Laird Hamilton has a body.
A real good one.
I'm in awe of a good body.
Because no matter how the world can disagree,
(religion calls it a sin, science says it's a machine, hollywood says it's money),
To say we don't obsess over our bodies is to say that a bear doesn't shit in the woods.
I believe the body doesn't lie. It doesn't lie.
The hands of an old woman show her age like the whites of the eyes show health.
The muscles of an athlete show determination, strength,
the color of your skin shows your genetic DNA.
Yet a 'body' is also the nave of a church, the content of a book, a collective mass of water, a group of individuals, the main compartment of a vessel...
And Laird,
that body,
He says the body is a 'vehicle',
needing fuel, maintenance and a driver.
So I've decided I am an old, restored car,
I slow down on good days and speed up on bad ones.
I prefer the highway as food for thought.
I choke when I fill up with low grade fuel
There's an American flag on my antenna to
remind me where I last parked
and that compass to remind me where I'm headed.
And when I start to look worn, tired, past my day,
I want someone to listen to my story
My year, my make, this mileage.
The body doesn't lie.
