fbpx

If I had a Book Group

I ordered a book a few weeks back, but have basically avoided it since it arrived. Well, until a couple morning’s ago when, reinforced by strong coffee, I opened it up and dove in. Since then, I’ve barely put it down: The Wisdom of Your Body: Finding Healing, Wholeness, and Connection Through Embodied Living by Hillary McBride, PhD

If I were hosting a bookgroup, this is DEFINITELY what we’d be reading and discussing together! Here are at least a few reasons why I’m so taken by what’s within these pages:

  • An appreciation of my body, not to mention any semblance of acceptance, is a long way away for me; it always has been.
  • I grew up in a world that prized the split of body from mind; thinking reigned supreme. Even though I no longer accede to this, it is still what my brain (and body) are used to.
  • In full transparency: I don’t know how to come home to my body. But I want to. I pretty sure I’m not the only one.
  • I have often felt, especially in the last 5+ years or so, that learning of and practicing embodiment is the “final frontier” for women (including me). It seems to me it is what “remains” as it relates to our ability to fully embrace our inherent and ever-present wisdom and strength.

If any of these things sound or feel remotely familiar, read on . . . I’ve included a few of the most poignant quotes I’ve highlighted so far.

Regardless of our circumstances or what we have been told about bodies, remembering and reuniting with our bodily selves is a radical act to undo our need to earn our worth. . . 

. . . many of us have forgotten ourselves as bodies. We did so in order to survive the pain or to be compliant, but in the process we left behind so much of the beautiful. 

. . . body-image research shows that the closer we get to achieving our ideal appearance, the more conditional our sense of self worth becomes, and the more we fear what it will cost us when our appearance inevitably changes.

I used to think that the sacred place where I met the Divine was always somewhere else, somewhere that was not “here” in the rhythms of my daily life. But now I see that the Holy is very much here — my body is a sanctuary, a mobile home of the Divine.

So good, yes?

A quick addendum: I had this written and ready when I happened to see an email that included the transcript of a recent sermon by Nadia Bolz-Weber. I couldn’t not include at least an excerpt for those of you who, like me, have an understanding (or lack thereof) of your body that has been heavily influenced by the church.

“The wildness of human variation isn’t a mistake — it is a sign of the glory of God — and yet we made it a sign for the value and ranking of people. Leave it to humans to take a gift and turn it into a curse.

But your body — your body is not a curse, it is a chariot.

It is a glory and a wonder. An individual container of the holy. It is a glimpse into the image of God. And it deserves so much love and respect for it has carried you through every day of your life — even every day of Jr High. Think of THAT.”

You can read the whole sermon here. It’s brilliant. She is.

Worth repeating: “. . . your body is not a curse, it is a chariot.”

May it be so.

For Days of Self-Loathing

I came across a poem a few weeks back by Nikita Gill. The corner of the page was folded down — evidence that I’d read it before. I have no memory of such, which surprises me — given how worth-remembering it is. I’m pretty sure you’ll agree…

Affirmation for Days of Self-Loathing

On the days you find the mirror hard to look at,
remember there is a myth which says<

the face you have in this life
is the face of the person you loved most

in your last.
I know it’s just a myth

but think of how much more love
you would give yourself if it were true.

No matter how much has changed in my life over the years, how much I have changed, one thing has remained the same: my highly-honed and quick-to-activate self-critique. It’s caustic, harsh, and sadly, seemingly endless. “Self-loathing” is an accurate naming.

I don’t like admitting this.

It’s not all of me, of course. It’s only one voice I hear. Sometimes I can completely ignore it and other times dismiss it out-of-hand. I don’t even agree with it most of the time, but still, it remains — sitting in some dark recess of my mind, waiting for a moment to spring, and muttering under its breath in the meantime.

I sometimes hear myself say, “Oh, what I’d give to weigh what I did when I was 20, 30, 40, even 50…” Or I look closely at my 61-year-old face and wish for the skin I had during those same decades. But here’s what is true: I was just as critical of what I saw even then! I was just as unsatisfied. I was just as self-loathing. By sake of comparison, there was nothing to complain about! So, here’s what is even more true:

Self-loathing has nothing to do with our weight or our skin or any manner of things we might wish were different; it has nothing to do with the mirror at all!

We have internalized the belief that we are not acceptable as-is. We always want something to be different, something to change, something to be altered or adjusted or improved. Always! It doesn’t seem to matter if we’re 16 or 61, the pattern persists.

There has to be a better way, a braver way, a way to finally-and-at-last see ourselves as beautiful and whole no matter what.

A few mornings back, I woke up to this question:

What if I WAS the person I loved the most?

What would that mean?
What would that require?
What would I start doing?
What would I stop doing?
How would that feel?
Who would I be?

There are a million more questions that flow from these. I hope you’ll give yourself the time and space to ask them, that you’ll let yourself hear your most honest and vulnerable answers. Not the ones that rise up, unbidden, from the self-loathing voice that natters on. Instead, the ones that barely whisper from deep within. Harder to hear, to be sure; far more reliable and true.

