January 26, 2016
I always wondered why he was so uncomfortable with his body. It was such a good body: whole and lean and well-muscled, coordinated, capable, swift-moving and strong. It built things, fixed things, created things, chopped wood, made art, propelled itself gracefully down a frozen canal. Yet, like a woman of a certain age, he felt compelled to keep it covered, choosing colorful plumage, to be sure, but ashamed of what was underneath, worried that if people saw, they would be repulsed. He was so much freer when nobody else was there to witness. Even I was an impediment.