Turning human

I am reluctant to identify the causes of my happiness. I just want to tell you that it’s okay for you to be happy and for me, too. Plus some other things.

Instead of being all nitpicky and precise (how has that precision ever really helped? To catalogue all the ways in which things aren’t quite right?) I want to tell you that things can be right, that we are bodies and all the other things, that we want to be moved, in all kinds of ways.

Like me, in Copenhagen today (how have I come to be here? I don’t know. I suddenly could not find a good reason not to be).

After two days of moving, parkouring with wonderful beautiful people, around strong tough bodies, my own feeling like a stomach filled too much, too fast.

I’m sitting on the grass because it’s free movement time, which means I am overwhelmed because no-one tells me what to do and everyone seems to know what they are doing and I imagine that they will expect for me to know, and I imagine that I can’t meet their expectations so might as well not try.

And then, this Dane sits down next to me, and we start talking and she says all the things in my head and then some more, she says: “And then, they probably don’t even care”.

“Hold it right there!” I exclaim. What a good, pure thought. The others, probably, amazingly, don’t care about how stupid I look. We proceed to make a list of barriers to get over, barriers that don’t have anything to do with walls and physicalities, but may be so much more important to tackle.

Another thought that arose during the weekend comes floating back to me, and once more I feel the relief it carries: “I am not perfect. And I don’t have to be”.

Then I look around and watch the others once more.

Suddenly, I start seeing all these other people without sorting them into the categories of perfect (good) and imperfect (bad). We all are imperfect. That’s normal, that’s fine! What else should we be?

I watch them, jumping, that foot, this foot, oh, a little swing, ah la vache ça fait peur, and laughter. We are all trying. It’s fine.

We all have the same sorts of bodies. If the others can do more than I can, if their bodies are stronger than mine, and it looks like nothing scares them, like nothing scars them, then I don’t have to be envious. I can enjoy their vitality, and enjoy the feeling of my own body coming back to life after this hideous hibernation.

And then we do conditioning together and they say “if you still have energy left, this is meant to take it from you” and I’m scared, but at some point I listen to myself and realise that it doesn’t matter. I can stop, I can be slow. I can even do it as if no-one had told me to. After that, things are still kind of hard, but not painful (because now, only very little mental pain comes with the physical strain).

When we are done it turns out they lied to us, because this was like a wake-up call, and now, at the end of three days, I finally feel like moving.

And then, that wise and kind Dane gives me the keys to her flat (she won’t be sleeping in it, but, oh, I may!) and I go and eat greedily and shower for the first time in days, and read a novel, and all my basic needs are filled, and those may be gratitude and love and dreams and I don’t care because when you feel alive, you don’t have to care about anything, ever.


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