Sensitive.

Sometimes my masochistic mind grabs me by the throat, cutting off the circulation to my brain. Vision goes dark, and I stop feeling; the dissociation is real. They say when you’re feeling anxious and detached it’s important to check in with each of your senses and find ways to connect to the physical realm. Let’s see what we can come up with…

SIGHT

Earlier this month I returned to Chicago after an expansive winter break in Cleveland. Thankfully, I was escorted across state lines by Emily, the incredible author of IN DEEP SHIFT. The final day of her visit, we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which happens to be free for residents on Tuesdays. So much to take in; works about the body, the Caribbean, the consequences of our actions. If you can: go, see what I’m talking about.

TOUCH

I’ve been chasing the validation of human contact, arguably my whole life. In 2019, I realized that I have been selfish and impatient in this pursuit, and since then I have been trying to touch and be touched in slower, more tender ways. The validation takes longer, but less people get hurt. Lately, I’ve been excited by contact improv communities, primarily through the work of aforementioned Emily and Contact Improv Cleveland. Allowing our bodies to come together, touch, and peel away, feeling the entirety of our container and how it interacts with the air, space and others around us is a radically creative pursuit of touch that I want to go deeper into. Next month, I plan on attending a Chicago workshop, and hopefully ground myself into new connections with new people.

SMELL

A wise woman once said “Something smells like onions…” and I eventually have to break it to them that it’s me, I’m what smells like onions. I admit, I can be a bit grubby; I shower occasionally, don’t use deodorant, and haven’t found a perfume that I like, so I hope you can get used to the smell. Who knows? After a while, you might even begin to enjoy it. Personally, I love the smell of my loved ones’ natural stench, a subtle reminder of whose armpit I’m nestled into.

TASTE

When I’m depressed and broke (like I have been these days,) one of the first things that I lose track of is feeding myself. On my journey from disordered eating, to intermittent fasting, to sober vegan, to whatever I am now, my diet resolution this year is “Eat like an adult.” Hopefully this simple goal will keep me from subsisting on black coffee and Sour Patch Kids, thus keeping me from inconsolable grumpiness. This week I’ve been trying to work through all the food in my kitchen, relying on free food from Food Not Bombs and a borrowed juicer. Not only has it been delicious, but the pride I feel from eating a meal that cost me nothing and is filled with nutrients is more satisfying than gas station snacks or getting $15 nachos delivered.

SOUND

While sorting through the piles of papers at my grandparent’s home, I came across this list of songs written by those who took loving care of my grandmother in her final years. She could have a hard time remembering, frustrated by the confusion that comes with dementia and old age. But a sure strategy for calming her nerves and bringing a smile to her face was to put the radio on and allow her to become lost in the song. I particularly love the rating system that was developed; an asterisk means she really smiles, a check mark (or two) will show the songs she will sing along to, and a simple dash next to the songs she may not know, but she definitely enjoys. She didn’t play music in the house while I was growing up, so I cherished this opportunity to glimpse into her personal taste. At her core, this woman was a radical, folk-loving hippie with a soft spot for the best church hymns out there.