With this Body...

I recently attended a family reunion where I observed myself taking part in conversations revolving around our bodies. I found myself caught up in the hair discussion—how I wish my hair was more this way or that, that nobody is pleased with what they have (curly-hair wants the smooth, straight stuff and the straight stuff would like some more curl), blah, blah, blah…and there I was right in the thick of it, wholeheartedly chiming in with my hair woes.

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I thought, "Penny! This is not how you truly feel about any part of your body or yourself anymore! Ahem—honey, you lied to these people."

The previous night the discussion was surrounding southerly-headed, less-than-perky boobs and flabby arms. Regarding the boobs—my contribution to the conversation was that I was still "in training." I wasn’t feeling ashamed or ugly about my boobs though—it was just a joke. And it was a funny and fun conversation, but it was also a moment when I realized how critical we have become about our bodies—this truly amazing gift from none other than God!

Thanks to profit-motivated production and marketing, we’ve allowed ourselves to be convinced that we need "improving on."

It feels like all the while I’ve been staring at the mirror cringing over an acne scar, receding gumline (I keep hearing the phrase, getting long in the tooth), broken vessels and varicose veins, cellulite, stomach and butt excess, flat chest, are my teeth yellowing or is it this lighting?, and so on--I’ve been in fact saying to God, "This gift you gave me stinks!"

And then I cast the package on the floor and stomp all over it in tantrum mode! I buy creams and clothing to conceal or enhance, do a stint of squats (butt and thighs) and windmills (for the arm flab) and sit-ups (or some convoluted version of them to flatten that stomach)--and I used to "diet" (shudder).

And while all that is going on, I’m continually consulting my progress (usually it’s failure) in the mirror, and then that other part of me kicks in and says, "God—what did I do to deserve this? Am I that sorry of a case? Did I really screw up so badly that you’re punishing me by putting me in this body that breaks down and is SO NOT PERFECT?"

And then eventually I get to that realization that as GOD’s own child/children, how could we possibly be anything less than perfect in our being in His/Her sight? What parent hasn’t taken a picture of that toddler with birthday cake smeared all over that smile, and felt their hearts melt with pride and joy at this gorgeous and funny little being?

And how many times have I secretly turned my head, trying to hide my laughter and delight when some little boy or girl or pet has done something kind of naughty or mischievous?

Heck, even the prodigal son got a welcome home far beyond anything he expected. I know it surprised me, but it’s always been one of my favorite stories. Personally, I catch myself wondering if maybe he actually gained a bit more wisdom than the brother who stayed home with his dad, doing it all "the right way." I have a sense that maybe hopping off that pedestal of perfection, and experiencing life as we each choose to experience it is maybe the point of why we’re all here—everything, no matter how bad or good it was, adds to wisdom. And that’s how I see God looking at it. And growth has to start somewhere.

As for this body—I’ve definitely changed my perspective on it. Without it, I’d never have known what a hug from Mom felt like. That was always the first thing I got when I walked into Mom and Dad’s house. If they were eating, another plate was put at the table—and even the simplest of fares at Mom’s had a special something about it, never to be duplicated, just like snowflakes.

And without those moments of giving each other home perms (back when curly was in), I’d have missed out on some of the best conversations EVER with my mom—they were the really good kind, too. The ones where we hoped for the best for loved ones, celebrated the uniqueness of individuals and his/her triumphs and shed some tears over the sorrows.

With this body I got to kiss and be kissed—one of my most favorite things.

And without this body, I could never have experienced the moment that had me nearly on the ground in laughter. I was playing hide-and-go-seek with my great-in-so-many-ways nephew who was two at the time. When it was his turn to hide and for me to count in the shed, I looked out--after counting to ten--to see him barreling full bore up the slope of our yard and around shrubs and trees, with both hands covering both eyes, two fingers split apart on one hand in order to peek through just enough to keep himself from running into something—laughing and giggling the whole while. I’ve never played the game quite that way before or since, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!

And with this body I got air-kissed by his little brother, his eyes squinted shut, still twinkling though, as his nose turned up and his lips smooched me from twenty feet away. Then he grinned, and off he tromped with his brother and parents to visit their great grandmother.

With this body, I got to go wild-flower picking with Dad in search of flowers for my boyfriend’s funeral. With this body, I got to feel an emptiness and an aloneness so deep that I never wanted to feel that way ever again. With this body I got to feel shame and guilt and lack of self-love and self-worth so intensely that I sought out that which gave me peace of heart. And, in the end, I found myself celebrating it all.

With this body, I got to marry a man who knew exactly what buttons to push on me—and he pushed them often. And I got good experience surrounding, at first, conditional love, followed by unconditional love. I discovered I can’t make someone love me, but I can still love him even if loving him means letting him go.

With this body I discovered compassion. Compassion just says, "Live life your own special way. I may go along and play with you when our choices intersect, but when they go in opposite directions, I’ll honor and celebrate that, too. No matter what—I’ll always love us and I’ll always embrace the wisdom gained. I may laugh or cry with you, but I’ll never pity us."

And with this body, I got to dance the waltz with my dad and learned the two-step from my mom. With these ears and this body, I’ve gotten to hear music that brought shivers to my spine and tears to my eyes—and sometimes nightmares—ha! But even those were exciting when sharing them with another.

And with this body has come a myriad of experiences too infinite to truly get all written down. But with this mind, I can recall them vividly because of all these sensations felt by being in a body—the divine gift of life experienced.

With this body filled with the breath of life, I got to hear my dad tell me at least once a day (if not more) for the last three and a half weeks I was with him, "Thank you, Babe. I love you."