śavāsana

You might not think that there was much to playing dead. There really is. I do think it's funny that lying like a corpse has a specific technique and position involved. The feet need to be a bit apart, the hands turned palms-up, the eyes closed, the breathing shallow and relaxed.

I feel myself sinking, as though into the soil beneath the green tree that decorates my yoga mat. The roots brush my face as gently as a mother strokes her baby's cheek. It is cool and dark. There is nowhere to go, and all the time there is to get there. I sink deeper, feeling in my flesh, in my bones, the destiny of all flesh and all bones: to sink, to dissolve, to begin again.

Beauty: In Their Own Words

Maybe it's that I'm sugared out from our morning party (o, the chocolate-chili cookies!), but I thought I'd use this SGED Friday to share some words of body-love wisdom, along with links to galleries at The Judgment of Paris where you can see more of these beautiful women. And beautiful they are, inside and out.

"I’ll never forget seeing my fifth-grade photographs, taken at the beginning of the school year. I had just started developing. Just a little, and at the same time just enough to start feeling awkward about my body. I remember looking at the other kids’ pictures and comparing myself to them. God, I thought as I looked down at my reflection, I don’t like the way I look.
"Years later, on a sun-kissed beach in the Bahamas, I felt the same way as the day I saw those photos. I was with Michele [Weston] that day and I was being photographed for a summer issue of MODE. The only thing I had to wear was a swimsuit and a smile. I turned to her as the photographer had finished setting up his equipment, and I said, 'I just don't deserve to be here.' Michele took me over to a full-length mirror and replied, 'Barbara Brickner, you look at yourself. What makes you think you don’t deserve to be what all of us see in you?' I didn’t have an answer, for I could only see the reflection of a girl posing for her school picture. She continued: 'You’re here because we see the beauty in you. Not just the curves, the beautiful body, or the beautiful face, but it’s what comes out of you.' I was awakened."

Barbara Brickner
Barbara Brickner: An Encomium


"When I was thinner, I wasn’t comfortable with my body. Now, I like myself, tummy and all. The problem isn’t with me; it’s with others. When you’re full figured, people treat you like a failure. Even when I was a size 10, they thought I should do more to lose weight, not realizing how much I was doing. There’s so much pressure to be a small size in this society, even if it’s not natural or healthy for you. People should understand that when you’re healthy, it doesn’t matter what size you are."

Shannon Marie
Shannon Marie: Fairest of Them All


"As for maintaining such positive body image, well, I read a lot of books on the subject. As a plus model it's always been something that has come up...meaning the positive influence we are able to set for women. So it's good for me to be well read, right? And the bottom line is, I know I'm worthy and deserving of the very best in life, as we all are. This includes the choice to Love myself completely and totally as I am, exactly as I am. All you have to do is be willing to learn to Love yourself and the door has been opened. I remember recently sitting on the couch with my sister Jen. We had just had a lovely dinner, and my stomach was feeling it! So I looked down at my protruding belly full of good food, and gave it a rub and said, 'I Love you, stomach.' We both laughed of course. It was funny and sweet and true."

Valerie Lefkowitz
Valerie Lefkowitz: An Homage
I Love how Valerie capitalized "Love." Now I'm doing it, too! - MB


How are you loving yourself today? I am wearing one of my favorite dresses. Later, I'll be playing mermaid in the pool and lying quiescent in the sauna afterwards.

Cancellation, and Perspective

My ballet class has been cancelled due to low enrollment; apparently, I was the only student. The new term starts in the fall, so I have plenty of time to crochet myself a little backpack for my gear. I bought my dance clothes last Thursday from a little shop in my city, and the young lady clerk was very helpful and supportive of my beginning ballet at my age and size (she said nothing about either). There was a large range of sizes available, and mine actually fell somewhere towards the middle, though I did select a "Tall" size to suit my long torso. I tried on the complete outfit last night and it felt very good. I will use the time between now and the start of the fall term to work on becoming more flexible, though, happily, I'm quite bendy now.

