Yesterday we spent the day cross-country skiing up at Windblown in NH, the first time on the skis this year. After we had been out for a while and I was cruising across a level spot in the trail, my body reminded me why I love this activity so much–the rhythm of the motion is addictive. Once I start, my body just starts to crave it and doesn’t want to quit. And it feels so second nature that there seems to be an perfect symbiosis between motion and environment, between the pole plant and glide and surface of the groomed trail. Once I’m in the groove, it seems strange that I would travel through space in any other way.
I’ve noticed that my body also craves the motion of biking, and I begin to feel off, both emotionally and physically, when I’m not able to get myself to work and back this way. While the motion stays the same year round, the environmental conditions don’t, and the past month I’ve had to adjust to cold weather riding, constantly tweaking my apparel to find that perfect equilibrium between clothing layers and body warmth.
And lately I’ve been taking swimming lessons to finally get my stroke technique figured out and to feel comfortable breathing in the water. And now I’m beginning to think that the rhythm of the front crawl has gotten under my skin, since I’ve had it on my mind all weekend.
I look to these rhythms of movement to remind me of the mysterious connection between body and place.
On our way to Cambridge on Saturday, we drove by a piano sitting in front of a large apartment building on the corner of Monmouth and Canton in Brookline. It was an older Chickering with keys missing and with a sign for “Death Wish Piano Movers” on the bench. A bed of plants had taken root on the top, prompting Cathy to suggest the title “Chia Piano” for this post. I thought it was perfect.