My body is a miracle of art, science, and mystery. What is it teaching me?

Oh sure, at a deeper level I get all this and there is not an hour that goes by that my body is not teaching me something, whether the student is listening or not!

I basically stunk at art during grade school. I used my body to fish out an old rusty motor from a swamp, dragged it home to dry, then brought it to school and set it on the corner of my 8th grade art teacher’s desk because I liked the abstract qualities in the thing. I figured I’d get an after-session for the stunt, but instead my art teacher kept it all year, and gave me a “B” for the year as well. That was my first awareness of body and art.

My science teacher, a strange character if there ever was one, kept a stack of chalk-laden erasers on the corner of his desk. When kids daydreamed or fell asleep in class, as I did, he’d hurl an eraser at his target and laugh when it struck in a cloud of white and yellow dust. That’s how I learned science.

As for mystery, it’s a marvel how this rack of 67 year-old bones finds his way to the gym in the morning, gets on a machine and manages not to fall and land on my face―yet. With a nod to the art, science and mystery of my own body, I consider it a blessing and wonder that the pieces keep working and that I am still here making noise.