It’s hard to imagine, given how familiar we’ve become with self-loathing, but were we to love ourselves the most, all the voices (and demons) within would be silenced — forever and ever, amen.

Underneath self-love (and an end to self-loathing) is something even more primary:

We must believe we are worthy of love in the first place. Others’, yes; our own, even more.

I wish there was some simple formula for this, some mantra we could repeat, some genie in a magic lamp, some potion to drink, some switch to flip. There’s no such thing. (But oh, the efforts of Capitalism to convince us that there is! We are bombarded by formulas and mantras and magic and potions and switches the instant we open Instagram or Facebook.)

No simple formula, *just* a life. This life. Your life. And mine.

A lifetime to let go of self-loathing. A lifetime to disbelieve and unlearn the lies. A lifetime to hear and trust our heart. A lifetime to allow, even welcome self-love. And maybe, if Nikita Gill is right, other lifetimes, as well.

1000 Words on Aging

Being 61 is not what I expected…though I don’t know that I could tell you, with any degree of specificity, what I did expect. I’ve never given it much thought; at least not in practical or concrete ways.

I have friends who have been super intentional about planning for their future; others who are afraid of it. Both ends of this spectrum feel alien to me. I’ve barely considered savings or retirement, have not stuck with a job long enough to accumulate much in 401ks, and rarely-if-ever reflect on the “what-ifs” that could yet exist – whether related to the economy, my health, or the circumstances of my life (not to mention the world).

I’m not suggesting this approach (or lack thereof) to aging is a good one, simply that I’m now here and constantly surprised by what it looks like, what it feels like, what I look and feel like!

The reality of aging, of being “old,” has always felt incredibly distant, like mist and shadow, a someday I’ve not planned for or given much attention.

Whether I’ve prepared for it or not, had expectations of it or not, it is clearly here – at least according to the world around me. I cannot spend more than 60 seconds on Facebook or Instagram without being bombarded by posts, reels, and ads for miracle skincare regimens, exercise programs for women “my age,” and clothing for the “mature” woman. I rarely fall prey to such messages, but still, they take their toll – subliminally (and blatantly) reminding me that if I don’t do something (translate: buy something), I’m going to fade into obscurity, that “more” is required of me to remain viable and valued, that I’m not enough.

*sigh*

Despite the fact that I don’t give cultural messages/demands much credence, that doesn’t mean they have evaporated from my consciousness. Especially when I look in the mirror. 

Old habits die hard. I remember staring into that glass as a teenager, wishing/praying that I looked different and better, sure that the latest makeup application technique in Seventeen magazine would change my life. I have known long seasons of getting dressed in the morning and offering my reflection nothing but scathing critique for its weight, shape, and very being. These days, most days, I lean as close to the mirror as I can and most-definitely see aging’s evidence in visceral form. I am reminded, yet again, that this IS my reality. I see it in my very face. But unlike decades before, I can (almost) let go of a lifetime’s demands – internal and external – and just be.

I could never have imagined that “old” age would be the thing that invites me to fuller self-acceptance, wholeness, and love.

Alongside the unexpected assimilations into this “age,” are grace-filled perspectives I couldn’t have foretold; ways of looking at, even experiencing life that I couldn’t have predicted or dreamed when I was younger. 

My two daughters are now in their 20s. I watch them ask so many hard questions of themselves and their reality – ravenous for clarity, certainty, and dreams fulfilled. They wrestle with unmet expectations – the trials of “being a grown up,” paying bills, making money (or not), being in relationships (or not), and figuring themselves out. In varying forms and contexts, I hear them saying, “It shouldn’t be this hard!”

Whether I watch from afar or get far too enmeshed, I am subsumed by memories of what my life looked like when I was their age, all that I wanted and didn’t have, had and didn’t want, and thought would never change. It was hard! And I am surprised, yet again, when I realize that all the things they are feeling and experiencing right now ARE NOT what I feel and experience AT ALL anymore.

It’s stating the obvious: I am not in my 20s! I have lived decades and made it through many seasons of unknowing and frustration. I have survived – along with massive mistakes and profound heartbreak and upsetting setbacks and incredible growth. I have actually lived to tell the story. I see how fate follows its course, how life does go on. And in the midst, how I have not only survived, but become a woman I am proud of. Here. Now. 61.

Finally, perhaps more unexpected than anything I’ve named thus far, is this:

Over and over again I am surprised by the spaciousness of the present and what it feels like to stay right here, right now. It is unexpected, expansive, and generous. 

61, in and of itself, is hardly distinct or significant. Soon I’ll be 62 and eligible for early withdrawal of Social Security benefits! Then I’ll be 65, 70, and then some. Though I anticipate more changes ahead, more things I can’t possibly predict, there’s no “out there” or threshold or “someday” that I’m reaching for. I’m just here. Right here. Right now. This body, this mind, this heart, this life. It’s amazing.

You could not have convinced me, whether 10, 20, 30, or 40 years ago, that there would ever be a time in which I would feel at home in my own skin, that I would not feel lacking, that I would be able to rest from the tyranny of past and future, others’ (and my own) expectations, the dull ache of discontent and demand that has permeated so much, too much, of my life.

