As part of my plan to start taking better care of myself, I went to a yoga class this morning. A very gentle, almost pre-beginner class.
I knew that every part of my body hurts, but the class was an intimate, precise confirmation of all of those aches and pains. Such silence, such attentiveness to joints and muscles, to all kinds of things, bodily and otherwise, that I try to ignore.
Why is my left side such a problem? I wondered. The order in which the pain revealed itself: left hip, left calf, left knee, left shoulder, left forearm, left middle finger, left side of my head.
Josh was left-handed. Ah.
As we packed up our things at the end of the class, a woman who looked vaguely familiar came up to me and introduced herself. A former neighbor, from across and down our old street. I asked after her family. "I'm a grandmother!" she said proudly. "And you had the two boys, right?"
I nodded. We moved from that house into this one when I was pregnant with the boys.
Her husband was and, it turns out, still is, on the vestry of the church behind our house. I asked about the current goings-on there, and offered nothing at all about myself.
I wonder whether she goes to that class every Saturday morning.
Always something. As if the video of the little twin boys filling the internet all week weren't enough.
Batter my heart . . . .