I had my semi-monthly acupuncture this morning. (It’ll be in the afternoon next time. Mornings will be for writing!)
One, I felt my hip-bones push my skin into the table. That’s not been a thing for quite some time. I gave it attention, just because it was different.
Two, it wasn’t until I was back in my car driving home that I stitched enough body-talk together to see that I’d lied to my Chinese-doctor. Fine, you can say misled. But I’m notorious for ignoring my physicality until it stages a full union walkout with picket lines, and I’m not interested in cutting myself slack.
See, one of his common diagnostic questions is, “How is your energy?” Makes sense in a qi checkup, right? But he doesn’t ask every session. And most of the time when he asks I realize that, oh right, my butt’s been dragging but as usual I’ve been blowing it off. (Yeah, yeah. Shush.)
But today I was startled. Everything’s going swimmingly. Energy’s been fine, I tell him. We precede according to precedent.
And then in the car, I mentally turn and see my hunger for just-reading, see the two books I finished in three days…only two because I was holding back, pushing myself to “do stuff.” It easily could have been more.
I lay that transparency over one of the book I just finished, the author writing of how far she’d tried to remove herself from her body. Over another of ‘what are your body’s annual seasons?’ out of a recent podcast.
I may not think I’ve been doing much, but I feel tired.
Interesting. Made more so by the contrast with the week I mapped for myself on Monday afternoon. Pretty reasonable, I thought. Now it’s looking like a 50% overcommit. Huh.
I’ll add this to the back burners. Maybe I’ll figure it out during my nap.