Have you ever felt your body hum? That’s palpable pleasure. Palpable (definition: capable of being touched or felt) is one of those words which goes with pleasure. It involves the tongue, the lips, and takes a concentrated moment to say. It sounds like pleasure.
When you are surrounded by simple pleasures, simple treasures that caste a light, that are pleasing to your eye, your body lights up too.
Your mouth is key to pleasure. Take a moment to sit with the fullness of your mouth, its plump internal cheeks, its ever seeking tastebuds, its warm saliva, and notice how it feels. Babies know, they seek life through their mouth, literally. Feeling their way through touch, feel, taste, with no point of view.
Running your hand over silk, fur, velvet, soft skin, feathers, through foam. Parting the creaminess of a good brie, a gooey blue, a languid cream brulee or heaping a spoonful of stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth world’s best roasted peanut butter is only worth imbibing when done slowly. When being present. In the moment. Without guilt. Savouring every sensual mouthful.
For pleasure trumps guilt. Every time.
When our kids were little, and I was pushed to stand still, I learnt to knead and bake my own bread. Making your own bread takes time, focus, presence and a little magic. And surrendering to the process fully, brought untold pleasures my previous corporate self never knew. When consciously immersed, being a mother can be sensual, hummable, expansive, luscious. If you just stand still.
I would knead the dough rhythmically adding the extra fine flour until I could plump and round it like a baby’s bottom. Smooth and soft, and robustly promising, it would rise. To be gently punched down, kneaded, and rounded again. To rise yet again. And watching it rise in the oven and fill the kitchen with wheaty warmth would mellow me. The sound good bread makes when tapped on the bottom is the sound of good things to come. Our two year old son would wait, little breaths escaping from his anticipating mouth, and as I sliced it in half, he would put his nose in its warm, toasty softness. We would get butter. Real butter, and cutting off the generous end crust, sit on the floor in buttered, bready bliss. He was two. I felt like five. Our eyes would meet and a big smile would light up our shared doughy presence. Satisfaction rewards those who take their time and pleasure their bodies.
Simple pleasures are the best. Folded linen, folded socks, order, quiet, books stacked, pantry full, toys away at the end of the day, clothes on a rack, pens in a row, colours in a sorted rainbow. Treasures on quiet show. Home made, hand made, hand written, hand sorted, hand washed, hand loved. Palpable pleasure.
When your body hums, it means it’s receiving, like an antenna, energies that feed it, code it, nurture it, connect it, harmonise it, centre it, inform it, navigate it, and nourish it. And when you are not present with pleasure, you cut the flow. You diminish the fullness, the possibility, the full expression of you.
So if you are pushed, are rushed, are IPhone glued, are goal pursued, are Instagram distracted, are child overloaded and spiritually malnourished. Just stop.
Take a breath. Drop your focus to your body, feel its warmth under your skin, its fullness in your mouth, the round of your breasts, and warm internal hum, and reconnect from the inside out. Then seek something beautiful. Right there.
And let the pleasure arise in them there bones.