The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body,
The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out,
The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees,
The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones,
The exquisite realization of health;
O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul,
O I say now these are the soul!
—Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”
The icy water pummels my face into numbness as I stand under the shower and savor the cold. The shock forces a separation—I, and my body. I recognize a being I hardly know.
What is this body? It seems to have a life and intelligence of its own. I watch it move, working, writing, taking in food, digesting, sending out waste. Once it has learned a pattern, the influence of the mind only gets in its way. The much-vaunted role of thought appears slower, stupider.
At the same time, I see that my body doesn’t speak the language of my mind. It doesn’t understand words, only sensation, work, food, deeds. Perhaps the mind can speak to the body in pictures. But no amount of convincing and cajoling will compel the body to do anything. It is a stubborn mule, with its own will, braying noisily at all hours of the day or night.
It may even be that my real aims—my heart’s desire—are latent and resident in my body. For the body is the seed and expression of my nature, born of heredity and other influences. It is a treasure house of innate potential waiting to be fulfilled.
Recognizing the force and power stored up in the body, I see I need my body’s help, so each day at dawn, I look into the sun as long as I can bear, and ask my body to help me. I ask politely and also assure the body that I will strive to provide everything it needs and enjoys.
First, I need to gain its trust because the body has felt disregarded and abused, particularly in its childhood when it was most sensitive. The conditions into which it was born did not serve its interests. Rather they demanded that the body contort itself to please others in weird ways, that it perform for approval. It was shamed, scolded, even struck—punished for its naivete or simply for being what it was.
Now I have to let the body know it is welcome. I make it my business to understand its desires and needs. I see that it enjoys rhythm, so I let it dance. The body enjoys food. I forgo ideas and let the body choose what it likes and needs to eat. Recently it craves canned cod livers in their own oil.
It likes to work, to lift and grasp and make things. To climb. It requires strenuous effort to be well. I see it waking up with vitality in its native environment, in nature, in the forest of trees, in the rain and under the sun. It loves contact with the elements of earth, water, air, and fire.
My thoughts have been deceived into associating identity with my body. Those thoughts believe that I am the body’s appearance, or what it does. The effect is like an abusive master whose skittish charge is ever on edge. The body withers under the shame and manipulations of its overseer.
To regain the trust of my body, the roles need to reverse. I need to seek to know and serve the wellbeing of my body as a creature in my care. This service is not with preconceptions but with attention and inquiry. I seek a felt-sense of the body. I bring awareness into my legs and arms, my organs, spine, and head. When I bring this attention, I see my body begin to open up, to be at its ease, to relax, to be itself, to be natural.
In time, I learn what my body likes and take care that it has the impressions, food, work, and rhythms that it enjoys. In turn, my body opens, becoming healthier and well, less prone to illness and injury. Little by little, the body begins to offer help both in feeling and action toward the fulfillment of my heart’s desire.
This article appears in July 2026.
