50 Words For Snow

Today is touch.

The sinking into a hot bath, the laying on of hands.

The connection between bodies.

The smooth and rough.

Today is the sense of touch.

Yesterday, I sat opposite my therapist.

She is a kind and direct woman.

We talked about sex. Among other things.

And she asked me what I like about my body.

I said that I know what I don't like, but she didn't want to hear it.

I hesitantly placed my hand on my breast bone.

'I like this part of me, right here.'

The epicenter of my peace.

Words can't quite describe it.

Me in the mirror.

The sinews of my body, the changing tones of skin.

My own stern mouth, my angry eyes.

The lines are familiar, but like those of someone I used to know.

My contours don't disgust me like they used to.

I appreciate my own strength now.

I like the muscles, I like my form.

Some of the time.

She gave me the assignment of writing each day about a sensual experience.

Something completely non-sexual, but something pleasurable - to bring me back into my body.

So, today is touch.

I lay on the massage table.

Taryn pushes her strong hands into my back, and suddenly, I am there -

the shrieking pain inside my shoulders, nerve endings that cry out -

I am silent.

She tells me of herself, while she rubs, and stretches, and my breath is me.

My body, my precious aching body.

Sometimes I fear she will break from the things I've done to her.

But she doesn't. She has remained strong, a fighter.

My body is always with me.

She is who I curl around while I cry, because my hairdye didn't work out.

She strikes me, forked lightening, as the sheets crush in my fists -

a voice, distant, crying out - and back to earth, my husbands face the first thing in focus.

She is weeping.

Ovaries aching.

Will she ever carry the weight of another? A seed in her depths, the growth of a tree?

I rise to myself, I look into Taryn's face, and all I can do - is wonder.

Her hands caress the knots in my neck, and manouever my head.

It feels so good. It hurts so good.

And as I am wondering at her, while she speaks of her fiance, and medical marijuana,

I realise that she is unbelievably beautiful.

And I never noticed till that moment.

Touch has awakened an admiration in me.

No longer is the world so grey.

The bare trees of Fremont are suddenly heartbreakingly gorgeous.

I am so lucky to be so completely whole.

My large, muscular thighs carry me home.

My torso bends and curves, a darting dance to the music in my mind.

All is intertwined.

Today is a blessing. I am released, a drug through my own veins.

A song, the vibration of my tissues, arteries.

The braille of my skin.

Eyelids that dip into the ink, to write what I see before me.

Today is touch.

50 Words For Snow is the latest album by the amazing and unique Kate Bush.

It features an um, odd variety of greats, such as Elton John and Stephen Fry.
On the beautiful first track, Snowflake, she sings a duet with her son.

These songs are strange, haunting works of art.

They'll remain with you after the album is over, and discarded in a large, messy stack of CDs.

Kate gets better with age, more subtle - she is like fine wine (or in my case - fine kombucha).

She doesn't center herself in the spotlight - she allows others to share in it.

Her generosity shows in the quality of her music.

Also, I want to give credit to Vibesinthesky, who crafted the stunning music videos I put up for your viewing pleasure. Official music videos for the album haven't been released yet, but I found these three amazing fan-made videos on Youtube.
The flowing, eclectic imagery perfectly matches the mood of the album.

Thanks for reading/listening/watching!

Au revoir!
And return soon!