Leveling with My Form

Written By: Brittany Capozzi (“BellaBianca”)

There’s no dishonesty in movement; my neonatal stroke shows its reflection every time.
As I “level”—bring shimmying joints closer to the floor and further away, my brain receives the
truth that shows my whole body working. My body only levels with itself and gets honest when I
belly dance. Perfecting the right knee’s speed of bending to match the left while shaking hips is
not a priority. Inclusion among parts that interact with life differently in all its senses is a priority.
In the hip shimmy for instance, the right part of my pelvis lifts and lowers slower than the left.
Not by much, but the truth is felt in my muscles. Opening and closing fingers opens the sensation
to right knuckles popping and tightening of the forearm. Mirroring the finger details on the left
side brings ease. Right wrist flexes and pushes the hand toward the right as though it’s pushing a
curtain open. I can extend my arms toward the mirror only to see my neck tighten, informing me
that the truth of this reach comes from there, not the arms.

There are different ways to reach by extension. My go-to is when I reach the arms out like a “T”
and bend each elbow. My fingers pull in, up, out and back down as though drawing a wheel
parallel to the wall. I invite my wrists into this undulation, and then finally the upper arms. This
is my version of snake arms. My reptilian limbs and tissues take turns pulling the top of my
clavicle away from the heart. Each scapula nearly hugs my spine.

I have a pattern of “shouldering away” parts of myself, so it’s no wonder I find this part of snake
arms to be self-soothing. My habit is to neglect the right side of my body that has cerebral palsy.
Constant tension. A side effect from the lack of blood flow at birth. While pushing my toes
against the fibers of the carpet, I level with how I could be strengthening the right thumb that
hides in a fist. “The Clencher” I call it. I could be stretching it around the spine of a book or a
mug. I forget that, though tension can get in the way of tasks, I still have gross movement. That a
lack of blood flow did not paralyze me.

While grasping how to level on toes came naturally to me, grasping with parts of “The Clencher”
can feel like anything but natural. As I hold the chain of a necklace that my husband recently
gifted me, I let the right index finger and thumb pinch the lobster clasp. The top of the index nail
just digs into the skin of my left thumb like a bird that wants to hide its beak in the sand. The
fingertip doesn’t have the coordination to open this metal, to open a small opportunity. The world
of receiving gifts isn’t quite absorbed.

What is quite absorbed is the world of receiving pain. “The Clencher” and the rest of the cerebral
palsy side thinks that staying closed, staying hard, will take away the jump that happens from a
pinch of toast against my gum or the click of the light timer turning on and off. That the throb in
my head won’t be set off with the jump. But discomfort happens with tension and ease.
Sometimes the throb feels like it vibrates from one relevant or irrelevant area to the right of my
head. The story of the stroke can strike from any sensation. It’s a wake-up call reminding me that
pain comes with showing up in life, but I don’t need to be in the passenger seat with pain, I am
the driver.

The right part of me and the writing part of me mirror each other. I have a habit of shouldering
away the writing muscles. Forgetting that I’m a writer. Months will pass by without puzzling
around with paragraphs and clicking life experiences into place with each other. Only when I’m
leveling closer to a purpose in the craft, bending into details that matter, do I extend my fingers
across keyboard to get a message out.

Holding fingers in a closed fist over the fear of not grasping an idea, never mind sending out my
writing, is more painful than going unseen among communities. Discomfort working through a
stuck passage offers so much: the practice of patience, of refining vision, of smoothing the
senses, and of showing up in truth. By the end, built coordination opens a small opportunity. Our
stories, our forms, are not meant to be kept in the dark.

 

by: Brittany Capozzi (“BellaBianca”)

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