Can I share a game I play? It’s simple–no game board, no cards, no tokens required. There’s nothing digitized or energized. You are all you need.
You play by slowly moving your attention around your body. To begin, pick any small part or feature–your chin, your chest, your fingers, whatever. What happens as your attention zooms in How does that body part feel–strong and vibrant? Achey and worn out? And, noticing how it feels, what feelings arise about that body part? Something like satisfaction and pride Something more akin to disappointment or embarrassment? Or, maybe there aren’t feelings so much as memories coming forth. Do your shoulders take you back to a hard workout or football game Does your throat transport you back to a concert hall performance? Old or new, simple or nuanced, soak your attention into this part of your body. And whatever arises when you do that, let it be.
Fighting it, judging it, or devising action plans to change it–that’s not how we play this game. Same goes for fantastically revising the past or dreaming a different future. In this game, we stay with the body and notice what it has to say in the present.
Sitting by moving water might be a useful metaphor for us. When we sit by a stream, our senses take in so many different details–birds soaring overhead or calling to one another nearby; there’s wet clay or slippery rocks on the banks, dividing one world from the next; there are twigs and leaves passing along; and the water traces subtle eddies and crescents as it journeys onward.
We can notice these things, but we don’t experience them. Unlike the bird, we’re not flying. Unlike the twig, we are dry and stationary. It’s all just passing in and out of our awareness, right? The first part of this game is simply becoming aware of a different stream.
The second part is gratitude.
Before our attention moves along our bodies, we pause to give thanks. We strive for authenticity, and we offer up whatever gratitude is available. As I’ve played over time, I’ve said these types of things to my shoulders:
I don’t particularly like how you feel today, but I thank you anyways.
Thank you for lifting coffee cups and motorcycles.
Thank you for still working after junior high football, adult swimming, and years of imperfect jump shots.
Thank you for hugs.
Thank you for looking good in suits.
Thank you for shouldering worries for myself, BaE, Tanyia, and her kids. Thank you for beginning to care and worry about people and groups of people that I know far less well.
Thank you.
It’s not Shakespeare–but it is McCue.
I find it easiest to play this game in a quiet place, away from electronics and people. I find it easiest to close my eyes, for my hands to trace my attention as it moves around my body. And when I am feeling bold, I play this game with my eyes open, standing in front of a mirror in my underwear.
My body’s changed in positive ways in 2022. The data says that I am healthier. It’s dramatic enough that people have noticed and have asked for the secret behind the changes. I’ve noticed that I don’t want to answer by talking about changes in diet, movement, or rest. Nor do I want to credit the love I receive from Tanyia or the encouragement from my coach, both which have been instrumental. The only thing I want to talk about is starting my day in front of the bathroom mirror playing the Body Game.
In the beginning, it was hard to see anything beyond fat, imperfections, and age. That noticing would stir judgments about the goofy shit I have tried and what they might say about me. There just wasn’t much light–things like compassion, acceptance, and love–in that tunnel. Even after things improved, I stood in front of the mirror wanting to be somewhere else, doing almost anything else.
I’m now 47. My hair is thinning and turning gray. The lines on my forehead are deeply entrenched, and the lines around my eyes are working to fortify their own position. My left knee, my back, and both shoulders groan periodically. 3 of my appendages are scarred by sunspots, tattoos, and traces of scabs I couldn’t leave alone in my youth. While I can still run, my speediest days recede with each passing year. My snores, sneezes, and farts are not yet following.
Somehow, I have peace with all of this and with myself. I may even have more for those around me. I credit the Body Game with that.
This Body Game may not be right for you. (It wasn’t right for me for a long time.) Still, I believe the games we play matter, that they shape our lives over time. I hope something about this story moves you closer to your game, the one meant just for you.