Body Love

A few days ago, I overheard three young women talking about bra size in Starbucks. One described the cup and ribcage measurements that were "good" and "not so good." I felt so sad for these young women, and I've been doing the comparison, the math, myself, since I was about 12. 

At a Kiss Me, Bite Me, Pet Me couples retreat I hosted in July this year, it was warm and I wore dresses which showed my legs. This was strategic and for me a Bite, taking a risk. It was also a Pet, me giving myself the opportunity to love a part of me that I exile.  Most of us have parts that we judge. If you don't, yahoo! Ask your partner if they struggle here :) We all have someone in our lives who carries this burden. 

At Starbucks as well, I had a quick exchange with a lovely woman in her late fifties who brushed off my compliment when I appreciated how cute she looked. She waved to her stomach and bemoaned her waistline had increased as she got older. 

 
I thought of these girls, that woman, me, my clients, how so many of us have been taught we are not acceptable, loveable. I am only realizing now that I could have said something to those girls in Starbucks, but honestly, I didn't feel confident enough in the moment myself. Me, a mother and grandmother, whose body has served without fail, for 57 years. 

Not loving ourselves, not thinking we are worthy and delicious and divine affects not just us, but those around us, our relationships, our ability to be sensual, to be intimate, to have sex. It blocks us from receiving our partner's desire and love. Not loving our bodies stops us from sharing who we authentically are and giving our gifts to the world. 

The most important part of this message, is that this scrutiny, is NOT OUR FAULT. It is patriarchy and culture and scarcity thinking. So first of all, please don't doubly shame yourself if you have negative thoughts about your body. We need to love the part that judges too, they are trying to keep us safe. Whether you feel you are too big or not big enough, too anything, not enough anything, let's work together to love on ourselves. Try the tools below!

Kiss Me - How to feel adored and cherished
💞 When you were little, you didn't have self-consciousness about your body. What would that be like again? What would you do if you loved yourself the way you love a baby? Would you initiate sex more? Be open when your partner does? For now, let yourself just imagine the freedom you'd have if you loved your body in all its expressions. 

💞 Let yourself be seen with your partner. Not by your partner, with your partner. If they compliment you about your body, say "thank you." That's it. Then take a deep breath. If you sputter or swat them away, ask them to compliment you again and tell them that you are working on receiving. When they re-compliment (is that a word?!)  say "Thank you." Full stop. See how that feels to not protest. 

Bite Me - How to feel alive and vital

💖 Wear something you have decided isn't for you because you are self-conscious. The white pants, the lingerie in the back of your drawer, the tighter jeans. Reveal yourself more, unbutton a shirt button, wear a loud color. 

💖  When you are out and about, beam at everyone with love. Then imagine having sex with everyone. All shapes, sizes and ages of bodies. Notice if you usually compare, judging others as less or greater than you (as I did in the poem below). 

Pet Me - How to feel safe and supported

💓 Place your hands on a body part that you judge. You don't have to convince yourself to love it, just be with it. Your belly, your genitals, your thighs, your neck. Think about its function, its job. Find appreciation for what it provides. 

💓 If you hear yourself have a harsh tone with any part of your body, breathe into the part and imagine surrounding it with golden light. Breathe a few times until you can "get to neutral," I call it. If you can't reach neutrality or positivity, imagine Spirit, God, or Nature beaming light to you and your body. 

And a poem about the harm these comparisons do to ourselves and others:

An Apology to the Woman with the Golden Tresses
by Deborah Grace

When I first saw you walking
on the Fourth Street bridge
as I took my son to his saxophone lesson,
I pondered what my life would be like
if I could turn heads like you,
wondered how many other drivers swiveled
to catch a glimpse of your front,
which I couldn’t as there was traffic.

I did see your face, a few weeks later in a cafe
and was relieved there was a tightness
around your eyes,
your lips were thin, while your waist was thick,
a combination putting you
in the okay categories for face and body.
Although if you were a Triple Crown goddess,
I would even the score
by examining your gestures and expressions,
deem you bitch or slut, 
dull or shallow, too young, too old.

Blondie,
when I saw you from the back again
and felt that clutch again,
especially as my boyfriend was with me
and I assumed on some base level
he would leave me
(as I left myself, abandoned all self-love,
all self-worth), I also abandoned you.

Here is where the appall apology comes in,
which isn’t even the right word,
from the Greek it means “to speak in one’s defense”
and here I have none,
and yet there are billions of reasons,
one for each woman,
all of us since the dawn of civilization,
valued utmost for our looks
as we are chosen one over the over,
cared for, or naught
because of cells we have no control over—
how flesh and hair fall, the way limb and skin lay.

Better, I atone, tune into, here on paper,
pause to consider my sorrow
the sore (an ache under my sternum).
I am sorry sister, goddess good essence
that before you turned,
imagining you physically perfect
and thus a threat to me,
I (a woman who could be your mother),
wished ill upon you.
In an subconscious instant, thrust ten plagues
including heartbreak and difficulty,
loneliness and suffering,
because of a few feet of keratin.


That fell into ringlets of gold and brown,
which I pointed out to my man,
seeing you closer, was most likely
bleached, at least highlighted,
not the first time I so “educated” him.
I once spent an entire happy hour at a bar
identifying which women colored their hair
(almost all of them)
leaving him bewildered
the beauty he was drawn to
wasn’t natural.

As I once did with a different man
who was into breasts,
“fake, real, fake, real, real, fake”
I ticked them off, as sunbathers
walked by on the beach.
Like I was taking potshots at an arcade game,
I propped myself up, 
as women,
dead cutouts of wild-wide-eyed deer,
fell over.

 (from Year of Thunder, available on Amazon)