I enjoy the sense of my weight, evenly supported from head to toe; of the various spaces I inhabit—the room, the imaginary cube extending from the perimeter of the mattress up to the ceiling, even the amorphous blob of air warmed by my breath.
I study the patterns formed by slats of sunlight sawn by nearly-closed Venetian blinds, and how they warp around forms on the bureau. Specks of dust blink on and off as they drift through the light grid.
I am also present, as perhaps at no other time of the day, with my body. I drift effortlessly on my breathing; bask in the rare absence of nondescript pain; savor the coolness of my feet moving to cooler tracts of sheet. I stretch luxuriantly, appreciating the easing in every muscle, the blood coursing through every capillary in every digit.
I trace figures in the air with my hand, as if I were
|Image credit *|
Back to 90 degrees, I try to find the precise angle
at which the forearm will remain upright, balanced with absolutely no effort on my part. I marvel at the sheer simplicity of a trick I could just as well have pulled off with a big stick.
I explore all the other dimensions of my arm’s amazing range of motion: flexion/extension, adduction/abduction, supination/pronation and all manner of rotation at shoulder, elbow and wrist, right down to the last joint on my pinky finger. Finally, using various combinations of these dexterities, I trace figures in the air with my hand, as if I were a dancer or choreographer testing the limits of my instrument.
Eventually, my delicious dawdling runs its course and I get up, appreciating anew that the human body is a miraculous thing, and so, as I re-discovery occasionally,
* Image Credit: “Grant 1962 79" by Grant, John Charles Boileau - An atlas of anatomy, / by regions 1962. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Grant_1962_79.png#/media/File:Grant_1962_79.png)