Your body is a story shaped by bone and wrapped in tendons and muscle.  You are too often afraid of it, this story, afraid to pull back the skin-like cover and really feel the histories embedded in your marrow.

It knows no other truth but the physical, the raw power of experience; it is made up of living memories, proof that you are nothing but delicious nerve endings and pumping blood, feeling everything, holding back from nothing.  You are each of its curves and scars, a moveable history of your journey through this world.  The baking burn on your arm, faded now with time, the puckered quarter size mark next to your belly button, the smattering of beauty marks and freckles across your skin are parts of a tattoo mapping the person you have become.

Inside you is another universe still, a hidden map of the people you once were, the places you once lived.  And deeper still are the tiny organisms, those worlds with worlds, that make up you though you cannot conceive of those tiny seeds all piled within you.

Too long have you been asked to sit in your chair or idle away hours in empty stagnation to contain the power of your body, to silence the stories.  But your body, your body wants to move, to lift you from that frozen seat and see if you can experience--if you dare to experience--those seeds bursting to life inside of you peppering your history, your memory with new life, new vines in your veins mapping new roads in your ever evolving story.