There is a story in every line and every curve of this body. It is the body of a man who snores so loudly because he sleeps so deeply because he works so hard every single day. The muscles of these calves are tight with daily hours standing on cement floors. The chords across these shoulders constantly hum with the tension of worrisome thoughts. And anything that catches the attention of this man, documentary or show or audiobook or overheard conversation, catches him as raptly as any animal hearing an interesting sound.

There is only one place this body emerges with freedom and lightness of being. One place where the lies fall away, and this body tells only the truth of what it’s made with and not also how it’s coping.

This body has been a soldier and stood at attention. This body has been a church member and stood reverently. This body has been in the company of friends and reclined into the cushions. This body has been a lover and—well, you know. But every moment it passes through, it has passed through to get to the next moment with a rigidity meant to make the energy last. The lines of this body tell the story of this. But there is a moment where this body pauses for the sake of living in the moment, where energy is not conserved but created. It is a moment where the body lives in peace simply for the sake of existing.

This is my husband, listening to the siren voices of a group of incredibly successful bicycle frame builders. There is no other time I have ever observed him looking so comfortable and in his element. 

The co-ed is sitting on the edge of the fountain, legs crossed, her elbows on her knees.  She is staring down the koi fish. She knows that if she doesn’t turn in her paper on women in the Beat generation, she won’t get an A in the class—but she’s questioning her major. Female retrovirus researchers are sexy, right?

An auto mechanic watches the successful local artist dig around the pockets of his careless cargo pants, looking for a dime. He wonders what it’s like to have a passion for something in life. A kid at seventeen and forty years of grease under the fingernails is all he has to show the world. At least his son is a doctor who drives a classic car that runs well.

The backslidden Christian soccer mom runs into her son’s coach. She wishes she hadn’t gotten married so young, hadn’t chosen the ambitious pastor hopeful who gave her three children and then put it on the backburner in the name of the Lord. She can’t remember the last time she saw her husband wear athletic shorts and a t-shirt that showed off his pecs and biceps.

A high school student sits with his heels on the edge of the chair and taps his notebook with the tip of a pen. He can take the sponsorship this summer and make a name for himself now, or he can take the academic scholarship and compete after he graduates. If only his dad hadn’t died right after he promised to go to college. Now the choice doesn’t really feel like a choice.