You must take comfort in the journey--the grace and the flow of listening to your body day by day, allowing yourself to truly embrace the task of understanding the pieces that make up who you are.  It is its own art form, a daily expression of self-care, devotion to wholeness of mind, body, spirit.

The tightness in the shoulder, the twinge in the hip, the loud mind flitting from one thing to the next--these things are gifts from the natural you that is buried under the debris of the day.  Gifts, yes, gifts.  They are your body's way of making you pay attention, tune in, listen to your deepest self and nourish that voice to fulfillment. They are the simple melody you can't shake, the one that pulses through your veins, dances in your blood until you're left with a song, if only you pause long enough to listen to that first tentative beat, that first pang of rhythm.

One moment your are on the mend, the song of your essence thrumming deep inside you, filling you up and giving you wings; then just as suddenly you forget to listen to that simple melody, that quiet beat of your body as louder noises, bigger demands call to you--distractions from your art.  It is then that your body must get louder, then that it cries out, feeling neglected, for you have tuned out the rhythm, the song of your body.

Healing is the poetry of the self, every tendon mended is a loving word inscribe on your body.  It is a continuous journey, the deepest expression of self--a ritualized performance art that you cannot stop doing, or the very fabric of your essence unravels like a thread from a sweater until you are nothing but a pile of string, no form, no shape, no essence, no song.

You must be the healing art to live, to thrive, to sing.