In this very moment, you are fully alive. Your body is quietly executing thousands of extraordinary feats simultaneously, mostly without your noticing, offering myriad blessings in every moment, mostly unconditionally. This fact alone should render us speechless. If all we ever did to inspire gratitude was to turn our attention toward how much is effectively happening in our bodies without our effort, we would find ourselves in a state of perpetual awe.
The simple practice of not taking your body for granted can open a door to great appreciation for life. It is difficult to turn our focus away from physical changes or distress, all of which seem to want every last morsel of our attention. But it is important to be able to directly experience the fact that with a slight shift in focus, the challenging sensations and experiences of the body are dwarfed by the larger context of all that is working. Learning to facilitate this shift in attention can have seismic ripple effects in many areas of our lives.
The body is paradoxical in all of its magic and messiness; it embodies us as it confounds us. It is both mighty and meek, independent and dependent, resilient and fragile. We can experience debilitating injury or illness in one part of us and absolute well-being in the rest. One day, we are healthy; the next, we are sick or impaired. We may wrestle with acute or chronic illnesses, addiction, or pain, and still appear absolutely physically fine to the outside world. Those who look unhealthy may outlive us by decades. Giving birth to new life: ecstasy and agony. Injury and illness: what was broken often heals with greater strength. Aging: as we experience diminishing physical strength and fewer days in which to take it all in, we simultaneously grow wiser and more comfortable in our skin.
Holding empathy for ourselves, we can lean into all of our bodily experiences with interest and curiosity, better able to welcome the lessons that are ours to learn, and ones that open us to even more appreciation. When we feel more connected to the body and its endless aptitudes, it is natural to want to comfort and care for it. Facilitating this empathetic connection with our bodies can deliver meaningful healing, and it is not necessary to wait until we feel more well, whole, or worthy to begin.
When you practice grateful living and hold your body as sacred, it leads to a gentler and more interconnected sense of wholeness and belonging. It is easier to remember that we all have bodies that require nourishment, experience pain and pleasure, generate comfort and discomfort, and accomplish great feats simply to function. You can become better attuned to the nuanced wisdom of the body and all its senses as you listen. Awakening the body to greater self-appreciation is its own reward, for the body is what we wake up in every day. It is literally where we live.
The deeper we live the life of our bodies, the deeper is the upwelling of love. — Stanley Keleman
It is the body that gives us life, this life, and the ability to be alive to experience everything: this moment, this feeling, this hardship, this sensation, this love. As long as we are still breathing, our bodies carry everything we are, everything we undergo, and everything we will become. The body is our sacred home.
We can count on the fact that our bodies will offer marvels and beauty, and we can also count on the fact that they will offer abundant opportunities to be disappointed and challenged. This goes with the territory of all that is beyond our control. We take up residence in our bodies, but our bodies are residents in the larger world. We bump into things, and people bump into us, sometimes by mistake, sometimes on purpose — all of it leaving imprints. We carry visible and invisible scars and wounds: evidence that we are vulnerable to and interconnected with the systems outside of us. No body is exempt from being impacted by forces beyond its control. No body is separate from the cascade of its history. This truth humbles and unites us all, and calls on us to deepen the empathy we offer ourselves and everyone we encounter.
When we allow ourselves to tune in to the body, there will be an abundance of sensation and instruction to notice. The body offers us infinite opportunities to gain insight and act accordingly. And, at the exact moment we may be dealing with the challenges it presents us, it will also present countless reasons to be reverent and grateful. The body wants our grateful companionship.
Committing to slowing down and communing with our bodies offers an experience of intimacy. When we take the space and time to notice what arises in and from our bodies, we can be enlightened. We can discover and heal a great deal of hurt with attention and appreciation alone.
Sensation: Your body has the capacity for tremendous, endless sensation. You can attach all kinds of stories and feelings to sensations, but it is powerful to greet them as they are and listen to what the body is conveying. Understanding your physical experience as sensation opens you up to a more pure encounter with yourself, leaving the judgments of your mind out of the picture and allowing healing to have a presence.
Emotion: You experience your emotions in intensely somatic ways. When you want to understand more about your emotions, it can be productive to turn toward the body to learn more. Where do you experience a feeling? How does it arise and change? What is it telling you or asking from you?
Intuition: Your body carries wisdom and intuition to guide you. We call these messages our “sixth sense” or “gut instinct.” If you invite your body’s intelligence to surface, you can more quickly and accurately register when something is true and when it is not, or when a situation is to your benefit or when it is not. Intuition is alive and wise in the face of life’s uncertainties, and your body is a tuning fork for truth — if you listen.
