"The story is in your body."
The fact that those words play over and over again in my mind tell me that there is something there I need to pay attention to. What does it mean?
Is the story in my twisted back, still bent from scoliosis despite surgery when I was younger?
Is it in the deep and intense pain I felt first in my upper arms, then throughout my body, for which there has never been lasting relief?
Perhaps it is in my heart; perhaps it is in the virtual body of my emotions. Is it tucked beneath stifled feelings or forgotten dreams?
Do the relentless hot flashes that keep me awake at night hold the key to the story?
Is the story hidden within the deepening wrinkles on my face, or in my sagging eyelids, or perhaps in the dark circles beneath my eyes?
Maybe the story is in all of these things; it could be in none of these things. The one thing I know for sure is that it is only in telling it that I will find out.
So, I write.