My memory is faulty about some of my most intimate details. The ritualized reunion of meeting my face in the mirror each morning is a constant reminder of how little I know about the scars on my forehead, the growing discoloration of my teeth, and the constant sparkle in my eyes.

Standing in the shower only continues this awkward scene. What shape does my torso hold this morning? Are my legs really that skinny? What does he think of me?

And then in the evening I go to yoga class where I am forced to sit and feel my body: it’s tightness and tingling and my mind’s own frenetic pace. This self! Is it really the extent of me?

I am not attempting to describe a lack of confidence, but rather a modern life that is somehow alienated from its physical essence.

This reminds me of a Sunday morning from my youth. I was attending the weekly Baptist service with my family and trying to pay attention to the sermon. Suddenly the head-rush feeling overtook me and I began to feel unattached to myself. As I listened and looked at the globs of color and texture floating around me I was fully convinced that this reality was my own contrivance. The preacher spoke of forgiveness while I contemplated colors and erections; the slowing of seconds and my growing thirst. I, and my body, were the creators of the world!!!

Tonight I feel settled in my skin, but I am sure the morning will find me lost once again.