Dancing Down the Moon

Ten Things I Love - Body Sacred Edition

1 - I love the color of my eyes.  Sometimes they're a sort of sea-grey, sometimes almost brilliantly blue.  They have been described as "mischievous" and "mysterious," which pleases me.  I also have dark lashes, so I don't have to wear mascara--good thing, too, as I am apparently allergic to it and most if it is made of dead bats and gay baby whales and other horrifying things.  (Actually I hardly ever wear makeup at all, thanks to #7.)

2 - I love my feet.  They're cute, and small, and I have nicely-formed toes that I always keep painted some form of dark red or purple.  Even the blisters and calluses forming on the soles are good to me, for they mean I've been dancing and am toughening up.  When I was a kid I ran barefoot on hot asphalt all summer long, so I had very tough feet.  I still go barefoot in places I probably shouldn't, like my apartment parking lot, but my feet enjoy it.  My feet have carried me throughout my life and hopefully will continue to, bad ankles and fat girl knees and all.  As they say in Nia, your feet are "the hands that touch the Earth."

3 - I love my shoulders.  They're strong and have a graceful line, especially when I'm standing up straight and proud (which thrusts my breasts forward, so it's a win-win situation, really).

4 - I love the overall shape of my body.  I have an hourglass figure with about four extra hours poured into it (I have time on my ass), but regardless of size I like having a defined waist and serious curves.  My torso is short and my legs are comparatively long, so long skirts with slits look outrageously good on me.

5 - I love how flexible I am.  It always surprises people that I can bend myself in so many interesting shapes despite the tummy and thighs in the way.  I've always been flexible; I was a gymnast as a child, and actually won ribbons and such on the balance beam.  Then someone told me I was too fat to ever be a real gymnast, and I took it to heart, unfortunately, and quit.  It took me decades to regain my love for movement--this time on my own terms.

6 - I love my hands.  They do my work, and the work of the Goddess and God, in this lifetime; they're also small and cute like my feet.  The only problem I have with them is that I have Essential Tremor so they shake almost constantly, which makes it very hard for me to paint in detail or handwrite for long periods of time.  When I'm really tired I look like a traveling earthquake.  They do so many other things, though, that I don't mind so much.  I even like the v-shaped scar on my left ring finger from a kitchen shear incident when I was 18. 

7 - I love my skin.  I was blessed with remarkably clear, porcelain skin that has miraculously few blemishes and only develops mild acne right before I bleed.  I freckle like a redheaded stepchild if I'm out in the sun, but I try not to do that, as I like being pale and creamy like the flesh of a cherimoya.* 

8 - I'm not as fond of my internal organs, to be honest--my digestive system is afflicted with IBS and I have a sinus arrhythmia that makes life a bit hairy sometimes--but I must say I love how my body is able to adapt to whatever insanity I put her through.  She'll put up with crap food and no sleep for a while, then start sending out reminder notices that I need to get my accounts balanced or there will be hell to pay.  When I take better care of myself, she responds with praise and rewards galore.  People talk as if the mind is smarter than the body, but I think the body has its own wisdom, a wisdom that reaches back much farther than the development of the human intellect.  If I give my body half a chance, she'll step up to any challenge.

9 - I love my hair, though it drives me crazy.  I have a lot, lot, lot of hair.  Always have.  The older I get the more I appreciate it.  Several stylists have gotten panicky when they stuck their hands in it, and the usual line is "Damn, girl, you have a lot of hair!" Even though I've dyed it every color you can imagine (I have no real memory of my natural color except that it's mousy and uninteresting), it's still healthy and soft.  We argue constantly about its refusal to pick a direction and that one spot that tries to curl no matter what, but overall, Iove my hair. 

10 - I love my tattoos.  I want more.  Lots more.  At present I have three:  a butterfly on my right shoulder blade, a spider on my left shoulder blade, and a snake on my left upper arm.  I'm a one-woman zoo over here.  I'm thinking of getting tattoos to celebrate dance on my feet, and possibly "ahimsa" on my right arm with a lotus or other symbol, but those designs are all in development and I'm not in any particular hurry.  I love that I deliberately took on the pain in order to seek beauty.  A friend of mine often says, "make the pain count."  As with skin, so with life, I pray.

All right, it's your turn.  Go forth and make a list of ten things you love about your body, inside or out.  If you love the little mole on your elbow that's shaped like Missouri, or the way your eyes crinkle, or your mastectomy scars, or your right pinkie finger, say so.  We spend too much time talking about what is wrong with our bodies, what we hate, what we wish we could change--let's talk about things we love.  Your body will thank you for it.

* - You must try a cherimoya, also known as a "custard apple," sometime if you find one and can afford it.

Sacred Sexuality, or Something

My goodness, an awful lot of people want me to talk about sex.  Sex, and God.  Pagans have awesome priorities.

I'm actually not being facetious when I say that.

As far as sacred sexuality goes, I'm not sure I'm your girl. 

(The following post is intended for...well, people who want to hear about my sex life.  It's not explicit or anything, but it is Too Much Information in places.  Fair warning.)

For Racu: An Anecdote

A friend of mine (and recently-initiated student, go her!) requested that I post this story which was originally written for my personal journal, which is not public. I agree with her--a story this good deserves to be retold.  And so, submitted for your perusal, "My Last Two Dollars and My Last Good Nerve."

