How to healing

Your body is not small.

The total surface area of the human lung could be spread to the height of a brachiosaurus.

If you want to heal,
you must first
find every bruised place.

Your body is not obvious.
It sheds forty thousand cells
every minute,
and who knows how many of those
were the last to remember
the bruising?

Just in case,
count their ancestors
in your census
of pain.
Even a cell can inherit a wound.

Next,
you must tell somebody
where it hurts.

You have to be specific,
and this may take some time.

The human heart beats 100,000 times per day.

If you want to speak to someone about the beat that was broken,

they will want to see it. They will have to search for it.

They will sift through everything you keep in the pockets of those rhythms.

Together, you may find some old cuts.

Add those to your census, too.

Some days it will seem that you are getting more wounded for the searching,

but this is healing.

Step one, the tally.
Step two, the telling.
Step three, the treatment.

All steps happen at the same time, but you have enough elasticity for this.

Your body is not small.
Your body is not slow.
Your body is not helpless.

It will be healing itself
as you search for what needs healing.

A cut will become a scar, a bruise will become a perfectly healthy cell afraid of the dark.

The human body is made of ten trillion DNA cells. You could be stretched to the moon and back again,

1500 times.

In a lifetime, it will feel like this is exactly what has happened to you.

Fifteen
hundred trips to the moon and back,
and boy,
are your cells tired.

Tired, but not small.

You will have to lean into yourself. All of yourself. To the top of the dinosaur and back. To every expanse of you.

Take a close look.

This is a treatment.

You will have to step into a dark room,
give yourself roses and chocolates and promises you can keep.

The cells don’t need to forget the dark.

They just need to forgive it.

This is a treatment.

You will have to apologize for every time you kicked yourself.

A body deserves more than to be afraid of itself, ashamed of itself.

This is a treatment.

In the accounting,
make a note of the muscles
that wish they could cry.

Let them.
Stretch them.
When they sob so hard it feels like aching,
soothe them.

This is a treatment.

Tell someone that you hurt. Where you hurt. How you are healing. Where you beam with delight.

Let them bring more joy to you.
Accept it. There is room.

You have many more trips to the moon to make.

Your body is not small,
but you can only carry so much.

Let the telling empty you of bruises.
Hollow the pockets of your heart of everything except the memory of how you care for you.

Pack your cells with joy until it is what they know best, and what they trust most.

Be abundant.

Joy is light.
You can lift so much more of it than you can imagine.

Imagine.
Imagine.

This is healing.