Befriending the body helps us remember that, as Jon Kabat-Zinn says, “as long as you are breathing, there is more right with your body than wrong with it.” What may make the biggest difference in how we experience our bodies — and therefore in how we experience life — is where and how we focus our attention in any given moment. When we slow down enough to absorb the nourishment of our attention, and bring grateful perspective to our bodies, we can practice remembering all that is operating in our favor. In this remembering, we are better able to access the gifts of grace, empathy, and awe.
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When you slow down, settle into stillness, and regard your body as your one true home, what sensations and feelings arise?
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What aspect of your body are you aware of feeling most grateful for in this moment?
I stand in awe of my body. — Henry David Thoreau
Every minute of every day, we take so much about the body for granted as it humbly chugs along, breathing, metabolizing, pumping, and moving us from one point to another. The body is truly extraordinary — we can and do count on it for so much.
With the sheer number of things that can go wrong at any time, and the number of forces that have to function and cooperate for any of us to get out of bed every day — much less move from one spot to another and do what we do — being alive is nothing short of miraculous. I don’t use miraculous here to mean lightning bolts from heaven or having your one, big wish granted. It is simply so miraculous to wake up to another day that this alone can enhance our perspective enough to live gratefully. There is no end to facts about the systems of our bodies that can deliver us into awe if we offer our attention: circulatory, respiratory, digestive, immune. Each crucial to our well-being. Each inextricable from the others, collaborating doggedly to keep us alive every single day.
No matter what may feel imperfect about us, as long as we are here, there are so many things functioning perfectly at all times. Pause and allow these statistics to enrich your perspective:
Even if we cannot immediately cure what ails us, we can cure our perspective by learning to be with and treasure the truly amazing nature of the body. This kind of gratitude and compassion can help to serve the changes or healing that we may wish for, too. We can gain great benefit from choosing to regularly and intentionally marvel at our body as nothing short of an absolute, unconditional miracle.
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What aspects of your body inspire your awe?
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What parts of your body want to be held with empathy?
And I said to my body, softly, “I want to be your friend.” It took a long breath. And replied, “I have been waiting my whole life for this.” — Nayyirah Waheed
The mind-body connection is one of the most powerful relationships we have. Our intentions, self-talk, beliefs, fears, and longings all have impact. Our cells are reacting, dying, and being born in every moment, allowing for the body to both suffer an illness and transform from it. This transformation is not brought about by the will to correct the disobedient body you have, nor is it based on judgment disguised as self-love. Rather, it is a transformation at the level of collaboration, cooperation, compassion, and care — all available to us at any time as healing.
Healing is not the same as curing. Curing implies putting something completely behind us. Out of sight, out of mind. Healing brings everything with it, with thanks for lessons learned. Whether a cure is accessible or not, we can always heal, and we can always be an agent of healing for others. Leaning in with compassion and appreciation, we can nurture our connection to our bodies as we would care for a beloved child. This is a healing we need not wait for — and it is one that can never be undone.
When we entertain a sense of possibility, we move forward from exactly where we are, and exactly who we are. We do not need to wait to be better, different, or perfectly anything. We open ourselves to dreams and visions of what can be, mindful of the ever-present array of opportunities. With practice we can focus our attention on all that is intact, all that serves us, and continually remind ourselves that we are fully alive right now — and that being alive is an extraordinary, unconditional gift.
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When you feel truly grateful for your body exactly as it is, what are you helping to heal? What other forms of healing feel more possible from this place of grateful self-care?
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How might appreciating your own body increase your empathy and compassion for the struggles of others?
I will praise my body whose middle-aged belly
Protrudes and whose knees have grown knobby,
This foolish animal shape who guilelessly
Stared back at me from the full-length mirror
Of a doctor’s office two days ago.
Because it is still rain- and sun-loving matter,
the same that splashed lake water as a child
And rolled like a colt in June grass.
And I am never more satisfied than when I am
Walking or pushing or lifting with it,
Loving even the ache that follows,
That assurance I am rooted with earth.
— Francine Marie Tolf
A desire to kneel down sometimes pulses through my body, or rather it is as if my body has been meant and made for the act of kneeling. Sometimes, in moments of deep gratitude, kneeling down becomes an overwhelming urge, head deeply bowed, hands before my face. — Etty Hillesum
Your body will disappoint and delight, betray and bless, hurt and heal you. Through it all, you can be sure of one thing: your body will accompany you through every moment of your life. It will hold you and all of your experiences as long as you are here. It is your formidable and delicate home.
