11.9 // Bodies

Confession: my claim to “people watch” is actually a guise for eavesdropping.

And you want to know the most interesting places to “people watch”?
Any waiting room.

Today was Gymnastics Saturday, and I had the privilege of taking Olivia to class with nothing more than my coffee and notebook.
Last week, I was struck by Olivia’s resilience and spirit while (sort of) performing tumbles and rolls. I was ready to receive words and inspiration again this morning but was constantly distracted by all the mom conversations around me. As much as I tried to focus and turn inward, I found myself getting wrapped up in everyone' else’s stories.

After a while, I gave up and shamelessly listened in:
It took forever to get pregnant with this one. We’re due in March. No, don’t ask me how many drugs I’m on to conceive...There hit a point when my husband couldn’t even handle the disappoint each month, and I just had to process it alone. Its all because I’m so old. I’ll deliver in a nursing home if I have to. My body is just so damn old.
The women had a maroon t-shirt on that says “Be still and know.”
I wonder how many times she has prayed that psalm hunched in the bathroom with another negative test in her hand.

A few minutes later, I hear another woman chime in.
She was just so sick for so long. Couldn’t gain weight. She would get these fevers of 103 of more. Doctors threatened us with facilities far from home. It was awful. And so we changed our diets completely. I remember when I first saw her smile. She was two years old. And that’s when I knew she was okay. And it took some time but she’s fine now: a happy and healthy little girl. But because of the changes we made, we can’t go anywhere— lots of fear of cross contamination. So we are extremely isolated.
And I see her daughter there sitting by Olivia. They both have light pink dance leotards on. Both smiling, waving at us as the other mom points her out to the group.

The third mom in the group sighs and shares about her son.
I know this sounds stupid, but I cannot figure out potty-training. We cannot get through naps or nighttime without accidents. I monitor how much he drinks, but I worry so much about his hydration. Seriously, it keeps me up at night. I am so embarrassed about it. And I’m embarrassed for him. I don’t understand why his body doesn’t work right.

And that last thought summed it up for me.
Our bodies.

All of these stories were a vast commentary on what it means to live in a body.

The beauty of humanity is nothing without the limits, sensations, and glory of these dust-and-breath bodies.

We were all in that room because our bodies had children; because we wanted out children’s bodies to move and play; because our bodies needed to stop and rest for a hot second while our kids blew off steam.

Sometimes our bodies are sick. Sometimes we are in chronic pain or parts of us can no longer function as they should. These times are rightfully filled with grief, and this kind of grief is indeed holy.

But more often than not, we talk about bodies with language that implies brokenness, that there is something inherently wrong about them. Their appearance, function, age, or sensation are so weighed down with expectation.
Brene Brown says that there are conscious and/or subconscious expectations, and then there is reality. The space between those two is where we experience disappointment.
Is there any other arena where this is more true than our bodily existence?

How they should work.
What they should do.
How they should look.
How they should feel.

We live in a time when diet culture is disguised as wellness and lifestyle culture, and thus we (and our children) have increasingly damaging relationships to food.
Filters and photoshop and editing distort what it means to be whole and healthy and alive. Or simply normal.
We have more knowledge on nutrition and physiology and psychology, and yet we’ve never felt more trapped, more paralyzed, and more frenzied on how to care for our bodies— let alone the bodies of those we love.
Our bodies may be living longer, but our minds and hearts can not bear the strain.

Consider this:
This current generation has more access to healthy foods and medicine and workout programs, but mental health problems are on a significant rise among young adults and teens.
I don’t have enough fingers to count the number of my eighth grader students that were on suicide watch during my last year teaching. I lost my first student to suicide, had another OD on the way to my class, and had three admitted to a mental health facility in town. These were young women and young men, white and black, rich and poor, and all of them struggled with the body they inherited.

The medical community just expanded its definition for postpartum anxiety and depression to PMAD, perinatal mood and anxiety disorder, reframing the incredible toll on mothers not just physically, but psychologically, too.
Its only now, five years after I had Olivia, that I can clearly see the mental distress I was under in those first six months after delivery. It wasn’t until our time in seminary that I realized there were diagnosis of PTSD for first time moms— and she, a mental health student, believed I fit the bill. I remember being praised for “losing the baby weight so fast” and “bouncing back,” when I was malnourished, dehydrated, and totally numb. I had no idea how even relate to this body that was mine, but felt entirely foreign. The chasm was detrimental to my overall health. And I know I’m not the only one.

The demographic most likely to commit suicide in the US are men, aged 65 and older. And so the most experienced and physically strongest among us are not complete in their bodies either. They want to escape their painful limits more than any other group.
In the past five years, I have heard the personal stories of about a dozen middle aged to elderly men who have had heart attacks or thought they were having heart attacks due to incredible stress and anxiety. These men are in my family, in my church, in the schools I have taught in. They are saints. They are incredibly strong. And their bodies and minds hit the breaking point.