Perhaps that’s what all of this is about: nothing of what I expected, endlessly surprised, more than enough. This could have been just as true at 21, 31, 41, and 51, but I didn’t have the wisdom or perspective or years-lived to appreciate it like I do now. And that IS the point…

I appreciate it all.

Eve Screams “No!” (Part 1)

The light catches my iPad screen in such a way that my reflection stares back. I look away. I hate what I see.

Familiar, lifelong contempt twists my heart as tears form in my eyes.

I take in the scene that surrounds me. The gorgeous hotel lounge in which I sit. An unobstructed view of the Puget Sound, the Cascade mountains, ferries, sailboats, and hundreds of gulls traversing back and forth across the waters. A delicious glass of red wine. Three uninterrupted hours to think, to write, to reflect.

Despite my luxurious surroundings and generous time; despite a spaciousness that removes me (even momentarily) from anxiety about money or work or daughters or relationship or just the day-to-day stresses of life; despite a deep awareness that I am appreciated, respected, cherished, and loved; despite a system of belief that tells me I am created in the very image of God, I can, in one quick glance, lose sight of it all and see only what I lack, what I fear, what I despise, what I wish.

Piercing through my downward spiral of self-deprecation, Eve screams,

“Nooooooo!”

Eve screams, ”No!” because she is tired of the voices within me that have hissed too loudly and too long for hers to be heard.

Eve screams, “No!” to jar me out of my complacency, to unnerve me, to shake me loose from all that binds, to wake me up, to open my eyes.

Eve screams, “No!” because she cannot, any longer, allow for any telling of my story that is less than glorious, gorgeous, or full of grace.

Eve screams, “No!” because she’s been silenced and shamed far too long; because she knows that her silencing and shaming has impacted mine.

Eve screams, “No!” because she can see what the world looks like when I walk through it aware of who I truly am; a world that awaits my presence, my profoundness, my perfection.

Eve screams, “No!” because she’s wants more from me, more for me, more . . . more . . . more . . . She is hungry for all the deliciousness I have to offer and she makes it clear she will remain ravenous until fed.

Eve screams, “No!” because she knows of the wisdom, compassion, and strength that her lineage can and must wield; ways of being/doing/loving that shatter old paradigms and create brand new ones.

Eve screams, “No!” because it’s time. It’s time for me (and you) to rise up, to stop listening to all that haunts, and proudly, boldly, confidently step forth; to leave Gardens overgrown with weeds that have choked the life out of me and deliberately, bravely step into a vast wilderness of adventure, passion, and fierce faith.

“Remember who you are: MY daughter, MY lineage, MY kin! You are the pinnacle of the Divine’s creative work: perfect, whole, and complete. Listen to me. Look at me. See yourself in me. As my descendant, you are royal and beautiful; regal and strong. Hold your head high. Do not doubt. Do not waver. Do not succumb to the usurpers (within and without) who attempt to pull you from your rightful place, your regal throne. Adjust your crown. Grasp your scepter a little tighter. Look that serpent in the eye and reach—toward all that awaits you, toward all who love you, toward the woman you truly are.”

I glance back down at the iPad screen, allowing my eyes to move through the words and deeper still, back to my reflection. A slight smirk. A sly wink. The faintest whiff of an apple . . . 

Spiritual wisdom from Elizabeth Gilbert

I’m about 2/3 of the way through Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Not only do her words make me wish I could travel through Italy, India, and Indonesia; she continues to offer up occasional paragraphs that let me pause, consider, and tab some pages for later-reflection (or blog posting).

My latest tabbed page was #192:

God dwells within you as you yourself, exactly the way you are. God isn’t interested in watching you enact some performance of personality in order to comply with some crackpot notion you have about how a spiritual person looks or behaves. We all seem to get this idea that, in order to be sacred, we have to make some massive, dramatic change of character, that we have to renounce our individuality…To know God, you need only to renounce one thing – your sense of division from God. Otherwise, just stay as you were made, within your natural character.

She goes on to say that she likes to imagine herself this peaceful, ethereal, super-spiritual, and quiet woman. But in reality she is erratic, fast-moving, earthy, talkative, and even loud!

She wonders about finding God in the very person she most truly is vs. striving toward the more perfect self she’s daydreamed or convinced herself she ought to be.

Brilliant! We all ought to wonder the same.

Just stay as you were made. There’s a statement that flies in the face of how most of us live each and every day! It’s also a statement that eloquently and powerfully invites us to embrace that we are, indeed, made in the Divine’s image – just as we now are, not as we’ll one day be. It invites us to stop our striving and struggling to be perfect, more of something, anything, everything! It invites us to take inventory on who we most truly are and wonder how we might just find God dwelling right there – in us – now.

Just stay as you were made.

Oh, how I long for that to be true. It lets me breathe easier. It lets me think that perhaps I can be kinder to myself (and others, as well). It lets me consider that maybe, just maybe, God is closer than I think and that I don’t have to strive nearly so hard to know God’s presence, God’s compassion, God’s love.

Just stay as you were made.

Could it be? May it be!

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works; that I know very well…(Psalm 139:13-14)

Just stay as you were made.

May it be so.