Here we are again talking about how to break the stereotypical rotten-body-image thing that most American females are restricted by, and find a more shalom-like way to acknowledge, relate to, and treat our bodies.

None of us seem sure of how to get there, but that’s okay, I’m pretty good at stumbling around in the dark until we can light one candle.

Here’s my question for today, what are the absolute basic necessities for you as your body. I’m not talking about what you should be doing according to the latest Hollywood trainer or even according to your wholesome good-spirited naturopath. I’m talking about what you intuitively know to be bedrock-necessary for your body given who you are and how you are at this stage in your life.

Don’t know the answer? Do what Jen always tells me to do: get very quiet and be very brave and spend some time with your journal. Or if you are a kinetic learner, try taking a walk without your headphones. It will come to you. Your body – you – knows what you need.

I find I need to do this a couple of times a year, usually when I’ve let one of my bedrock needs fall out of my daily rhythm. Some of the things on my list remain the same, while others change with health, season, and age. I find that there are usually more than three and less than ten. If I get more than ten, I’ve drifted out of “bedrock” and into “preference” or “shoulds.” Here are mine for the present:

What I (as my Body) Need Right Now

Silence while working and driving.

Sleep from 10pm-7am.

Gentle exercise everyday.

To drink water after 3pm.

To honor my fullness and my hunger.

To knit and write every day – and consequently to ice my wrist every night.

What are yours?

In our ongoing habitude of body love, here’s a chance to help our homeless sisters take care of their bodies. It’s legitimate, it’s free, and it takes one minute.

Click here to do this:

“Women’s shelters in the U.S. go through thousands of tampons and pads monthly, and, while agencies generally assist with everyday necessities such as toilet paper, diapers, and clothing, this most basic need is often overlooked. You and I may take our monthly trips down the feminine care aisle for granted, but, for women in shelters, a box of tampons is five dollars they can’t spare. Here’s some good news: you can help us contribute to rectifying this situation by making a virtual donation below!
For each [free] virtual donation, Seventh Generation will send a pack of organic cotton tampons or chlorine-free pads to a shelter in your state.”

Thanks Seventh Generation (Who happens to make wonderful smelling lavendar detergent and softener, and earth-friendly citrus kitchen spray that doesn’t smell like a car air freshner.)

Take a look at this picture. Okay, ignored the permmed mullet for a minute and notice the size 5 body. This is me at about thirteen. I thought I was fat.

For as long as I can remember my body has been my enemy. It was what got me molested. (I can remember trying to wear shirts that buttoned to the neck to that the person who molested me wouldn’t be tempted by my developing breasts.) It was what made me attractive (or not) to boys. (I started dieting when I was 13 because I thought I should stay a size 3. Tiffany Frank figured out how many sit ups we’d have to do to burn off one of the chocolate caramel bars we were selling as a school fundraisers, and we’d eat them at break then all do sit ups in the empty classrooms.) It was what made me a hip, powerful woman — or not. (Hip, powerful girls played sports – girly old fashioned girls sucked at sports and were doomed to a life involving home ec.) I shoved it into pencil thin jeans, laying on the bed to zip them up; filled it with chocolate chip cookie dough binges when I was sad; and forced it to keep achieving and achieving by fueling it with diet coke through riduclous extracurricular activities and late night study sessions.

As I grew older, I became more sophisticated about how I talked about body image, and diet, and the insipid consumer culture that said happiness was a size 0 and plus size was a size 9. Still, my body was foreign to me – at best silent, and at worst a conspirator for my own unhappiness.

When my first child was stillborn, and my second delivery required an unplanned c-section and resulted in a child who lost weight and wouldn’t nurse, I became convinced – my body was out to get me. The separation between mind/spirit and body that had started as a necessity to survive the abuse had morphed into a permanent division that ruled a very large part of my world. The diagnosis of migraines as a chronic condition just confirmed my early assessment. The evidence was undeniable, my body was conspiring against me.

I am rarely happy with my body and I am appalled at how much time and creative mental energy I spend on this issue. Food is always on my mind. My weight is a near constant disappointment. I feel guilty all the time. I never go through a single day where I don’t feel bad about something I’ve eaten, some exercise I’ve not done or not done enough of, some item of clothing that I can’t wear. For instance, every day on my way to work I walk by this adorable boutique and think, “I can’t wear a single item in there.” They stop at size 9. It’s not a shop for petites or anything, it’s just a regular Seattle boutique. (I’m a size 12.) Or here’s another, today I lifted weights and walked on the treadmill, but I’m going about my day with this thought hovering over my head like a cartoon dialogue balloon: “Maybe I should have done yoga instead.” It’s mentally exhausting and embarrassingly ridiculous.

Last week, in yet another show about dieting, I heard Oprah say that she had wasted a large part of her 30’s worrying about food and weight. I’m thirty-seven. Only three years to go before I am undoubtedly, irrevocably ‘grown up.’ Will I still be carrying the neuroses of a thirteen year old? Will I still automatically convert calories into sit ups? Will I still waste precious minutes feeling guilty? Will my body remain my enemy?

I am so tired of being stuck in Jr. High.

A year or two after I was diagnosed with chronic daily migraines (status migranosis) a new friend, Christine Painter, recommended that I read Voice Lessons by Nancy Mairs and What Her Body Thought from Susan Griffith. Mairs taught me that I do not have a body. She writes, “I have a body. I am a body.” Griffith reminded me that “My story is immersed in my body.” (p. 7) This is not a gnostic exercise I cannot separate my “self” from my physical being. I am my body. If I hate my body, I hate myself. If I love my body, I love myself.

I am nearly 40 years old and I still do not understand this. “I am a body”. It’s is a thought that echoes with truth and memory. It shimmers like a mirage just out of reach. I’d like to get there. I’d like to understand. I’d like to bring my body back to myself. I’d like to be my body, and to love my bodyself as I love my motherself and my creativeself and my womanself.

That’s the habitude for the month, I think. Love your body. How shall we proceed?

Update: to find out how this experiement went, follow along by reading posts about body love in the Habitudes category!

Good Morning Body,

Rachelle

I’m not sure what all this is, but I think it might be a clue to next month’s habitude.

And so may this:

Intuitive Eating: A Revolutionary Program That Works

I’ll let you know….