#6 Pie for Lunch

I am eating pie. I am eating pie for lunch because I just came from a Rolfing session and I had an intense emotional interaction with my right psoas and today the only response to such things is pie. Sour cherry. A year or so ago it might have been chocolate cream, the one they make here at the Blue Stove Bakery, where I am sitting. Their chocolate cream is almost like chocolate bitter fudge with whipped cream to add that little extra lightness. But I have moved on to fruit.

 Here’s the catalyst. In November I decided that I had had enough of frozen painful hips that audibly creaked and clicked every time I stood up, that made me clutch at railings when I tried to climb subway stairs, made me afraid I would fall down on the subway floor when I got up from the seat.

 What’s the backstory?

All of the times I was fat in ballet class, fat in improv class, fat in fill-in-the-blank amazing, heart and body opening somatic practices with gurus who were also clear: you are fat. Being complimented on my dancing and amazed at my size. Being many things but never cute.

Yesterday I took a private class with Paula and in the side twists over the right leg I realized: this makes me want to kill people. All the heavy gray collects right in the hip and my heart sinks and there is no hope in the world at all. In my mind I yell at the yoga teacher “fuck you why don’t you help me!” That is what I want to say, but I don’t because it is yoga class.

Once coming up from a side twist I hit the girl behind me deliberately.

No!

Who was that?

Can’t imagine.

On retreat when the group sang my first chakra healing into me, I saw my whole lower half crumble and melt away into dirt. I smelled loam and peat and there were trees and water somewhere and sun. There was viscera of whatever I birthed out, not a recognizable thing, blood and twisted sinew and guts and bone. It melted into the earth.

Yesterday in meditation, a surge of enormous energy too huge to contain, the concrete cracked, like in the game Sharon and I used to play, imagining Mrs. LaCrosse dead and we’ve buried her but her fat surged and seeped up through the cracks in the playground asphalt so we would get found out and put in prison but then we’d tell the jury about her crimes of meanness and we’d be released as princesses.

 This morning I meditated and a huge grey cloud arose out of my right hip. I said “hello, welcome.”