Chipped Teeth & Denver

A treasured snapshot from a reading in Denver with my writing tribe. 

One of my most deeply cherished memories. I believe that our bodies are exceptionally wise and that when we are held in the gorgeous love we are joyfully liberated to brilliantly shine.

***

I chip my tooth on the corner edge of the pool.

I bop out of the water like a disoriented otter and race to my mother to confirm a dental nightmare come true: I’ve lost a bit of my front tooth to the chlorine, Titanic-cold waters of the family swimming pool.

Two decades later, my mortification is hotly remembered as I snack on chips before teaching a yoga class. In my speedy chomping, I swallow the bottom tip of my front tooth. The class’s pre-destined theme is on compassion and self-acceptance.

I practice what I preach (with a tad lisp) for the rest of the week because in my eagerness to have my tooth restored and reset, I floss too soon. And OUT! the enamel kernel pops and flies, sending me reeling back to the dental chair where my attempts to flirt with the dapper dentist fall flat as I struggle to smile without showing off my teeth.

Today, after devouring half the pan of cornbread, I stand with a dangling strand of dental floss and stare at a partially filled suitcase.

And I am afraid.

I fear flying off to Denver with a chipped tooth.

The dental floss encounters resistance against my troubled tooth and sudden panic ensues.

I tentatively trace my tongue along the tooth, checking to see if it’s intact -- yes, phew, big exhale, and yet, visions of its problem past reemerge in a cascading swoop.  

Trauma exists within the tooth. Trauma I bump up every time I floss or brush my teeth (which for the record is three times a day, because my parents drilled dental hygiene practices into the routine, and now I cannot leave the house without having clean teeth).

There’s a heightened caution around the tooth that is now as familiar as the routine of brushing and flossing.

And I sense this trauma, I brush and floss around it, I am aware and work with the fear. I typically skim the surface, and don’t give the fearful tooth too much attention.

Except today.

Today as I rummage and muse on yoga ensembles to pack, layer, wear for a trauma-informed yoga training in Denver.

Today I pause and let my tooth speak of its past and feel the reverberation of fear stemming from this small and prominent part of the body.

I marvel at all the memories it holds.  

The tooth is practice.

The practice is allowing the feelings to resurface, to watch the replay with compassion, and to answer the fear with love, forgiveness (there is daily forgiveness in this body of mine), a gentle cooing of tenderness.

Is this a preview of what is to come in Denver?

When I sit in stillness on the mat in a city holding memories of healing, of safety, of deep love and belonging, what feelings will arise? Uncensored and unfiltered, what will my bones be liberated to finally say? What declarations, accusations, cries will boom from my gut?

The body can only speak the language of honesty.

Perhaps I need to fly to another state, another city, another yoga studio to settle enough into my bones, into my skin, into a heartbeat racing to begin again, and mend, to hear and respond with grace to what is clearly spoken, unflinchingly said.

I glance at my suitcase and mentally piece together an outfit to pack. Expectations and desperate hopes seem to be taking up a lot of space. Excitement and promises of relaxation and adventure, too. Those go well with dark jeans and black leather jackets.

Oh, jackets. Necessary apparel this Texas gal needs to greet a cold I look forward to embracing. I like the cold; the bone-deep chill invigorates and sparks clarity.

I contemplate bringing the rose pink suede jacket I’m wearing now, a smart and impromptu purchase I made for my last journey to Denver.  

My autumn trip to Denver exists and spins healing into my systems. A memory living and nurturing my body. The profound love and astonishing beauty of the soul-tribe I meet softens me into remembering and nourishing the authentic light of my being.

I vaguely recall my packing for that trip.

My body dredges in a depression, in a burnt-out ache inflamed by the emotional trauma of betrayal.

My current social atmosphere is toxic.

The body knows truth, and the truths presented to me at that time are difficult to digest.

The body detects the poison in passive aggressiveness, senses the seething heat behind jealousy, interprets the language of energy and informs through sensation, feeling, a bright flash of insight: this person is wounded, and this wounded person projects pain to hurt you.

My body knows the truth, attempts to signal the warnings, strives to inform me to not take the chaos and drama personally, but I do.

I am messily human.

When I love, I give my entire heart to the championing of their journey, expansion of their light, granting grace and spiritually bypassing until I am the scapegoat, the self-proclaimed scapegoat, and my body reacts in fear of judgment, retaliates by closing the front door of my heart to shelter and observe the wounds.  

Writing delivers a remedy, a tonic to address the wounds.

My body recognizes the opportunity in Denver before my mind comprehends. 

Mid-Zumba class, heart-pounding, sweat pouring, the body shouts above the blast of the music to declare that I must sign up and go to Denver for a creative writing workshop.

I obediently take the steps instructed by feeling and follow the magnetic yes to travel to Denver, to bravely answer yes to a writing workshop, and channel the energy required to leap.

I arrive hurting, and am caught without knowing I need to caught by creative luminaries. In their company, I am startled back to the truth that I am lovable, I am loving, and I am worthy of love and all-encompassing belonging.

 This love informs my unfolding journey.

When I think of Denver, when my thoughts trace the memories of that trip, I feel once more the golden embracing of love. I feel the soft rippling of healing nurturing the boundless energy that is mine, that spirited me to Texas to start again, and pulls me back to Denver to reconnect and center in bones and body recovering from trauma.

This trauma is like the front edge of my tooth. 

I avoid. I skim. I accept it as part of the now normal routine. 

Just like before, with the song it sang loudly in Zumba, my body knows there’s another way to live – a life without fear, without avoidance, without holding, because the body craves to thrive, to be joyfully embodied, tenderly and fiercely cared for and gloriously celebrated.

Trust the language of the body to guide.

I place the pink suede jacket aside, because I’ll be wearing my black leather jacket this time, and tuck the dental floss into my case. I won’t force flossing now. I’ll mindfully wait, and I’ll leave additional space in my bag for a few hopes and dreams, while also knowing that the no grand answer awaits me in Denver. 

The healing starts here. 

And so I breathe, and the breath creates the space to see and experience the adventures and answers and the questions Denver has lovingly ready to present to me.

***

Playlist for the skies and for the Mile High City:

                               

*Blessings – Chance The Rapper

*Superstar – Broods

*Straight Into Your Arms – Vance Joy

*Give Me Tonight – Dustin Tebutt

*You Want It All – LP

*Young, Dumb & Broke – Khalid

*Dissolve Me – alt-J

*Location – Khalid

*Clear Language – Balmorhea