Posture

I haven’t been told to stand up straight since I was a teenager, but these past months have turned me into a slouchy scold; I’m constantly admonishing myself to stand up straight. Shoulders back. Chin up. Back straight. Also, shoulders away from ears. Because my default these days is to lean in, curl forward, tighten, tighten, tighten. Arms, crossed. Legs, crossed. Life inches my shoulders nearer my ears.

This curling in first happened the day Cooper died. As family congregated in the yard, I sat in my usual hammock swing, legs drawn into the swing with me, a sweaty, stunned ball of fresh grief. Of shock. The next day, after I’d written Cooper’s obituary and we’d been to the funeral home to finalize arrangements, after I had a few gruesome details, we went to the farm–our home base for the week. Many hours later, after talking and planning, forcing food into my system and rehashing every imaginable moment, I fled on the four-wheeler. I’d ridden for a while when I realized my usual strong, upright pose had been replaced with a round-shouldered shell of a person with barely enough energy to steer. That was the beginning of my new posture.

I find myself turning in, curling in, daily–creating a shell. Shielding myself. From what, I’m not sure. Nobody cracks a lash across my back. Nobody beats me. My wounds are not physical, although my pain from those wounds often is. Sitting in church Sunday, I realized I’d crossed my legs and arms tightly and was squeezing an elbow or forearm with each hand. The tension in my body, even in a safe, accepting place—a literal sanctuary—had my shoulders, arms, and hands rigid. I fold in on myself, unconsciously making myself as small as possible, pressing into the corner of the pew. Somehow, I feel safer and more comfortable wedged into a corner. Supported, maybe, by the back and arm of the pew. Controlled by my wooden barrier.

I wake in the night, my arms again crossed, my hands on opposite shoulders. Was I dreaming? Could it have been a Cooper dream? Or am I hugging myself? Hugging someone else? Consoling myself? Hiding or protecting myself, fending off a bad dream? I don’t know. But several times each week, I wake tangled in my own arms, my neck and shoulders stiff from an awkward position, a pose maintained for who knows how long. I’ve shrink-wrapped myself in grief.

I stand from my desk, leave my room, and head down the hall. The entire time, I’m pulling myself up, pushing my shoulders down and back, lifting my head. Trying to lift myself by the crown of my head as in yoga. Grief is inside, intangible, but it pulls me down, rounding my shoulders, slumping my back, dragging my feet. Clenching my fists. It’s a fight. A battle. I’m wearing my armor.

As a teen, I battled confidence and peer pressure and self esteem. My posture was an outward sign of internal struggles. I see the same pattern in my students. Eventually, I learned to hold my head high, keep my shoulders back, stand as if I had a reason. That lesson is surely still in there somewhere, waiting for me to heal, to remember, to stand tall. But today and for so many days, standing tall takes effort. Moving with purpose and speed takes effort. Sometimes I’m too distracted by the background noise of my mind to remember my posture. Sometimes, I revert to some earlier life form, curling in, curling up, in order to survive the day.

Posture tells us so much about a person. It’s a window to their mood and confidence, to their perception of self. Posture helps tell our story. Some stories are so clearly full of life and joy. Packed with hope and inspiration. Others? Well, I don’t recommend my story. It sucks.