Listening to Your Body’s Silent Language

Sometimes, I feel like my body is trying to tell me something I’m not quite hearing. It sounds silly, doesn't it? But after thirty-four years spent guiding young minds through Shakespeare and quadratic equations, you develop a certain… attentiveness. An ability to notice the subtle cues people give off when they *aren't* saying what they mean directly. And lately, that same kind of noticing has turned inward.

It began with my walking. Always a brisk, purposeful stride – necessary for navigating school hallways and keeping up with Bernard on our afternoon walks through the woods. But then retirement came along, as it does, all quiet and spacious, and suddenly I was aware of how *I* was walking. Not in a critical way, mind you. Just… observing. A slight drag here, a subtle stiffness there. Things I hadn't registered before when I was rushing from one obligation to the next.

What surprised me most wasn’t just the physical changes, but what I started reading about—research highlighting that our posture and movement can actually reflect how we're *feeling* inside. It seems almost too simple, doesn't it? Yet there’s something deeply satisfying in the idea that our bodies aren’t these isolated machines; they are intricate maps of our internal landscape. A young researcher – Danielle, I believe her name was – and her colleagues found a fascinating connection between protein intake and mood.

Apparently, when someone doesn't get enough protein, there can be changes in how they walk - subtle shifts that might indicate a downturn in their spirits. It felt almost… visceral to read that, like it confirmed something I’d suspected all along: the body knows things the mind hasn’t quite grasped yet. When Phyllis and I had our little autumn equinox gathering last year—just the two of us, sitting on the patio with glasses of lemonade – I was pondering this very notion. How much do we truly listen to ourselves?

I've always believed that a good cup of tea can solve almost any problem. And while that’s often true, it’s not always *enough*. Lately, I've been more mindful about what I’m eating. Not in a restrictive way—goodness no! I still adore Bernard’s apple pie and those raspberry scones he makes on Sundays. But I am trying to be more aware of the building blocks I’m using when I construct my meals throughout the day. A little more salmon, a bit less sugar. Just small adjustments.

It's quite remarkable how even seemingly insignificant choices can accumulate over time. Those few extra grams of protein each day might not seem like much, but they *do* register in my body – and potentially, I suspect, affect how those walking trials turn out. I’ve started paying more attention to the ease with which I move through the garden. The subtle sway of my shoulders as I prune the roses. It's a continuous conversation, really—a gentle questioning back and forth between mind and body.

And it has given me an unexpected gift: a deeper sense of self-compassion. There are days when the stiffness returns, when my stride is shorter than usual. Instead of berating myself for it – "Get moving! Don't be so slow!" – I simply acknowledge it. I listen to what my body is telling me. Perhaps I need more rest. Maybe a little extra protein would help. It’s an ongoing process, this tending to oneself, and it demands patience and gentleness.

This isn’t about fixing anything that's broken, of course. It’s about deepening the understanding of how everything connects - the food we eat, the way we move, the emotions we carry within us—it all weaves together to create who we are at any given moment. I find a quiet sort of joy in this ongoing exploration; a sense that even in retirement, there's still so much to learn, and that perhaps, the most valuable lessons come not from textbooks or lectures, but from simply paying attention to how we walk through the world.