Grateful living reminds you that the body is worthy of your most grateful regard and is always available to receive your care. No matter how broken you might feel, remember that you are always whole. And you are always a source of awe, just as you are. It is a hugely generative practice to bring greater tenderness and empathy to the body — yours and others’.
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May you hold the miracle of your body with awe and empathy.
Stop. Look. Go. Practice
Allow your body to soften, wherever it is, exactly as it is. Open to the possibility of appreciation and ease in relationship to your physical self. Commit to feeling everything gently. You may want to take a few moments to sit or lie down, resting comfortably, feeling supported. You can experiment with putting your hand, or both hands, on your chest. Let yourself notice, really notice, your heart beating and your lungs breathing.
Stop: Enjoy the opportunity to devote your attention to being still. Become conscious of your breath. Follow a complete inhale-exhale cycle with your full awareness.
Look: Focus on how much is happening in your body every moment without your effort, without your having to try to make anything happen. Hold the idea that — no matter what else might feel true — your body is nothing short of spectacular. You are more than any one part; you are even more than the sum of all your parts. Your body is a precious vessel. You are alive right now, and that is a fact to be treasured.
Go: Write down three things about your body that are working and for which you feel grateful. Whenever your mind slips into negative thoughts, interrupt the pattern by reminding yourself of these three things, saying to yourself: I am grateful for my body. Focus on everything that is functioning well.
Create a physical gesture of tenderness and care, such as placing your hand on your heart, to offer yourself if you get stuck in judgment. When you are caught in what feels wrong, let this gesture be a healing reminder to your body that it is deeply appreciated and that you hold yourself with tenderness.
Perspective Prompts
Our bodies are alive, and we have no idea how long this is going to be true. We live every day inside this great mystery, and yet it is extremely challenging to acknowledge regularly. Denying or ignoring the fact of our impermanence keeps us from the work of befriending our body. Our body deserves to be treasured, now. It wants to be celebrated as it is — broken and whole. We give ourselves an irreplaceable gift when we praise our body every day as our temporary, extraordinary temple that offers the gift of being alive.
Let yourself be drawn into the poignancy of your body in this moment. It carries you with such generosity and commitment in the face of all its unknowns. Live as a celebration of this love.
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I gratefully celebrate the extraordinary home of my body.
No matter how much separates or differentiates us, everyone alive right now has a physical form, one that experiences suffering and pleasure and all manner of sensation: a body that makes everything possible, and yet a body for which much is impossible. The body unites us in the magnitude of our amazing similarities. No matter how different we are from each other, we are connected through our breath, our hearts beating, and all the systems that support us in being alive. No matter what distinguishes us, our bodies invite us to know each other as kin.
Feel yourself nestled in the embrace of the universe — that which holds you among all people throughout time — as an embodiment of life-force.
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My body is a unique expression, connecting me with all of humanity.
When we revere life, we can better appreciate all that is extraordinary, functioning, and whole about our bodies. We celebrate what works, knowing it could always be otherwise. Staying mindful of the suffering of others can help us reframe our own. And what our body has endured may be the exact reframe that someone else needs to gain perspective. We are each other’s teachers, keepers, healers. Appreciative of our own scars, we can be respectful of the wounds of others. It has been wisely said: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
Allow yourself to feel grateful for the countless aspects of your body that are working exquisitely in every moment. Notice all the good fortune you enjoy through your body, right now.
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I gratefully acknowledge the countless privileges and gifts of my body.
Many of us espouse strongly principled commitments to well-being and health. We say we care about and appreciate our physical selves. And yet there may be great dissonance between what we say and where we actually put our time, attention, and energy. You will be well served to be clear about what you value about your body and then find ways to remember and act in alignment with these core beliefs. Living with appreciation and integrity enhances your perspective.
Clarify your values and principles about your body. Write them down. What guides you? Hold this guidance close whenever you tend your body.
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I am aligned with clear values that guide a loving relationship with my body.
As physical beings, we use our senses to experience life. How often do you find yourself sleepwalking through a day, and then catch sight of something, a beautiful bird, flower, or smiling face, and your heart wakes up? The sound of your favorite music can crack you open. A certain smell or taste can make buried memories surface. The power of our senses to stir an archeology of positive sensation and memory is profound. These pleasures can be potent medicine, especially if you have been wounded by pain or illness.
Remember your senses and how they deliver pleasure and blessing for yourself and others. Sharing gifts that open the senses moves the heart of both giver and receiver to joy.
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I appreciate my body’s tenacious ability to discover and know pleasure.