When we talk about our bodies, we talk about our mothers. We talk about how our mothers talked about their bodies. We say, “My mother never loved her body enough.” “My mother doesn’t give herself credit for how strong she is.” “My mother wore her girdle until her last days.”
When we talk about our bodies, we talk about our babies. It wasn’t until we held another body within our own that we gave ourselves permission to listen, to care, to celebrate, to nurture. We were amazed at our abilities and purpose. Was it ever us, though? Were we ever actually amazed with ourselves or only with the other growing in us? Were we even nurturing our own bodies? Was it only when we thought we were caring for someone else that we could be compassionate and responsive?
When we talk about our bodies, we talk about our culture. It’s okay to be naked over there. It’s okay to be thick over there. It’s okay to be hairy over there. It’s okay to wear that somewhere else. It’s not okay here. Or, it was okay here, but then someone from there came here, and now it no longer feels okay.
When we talk about our bodies, we talk about our boobs. Always our boobs. They were always too small, unless they were too big, in which case they were enormously too big. They change at a rate much faster than the rest of our bodies. They never really feel like ours. They’re hanging there, with a life of their own, and we must contain them, support them, control them, show them, conceal them, check them monthly for lumps and have them smooshed between panes of glass and sometimes cut off. Sometimes we put new ones in. And, of course, we must nurture another life with them. Their primary job is often forgotten, asterisked at the bottom of the list, considered a liability in the story arc of our boobs.
When we talk about our bodies, we talk about our age. Is it the outward sign of aging that is so distasteful? Is it that we truly don’t want an old body, that we think an old body is ugly? Or is it aging itself we don’t want? Do we just want to remain free to choose the life before us, free to be young enough to change our minds, to be surprised, to look ahead with wonder instead of behind with longing or regret?
When we talk about our bodies, are we really just talking about death?
When we talk about our bodies, are we really just talking about love?
It’s love. Love is really just our mothers and our babies and our culture and our boobs and the ceaseless march of time that brings them all together.
Last week, I ha