My friend Heinrich Saint-Germain at The Judgment of Paris recently posted some new photos of the gorgeous Barbara Brickner. Wouldn't you know it: in one of them, Mrs. Brickner is posed almost as I am in the photo of myself that I thought so lumpy and bumpy and, therefore, ugly. Of course, she is wearing more clothing in her photo than I am in mine...




I don't think that posting my photo here is appropriate, but if you must see it, I'll email you the link to the gallery page.

Anyway, I found my reaction to Mrs. Brickner's image very interesting. First, I was struck by her beauty, of course; she is very lovely. Then my mouth slowly opened as I realized how similar my body is to hers, though at five-six, I'm at least two inches shorter than she is. After a moment or two, I whirled around to my husband and almost shouted into his startled face, "Why don't I see that when I look at myself?!" The very characteristics I like about her body are the ones I feel funny about in my own body. Is it possible to see oneself as beautiful, all the time?

The gaps in self-confidence during which I feel bad about my looks are shorter, though still intense. The difference is that now, I acknowledge when I have those feelings, instead of pretending to everyone, including myself, that I know beyond any doubt how hot I am. I still dress up and wear short skirts and camisoles, even when I worry that I resemble the Stay-Puft marshmallow man more than a vibrant, healthy, young(ish) woman who is lucky enough to be living many of her dreams. Because, really, I am. I am thankful.

Long Hair

As a little girl, I almost always had long hair and heavy bangs. My hair, being long, wavy, and red, made me a target on the playground and in the classroom; my braids and ponytails got yanked hard and often by the little bastards at school. One girl delighted in seizing one braid in each hand and screeching, "Make a wish!" while she pulled hard. When I was ten, my mother cut my hair to about the middle of my neck. My youngest sister was starting school, and my mother didn't have time to brush my hair for me every morning; it was too long and thick for me to take care of myself. So, my hair was cut short. I actually liked the way it fluttered around my ears when I shook my head. My head felt light and cool.

In eighth grade, I decided I wanted to let my hair grow. I had learned to care for it myself and felt able to handle it. The period while my layers grew out is horrifyingly documented in school pictures.

Query: does anyone have a good time in middle school? Why can't we hide our transformation period in cocoons?

When I was fourteen, I began baby-sitting a family of three children, whose mother had curly hair. She advised me to try a little gel in my hair, applied by "scrunching." I did try it, and suddenly I had curls hanging to my shoulder blades. I asked my parents for a "Curly Top" diffuser and was thrilled with the results.

Since then, I've let my hair grow. It hovered around my waist for many years, and now it hangs below my hips. The springy curls I enjoyed when it was shorter are now pulled into S-shaped waves by my hair's weight. I don't wear it down very often, but when I do, people stare. I've found that some people respond very strongly, and positively, to hair like mine. Little girls have mistaken me for a princess.

No matter how I feel about the rest of my physical self, I always love my hair. I love its length and weight and color. If I could change anything about it, I'd like it to be curlier. It could be, if I cut it, but I don't want to do that. I wish it were immune to split ends, too. Someday, I hope it will reach to my knees, healthy and strong and shining deep red.

For anyone interested, here's what I use these days:
Mehandi Ginger/Cardamom shampoo bar
50/50 cider vinegar/water rinse
L'oreal Vive Pro Nutri Gloss Conditioner (long/wavy/curly formula) (I'm looking for an inexpensive, cruelty-free alternative and, since there seems to be no such thing, I am considering making my own.)
flax seed gel
cocoa butter on the ends

The (broken) heart of the matter

I, with my 44-34-46 body, will begin ballet next week. I now face the purchase of dance clothes, risking the criticism of my body by shopkeepers and teachers. I have another artist interested in photographing me, just as I am, without makeup and without clothing, and right now I can't imagine why anyone thinks I am beautiful.

My eyebrows and lashes are white-blonde, my hair is overlong and wavy red, my skin is freckly in places. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Yet I don't want to change anything, because I know how stupid I would look with shorter hair of another color and that even at my thinnest (and least happy), my thighs were still thick and my tummy rounded and therefore eating even more salads won't make me slimmer. I say "No" to the "obey!" messages I see around, and like myself, in my secret heart, pretty well; I mistrust others and assume they are "just being nice" or that they want to photograph me because my body is abnormal and, therefore, interesting. It's harder for me to admit that I'm still not wholly accepting and celebrating my body than it is to acknowledge that I can't ever fulfill an ideal. I'm too fat for Modigliani and too thin for Rubens. I'm nowhere.

