I think Armistead Maupin wrote in his novel, The Night Listener, that sadness can be a physical thing, “wet and woolen” — he called it.
The connection between grief and the body is inextricable.
Why is it when we are sad, our bodies can hurt?
Or even worse, we don’t connect the hurt that is in our heart to the body in pain?
Once upon a time, I knew someone who was sad. But they didn’t know they were sad. The sadness lingered on the edge of their bodies like a small, shiny sheen. If you had asked them if they were sad, they would say, “What do you mean?” and look away. But their body would lean a little to the edge of things. And when you looked into their eyes, their eyes spoke nothing.