The difficulties of living in a body are not reserved for any one type of person.
The complexities of embodiment span all ages, races, genders, socioeconomic classes, you name it.

Embodiment is part of our humanity.
It is beautiful and sacred.
And like all beautiful and sacred things, it is difficult, too.

So here we are, watching our daughters and sons flip and jump and balance with freedom and joy, embracing their bodies, loving who they are precisely because they live in a body, not despite it.
And the moms in the lobby are less free. We have embraced a lot of “should’s” about our bodies.
And like Brene Brown says, when our expectation don’t meet the realities of what we see in the mirror, there can be great disappointment and sadness and even despair.

And I am not immune to any of it.
The difficulty of living in a body with others who also live in bodies— yes, this is me, too.

About a year ago, I learned that I would have to have another cesarian section to deliver John Taylor.
And I was devastated.
I was not upset because I had to have the surgery. I’ve read enough to know the risks and the benefits in addition to knowing fabulous mom who have also had multiple c-sections. I don’t care about the scar or the recovery time.
What I was most scared of were the opinions about my body.

I anticipated being judged for scheduling a c-section when I couldn’t explain my situation or justify my decision. I was nervous about appearing weak or selfish. I feared that this kind of “unnatural” delivery implied my body was broken or that I couldn’t handle pain. And so I avoided the subject as much as possible.

Three months later, I still struggle. My hair is starting to fall out (as is John Taylor’s, so at least I have company). This past week, I have had to pause on working out and running due to pain along the internal incisions. I can’t fit in my pre-pregnancy clothes. Looking in the mirror results in a long a slow exhale.
Whose body is this anyway?

Yesterday, I reflected on “home” and concluded that my body cannot be my truest home.
And believe that is because of times like these: where I feel so strong and so weak in this body I have. I am learning about what it can do (like run races and birth babies and write and sing and love), but I’m also realizing its incredible limits (like postpartum and compartment syndrome and growing older to name just a few). We are not always safe and comfortable in our bodies, as is the definition of “home.” They are so strong and yet so fragile.

And yet, I do believe that our bodies are true and good and a sacred.
I would be a completely different person if I had a different body.
My personality is not the truer part of me; nor is my mind; nor are my gifts and talents and weaknesses.
No, I am all of it: heart, mind, spirit, and body.

And so if I am going to grow with God, I have to grow with Him in this body.
The examen pleads with me: learn to love this body.

I am approaching thirty years old in a ever-increasingly typical mom body. And it is sacred, too.

On the way home from gymnastics, I was thinking about bodies and listening to music with Olivia. And I remembered the first time I saw someone totally free in body. It was Maggie Rogers performing on SNL, one of her first big performances. I watched it the morning after and was left utterly speechless. If you haven’t seen it, you have to watch her. I remember telling Jackson, “I want to be like her.”
Without sounding too dramatic, it really was a spiritual experience.
Since then, the kids and I have watched dozens of her performances. And while we watch, I’ve been stirred join her, to dance in my own body.

Now, I’m not as skilled or rhythmic as Maggie, nor am I as free.
But I watch my kids, and they find no problem jumping up, stripping down, and twirling and shaking to her music. The kingdom of heaven is for children— dancing, light, joyous.

So I’ve made it a spiritual practice to dance more.
To dance with them, to feel the music in me and around me, to look totally ridiculous but free.

So while thinking about Maggie, we put on some MoZi and danced.
And we danced around the living room that afternoon.
And we danced in costumes after dinner.
Everybody, and every body, up and moving however they could, however they wanted to.

As is typical in this examen practice, there are no easy answers for bodily healing and pain.
But there are invitations.

Today, I am invited into bodily healing when:
Look in the mirror and say “yes”— to the body I am given, to say it is good, to smile back at myself.
Resist apologizing— for how my body looks or what what body can or cannot do.
Wear clothes that I actually like— that are comfortable, that I enjoy, that make me feel happy.
Eat food that makes me feel good— food that nourishes, but also tastes great. (Liv and I picked up sushi and doughnuts on the way home for lunch, just to celebrate being in bodies.)
Be gentle— with my body and with those embodied people around me.
Dance— freely and with good humor.

I look out and see the office light on over at the church, and I know Jackson is working on his sermon for tomorrow morning— “The Resurrection of the Body.”
At the end of all things, our bodies will be a part of the New Heaven and the New Earth.
They will be redeemed and whole, but they will still, mysteriously, be our own— the ones we dwell in now.
So my scarred body will meet Jesus, in His scarred body.
This is good, good news.

I re-watch the videos of the kids dancing and see this Gospel all over it.
Heaven on earth freedom now, and resurrection to come.
And it makes me want to dance, too.

Tonight’s meditation:
The body, and it alone, is capable of making visible what is invisible: the spiritual and the divine. It was created to transfer into the visible reality of the world the mystery hidden since time immemorial in God [God’s love for man], and thus to be a sign of it.
(St. John Paul II, Theology of the Body)