I want acceptance and affirmation so much. I dread being sloppy, stretching the definition of "beauty" until it breaks into two meaningless syllables. I hate the way I push myself and the voice I thought vanquished telling me "no, harder, more, faster, no." I hate that I listen to it and can't make it go away right now. I want to get it right.

Telling you all this probably sounds like I'm fishing for compliments. I'm not and I don't.

The enemy isn't in magazines or on TV. It's not "the patriarchy" or another such socio-political bogeyman. It doesn't motivate me to buy products or services to make myself over. I'm still not sure that I have the right to order my life as I choose, to seek pleasure in my flesh, to decide for myself what I will do, wear, believe, and say.

Inside me, there's still a little red-haired girl in a blue dress and oxblood-colored shoes, wanting her daddy to love her, say he's proud of her, tell her she's pretty and perfect just as she is. I am ashamed of her and want her to stop, even as I cry her tears.

"Fathers, be good to your daughters." Please.

What I did last weekend

Now that I've declared a hiatus and don't feel obligated to blog three times a week, I find I have more to say. Funny how that works.

Today I saw prints of the first photos I've had taken in almost four years. Not counting my wedding pictures, of course, and these were just test photos. And I hated them. My tummy seemed huge, my thighs likewise. I looked lumpy and bloated and strange. I sat with tears in my eyes as the photographer and his wife/collaborator (with whom I posed for some shots) praised me and the photographs. I felt shame, disgust, and failure. I was ready to plead illness and help them get everything back down the stairs. It's one thing to prattle on about body acceptance and size celebration, but I learned today that where the rubber meets the road, I still don't like my body.

I don't always have the eyes to see my beauty, or whatever other people see when they look at me that they find attractive and worthy of capturing for their art. When the photographer told me, "Big is beautiful!" I replied, "Yeah, on other people." This led into a conversation about body image and art, and I was told that I am "red-haired, freckled, chubby, shapely, and beautiful -- you're the classical ideal, with your shape." I still felt like not eating ever again and torturing myself at the Y. I love to swim, but I found myself thinking that it might be time to hit the elliptical for, say, three hours a night. I stopped that line of thinking long enough to listen to what the photographer was telling me, and the frantic, crazy thoughts went away.


After all my appointments today (my psychiatrist actually weighed me, so size was on my mind anyway), I met again with the photographer and his wife. We hauled equipment up the stairs and spent four hours making art. I had fun, and enjoyed every bit of it once I calmed down and, as I joked with them, "got my mojo back." Both my collaborators were, I think, making an effort to praise me, which I appreciated very much. Their acceptance freed me to be more creative than I ever have been. I think we got some good photos, and this time, I'm armored against seeing my changed body in the new images.


I wouldn't really wish my sick thyroid back, and my contours have only exaggerated, not entirely transformed; I'm hardly Venus of Willendorf. I have a waist, a big bust, and wide hips. My legs are short and heavily muscled under a moderate layer of adipose tissue. My thighs have texture, and sometimes my tummy does, too.

I spoke with my husband (he's in Florida doing family work) after the photographer left this evening, and told him how I had felt about the first photos. He became quite impassioned, telling me that at no point in history besides our own has skinny been the ideal, and how now the curves that you see in ads are surgically created and digitally manipulated. He reminded me that I am both happier and healthier now than when I could squeeze into size 10 jeans, at my thinnest back in college. He said that if I wanted to give up eating, spend four hours a night at the gym, six days a week, and take $50,000 for touch-up surgery, I could look like a run-of-the-mill Model Mayhem girl, but would still find something about my body to loathe. I know all this, but it did me good to hear him saying it. He said some other things relating to my body, but those remarks are not for public consumption.


I've always been one to worry whether I'm "doing it right." I felt today, when I first saw the prints, that I was doing it wrong, my body was wrong, that I was a fool and a freak to take my clothes off for an artist. Sometimes, I still don't feel that I have permission to consider myself beautiful, that this shape I'm in is lovely and right for me. All I can do is try again tomorrow.

