I don't want a body.

I don't want this vessel that cages me, a shell so fragile yet so unbearably heavy. It's a tree trunk, gnarled and twisted, bearing the marks of countless storms, and every knot and scar tells a story I never wanted to hear. My skin, the bark, stretches tight over bones, and every movement feels like a battle against this relentless prison.

I am the river that flows unseen beneath the earth, yearning to break free, to be a mist that dances upon the morning air, unbound by the weight of flesh. I am the wind that sweeps across the fields, touching everything, yet held by nothing. But this body, this cumbersome body, is a rock in my stream, a chain tethering me to the ground when all I want is to soar.

I don't want a body that betrays me with pain and exhaustion, a vessel that demands constant tending and mending. It's a garden overrun with weeds, choking the flowers I desperately try to grow. My reflection in the water is a stranger's, a figure distorted by ripples of doubt and fear. I am a ghost, drifting through the world, unseen and untouched, longing for a release from this human form.

I don’t want a body and the relentless demands to feed it, clothe it, to make decisions about its care and keeping. They weigh on me like the ceaseless tolling of a bell. The need to nourish it is overwhelming, each meal a reminder of this body's insatiable demands. Clothing it is a futile attempt to adorn a statue, each garment a shroud over a form I cannot embrace. Every decision, a choice between discomforts, a navigation through a maze of pain and compromise.

Yet, the earth is patient. The sun rises and sets, the moon waxes and wanes, and in the stillness of a forest at dawn, there is a whisper of acceptance. The ancient oak does not apologize for its twisted limbs; the river does not cease to flow because of the stones within it. They exist, imperfect and beautiful, each flaw a testament to their survival.

I begin to see my body as a part of this tapestry. The scars are not just wounds but trails of battles fought and won. The heaviness and pain is not just a burden but a testament to my strength, the roots that anchor me to this life. I am the forest and the river, the sun and the storm. My body, this body, is a vessel, but it is also a bridge to the world around me, connecting me to the earth and sky.

I learn to breathe with the trees, to flow with the rivers, to rise with the sun. In the embrace of nature, I find a semblance of peace. The body I once despised becomes a part of me, not a cage, but a companion. The garden, once overrun, starts to bloom with resilience and grace. The reflection in the water becomes clearer, not a stranger, but a friend.

I don't want a body, but I am learning to live within it. To accept its limitations and celebrate its strengths. To find solace in the rhythm of nature, and in doing so, to find solace within myself. This body is mine, and it carries me through the storms and the sunshine, through the nights and the dawns. It is my constant, my home.

And perhaps, in this acceptance, there is a quiet, powerful hope. A hope that within this body, I can find the strength to grow, to heal, to embrace the world in all its beauty and pain. A hope that I can be the river, the wind, the forest, and the sky, all within this fragile but resilient vessel that is my body.