The writer's body must be moved.

The care of this one mid-sized body, of this one small apartment, of this one physical life, takes so much time each day, so much attention in the early morning, in the middle of the day, and at the end of the day, that there is little more than one or two hours of good writing time left! 

And that is to say nothing about keeping the soul alive. That is not to mention the need for social companionship, and how many hours are needed for arranging it, for being nurtured by or merely tolerating that social companionship. I must acknowledge the amount of interaction and interrelationship time is required in order to keep this soul from shriveling. 

Every day the teeth must be cleaned, even if I don't have problem teeth. Still, brushing and flossing takes a moment or more every morning and every evening. 

Every day the body must be taken for a walk. The walk must be outside for the soul to feel refreshed. Even though some days it is raining, some days it is cold and blustery, some days it is hot and sweaty. Still the walk must be taken. The bones must be moved in their joints. The body's weight must strike the path over and over in it's repeated swinging rebound. The vibrations must be sent through the bone structure to keep the minerals depositing upon the lines of stress so the bones retain their resilience. The joints must be felt, moving smoothly or resisting movement the way a rusty hinge aches against my pull. The alignment must be worked on. The lengthening, and springy twisting of the spine must be explored and encouraged to keep the disks healthy. This is all joyful work, all pleasurable time. And nonetheless, it is time removed from possible time spent in writing, or reading about writing, or just reading that which will bring the mind back to words and images and sentences and space and paragraphs. 

I will confess to trying to do both at the same time. I acknowledge that I, like many others now, will take my smartphone for a walk. I will plug my ears into the sound of my recorded voice, my own voice reading me back what I have previously written. I want to make double use of that time I call walking time. 

Every day, food must be prepared, eaten, and the dishes washed and put away. Each week, often more than once a week, shopping must be done. There is no one else to do it. The writer must become the cook, the epicure, the food reviewer, the kitchen wench. The writer must put down his pen, put away his computer, find his keys, and drive to the store. The writer must have written his shopping list and must then look at his shopping list. He must choose the right banana bunch, choose the right brand of yogurt, prevent himself from filling the basket with too much for one person to consume. The writer must consider the possibility that he will be feeding more than himself in the next few days. Won't there be a need for more greens, more potatoes, and perhaps some fresh fish for the guest he will cook for this evening? 

Should the writer berate himself again for staying up too late last night? Will it make his neck and head feel any less tight if he now says to himself what he should have done? Or more importantly what he should not have done? 

Should he waste any time thinking about his neck and back and sludgy mind, or would it be more productive and more helpful to enjoy the presence of this moment, to simply begin moving? And if he starts moving, which direction, and how much, and how long? The body must be moved to keep it from getting stiff. The body must be cared for. The muscles must shorten and lengthen and shorten and lengthen again quickly or slowly in activity that can be seen, or preferably in activity that is merely play pleasurably felt. The mind's berating is only wasted effort. It does not get the writing done. 

The writer must also read. But before he can read he must decide what time of the day is best to read what. So he goes into a period of thinking about planning to take certain times of the day to read particular kinds of writing. The hard reading, that which is dense, important, or challenging to understand--that cannot be done in the evening after dinner, after a glass of wine. That cannot be done in the afternoon when drowsy eyes are liable to close in mid-sentence. That cannot be done right after lunch when the writer's boyfriend is wanting to curl up in the smoothly deployed wall bed--"assuming the position" as they call it, the position of two spoons in a drawer, the position of such deep sweet satisfaction that it must not be ignored, must not be missed if and when it is possible. The writer must accept these gifts of body pleasure into every day. Without these there is no point in the embodied writer's life. 

So what time is left in the day to actually sit on the couch with pen and paper, or stand at the counter contemplating the laptop that perches there, perhaps typing swiftly, and perhaps rereading, re-writing, re-reading, and then deleting half of what was written before. What time is left in the day to sit back and gaze out the window in fertile contemplation of what needs next to be written? 

It does not matter that the writer was once fairly athletic. It doesn't matter that the writer was even long ago a professional dancer with all the new length and brightness of body that it takes to extend one’s limbs out into space in wild abandon, to careen and cavort and fling oneself off the ground, and then to cushion the landing. It does not matter that the writer has studied anatomy and physiology and the subtle workings of inner body movement. It does not matter that he has learned to sense nuances, both kinetic and kinesthetic. It does not matter that the writer's hands have moved others to joy and pleasure and health and freedom. Or maybe it does matter. 

Anyway, today, again, the writer’s body must be moved.