Walt Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric," but I don't. I supposed I should, but.
I did a body scan meditation in which you focus your kind attention on your body. Starting with the toes of your left foot, Jon Kabat Zinn on the CD said, "If you can't locate your toes, feel what it feels like not to be able to locate your toes."
Failure is what it feels like. Failure. That is, until the pit of my stomach. I blessedly could feel the pit of my stomach because it was almost time for lunch.
I realized with sadness that, instead of singing the body electric at all times joy, rapture O me! O life!, I only notice (as we used to say in the '80s) the bod when needs something. Lunch. A spackel of makeup in a color called Almost Porcelain. Perhaps, after turtling for hours on the computer, a stretch? No. Push through into the usual roachy muscle-bound tense.
Other than a little blush my body is on it's is on its own to gurgle and catabolize and pump and synapse and lubricate and other words that make me kind of squeamish like relax, let go, and enjoy.