“She shook her head. Her steady brown eyes held mine, waiting for me to understand. I leaned in and listened to her with my body, willing her to say what I could not. Our breath rose and fell together like the drawing of tides.”
                -Adam Garnet Jones, “History of the New World,” in Love After The End

                It’s possible to listen with my body, isn’t it? Sometimes I forget that. Adam Garnet Jones brings me back so seamlessly. His passage is about a parent and their child, and it has me wondering about all the different ways I can listen with my body.
                I can listen with my fingertips when we’re holding hands. I can listen by looking, someone’s eyes holding my eyes, as the two are doing in the story. If we’re partner dancing I can listen with my weight, pressing into your hand behind my shoulder. I can listen with my breath. Breathing together, like the story describes here. I can listen with my tongue as I hold the taste of water or an apple slice. Listening can wash through all those ways.
                Lean in and listen with my body. Yesterday my partner and I swam out into the sound from a beach on Orcas Island. I heard the wash of the waves, the depth of the water. Floated for a moment, weightless, hearing the lift of seaweed toward the light, the shadow of seals through the currents. If I listen with my body (water on my skin) I recognize how close I am to these drawing tides.