(all images copyrighted)

"You Must Obey."

If any of you are Hotmail users, you're probably seeing ads touting a weight-loss "rule" that "You Must Obey!" This same advertisement appears on other sites, too, but Hotmail is where I see it most. The accompanying photos change from time to time, but the message does not.

A photo of a face-forward, moderately plump woman set above a photo of what appears to be the same woman, drastically smaller, standing at the classic size-minimizing angle.

"You Must Obey."

I hit the Refresh button, and the ad comes right back. This time, the illustration is a leggy cartoon woman in a purple T-shirt and panties.

"1 Rule You Must Obey."

Sometimes, the emphasis changes: "You MUST Obey!" "You must OBEY!"

Why?

I will not click the ad. I don't want those responsible for it to be encouraged by site traffic.

Obey. Be good. Get thinner. Work harder. Cut your hair. Wear this.

Don't eat dessert. Don't ask for sex. Don't laugh so loudly. Don't ask for more.

Deny yourself. Deny your Self.


No.

.

Projects and Cake

I didn't make cake last weekend.  Instead, I'm going to make it this weekend.  In the meantime, I have several crochet projects to finish: tiny clothes for my sister's daughter.  We're expecting her to arrive at any moment.  My sister is under doctor's orders to relax, in order to delay labor (she's been to the hospital once already).  

In July, I will be playing the harp in public for the first time in four years.  I've neglected it dreadfully, but my beautiful instrument has painful associations now (mostly tied to what I wrote about last time).  This is another thing I'm taking back.  I keep finding things to take back to myself, wash clean, and make mine again.  More heavy lifting.  I am thankful for the help I've been given.

During lunch, I visited the ballet school and obtained a schedule.  The lady I spoke with there had silver hair swept back from her elegantly boned face; she was working on something with a sewing machine.  I told her that I wanted to join the adult introductory class, and she was very gracious and, thank heaven, didn't laugh at my short-legged, heavy-muscled, big-breasted body.  I peeked into the studio itself and oh, the beautiful blond floor and the barre!  I can make this happen.  

I treated myself to a few essential oils, the better to create a natural skin care regimen.  The products I've ordered through the mail has been either severely delayed or stolen, and is more expensive than I'd like anyway.  The sugar scrub recipe from Little House in the Suburbs has been working really well; I used calendula and chamomile flowers instead of basil, mixed with olive oil, turbinado sugar, and tea tree, lavender, and blue cypress essential oils.  My skin feels soft, but not oily (always a problem this time of year).  Tonight, I'll try my herb-infused cider vinegar toner; my hair likes it, so I have high hopes for my skin.  

What are all of you up to?

Dancer Dreams

This past weekend, my husband and I attended our niece's dance recital. Seeing all the little girls in their tutus, jumping and prancing out of sync, made us laugh; they are so cute. Watching the older girls, especially the ballet and lyrical students, made me yearn to dance. My dance style developed in gothic clubs, so it's a flowing weeping-willow dance, a "sorrowful ballet," as one writer described gothic dance, a bit like the lyrical style. I love to dance, but I always wanted to study dance with a teacher, in a proper class.

When I was four, my parents agreed that I should take ballet. I was thrilled. My mother and I waited for my father to get home so that we could go to the dance shop and buy my black leotard, pink tights, and lovely pink leather slippers. I ran to the window every five minutes, wishing Daddy would hurry home so I could get my real ballet shoes. I practiced leaps and twirls, certain I was a beautiful dancer and looking forward to becoming an even more beautiful dancer.

Daddy eventually came home. In his hand was a piece of pink paper in a white envelope. Mommy's face fell, and Daddy shrugged sadly. It was 1980, and the school district had laid him off. He had no job. We didn't go to the dance shop and I never learned ballet.

It's trite and a little embarrassing to speak of "the inner child" anymore, but mine wants to dance. Today, I learned that a dance studio near my office teaches beginning ballet to grown-ups. I'll be calling this week to check the price. Even if I only take a class or two, I very much want to wear special dance clothes, and real ballet shoes, in a real studio. Wish me luck.