August 30, 2005

I nearly punched someone today. 

The scene is Book People, a Monday evening. The cafe area. Having spent the day feeling like ass and laying around watching TV bundled up in various wubbies on the futon, I decided to make a pilgrimage to the library, then on the way back to Mecca itself, my all-time favorite bookstore and Austin landmark. I can't count the hours I've spent at Book People curled up on a couch or in the cafe sipping chai and collecting recipes, or paging through the latest metaphysical tripe. It's a comforting ritual and a way that my last couple of bucks could support local business.

So I score a table against the wall, put down my stack of cookbooks and various other and my purse, grab my wallet, and head for the counter. (My purse is in plain sight, don't worry; I wanted it to mark my table.) Today's coffee jockey is an adorable pierced-and-tattooed boy en flambe, as most BP baristas tend to be. There's one woman in line in front of me, waffling between a decaf skim milk latte and some other thing.

Now, this woman...oy. There are thin women, and then there are Skinny Bitches, and my radar went screaming off on the latter immediately. She's standing there in her overpriced workout clothes--you know, the kind nobody wears to actually work out in, they just wear around town to make it look like they're oh-so-health-conscious. She has one of those stupid little pink leather purses that should have a dog in it, and an armload of magazines about pilates and yoga; her hair is that expensive streaky blonde that's all the rage in people trying to look young and hip. She's making fake small talk with the adorable pierced-and-tattooed boy en flambe, and taking forever to decide what she wants, talking herself into and out of a piece of cake about five times.

I'm barely paying attention, as I am scanning the menu myself (you know, making up my mind BEFORE I get there?), but she has one of those nasal voices that worms its way into your brain and makes your spine hurt, so before long I'm listening to her; I think she was trying to be flirty. Anyone with half an IQ would have known her charm was absolutely wasted on our friendly neighborhood cafe lad.

The woman is now weighing the pros and cons of having skim milk versus two percent milk in her latte, and she says, "God, I don't know, I just feel so, like, fat today. I feel like such a big fat cow."

Then she turns to me, and she says, GET THIS, "How do you stand it every day?"

I blink.

The adorable pierced-and-tattooed boy en flambe blinks.

Several heads in the cafe pop up because nobody can believe this woman actually said this to a total stranger. I feel as if the sitcom camera is pulling in tight for a closeup on my reaction.

But the gods of snark are smiling upon me today. I reply, straightfaced, "You know, it's normally not too bad, but today I'm having one of those days where I feel like a shallow dumb bitch. How do you stand it every day?"

Just then the barista, who is holding back laughter so hard he's beet red, hands her her skim milk yuppie whatever and says, "Here you go, ma'am." She too is kind of pink, but she doesn't say a damn word, or leave a tip--she storms off, her cell phone already to her ear, because clearly she's the wronged party here.

The pierced-and-tattooed boy en flambe busts out laughing, and I notice a few of the popping-up-heads are laughing too. I'm both shell-shocked and proud of myself, because usually when I'm insulted I'm not quick on the draw enough for the witty retort. "Oh my God, I cannot believe she fucking said that to you," he says, shaking his head.

I can't, either, but at the same time I can. It's not the first time people have made comments like that to me. They only do it when you're alone, because if you're with friends you're upholding the Fat Girl Contract--you're playing the part of asexual sidekick to whoever is the pretty girl. But if you're by yourself, and gods forbid having a good time or--gasp!--eating something besides a salad with the dressing on the side, you're fair game.

If you walk up to a black man and call him that dreaded "n word" or tell him he should be tap dancing and eating fried chicken, you'll be thought of as a bigot, but if you insult someone's appearance to their faces in public or tell a fat woman she should be on Atkins, it's considered "helpful advice." You don't know this woman, why she's fat, or anything about her life, but it's okay to be cruel, because obviously she's lazy and self-indulgent and you, as a skinny evangelist, have the right to say whatever you want if you think it's for her own good. People don't believe this kind of shit happens, but it happens every day.

I order a cherry Italian soda. The adorable pierced-and-tattooed boy en flambe waves my money away. "On the house," he says. "The comeback was worth two-fifty at least."

I slip the two dollars in the tip jar and go back to my table, shaking my head, still too amazed at the whole thing to really process it. A few minutes later I hear a quiet laugh, and I look up to see the adorable pierced-and-tattooed boy en flambe holding a milk jug and grinning a little sheepishly.

He sees me looking and holds up the jug.  "I think I gave her whole milk by accident," he says, and winks.  "Oops."

Sister Moon Lodge Seeks Pie

For the next few entries, I’m going to do what feels right to me to do, and what will no doubt squick out a good many people.  I’m going to talk about my period.

That’s right.  My period.  Menstruation.  My euphemism.  Falling to the Communists, Surfing the Crimson Tide, Riding the Cotton Pony, Seducing Vampires, Being Up on Blocks in the Yard, The Eve of St. Menses, Aunt Flo, my Special Visitor, and so on, and so forth.  I am a bleeding woman, and this bleeding woman is tired of pretending she doesn’t bleed; being a writing bleeding Pagan woman, I have a forum for my insanity, and that forum is this blog. 

I talked about bleeding at some length in The Body Sacred, and I’ll try not to repeat myself too terribly much, but there are a few things I’d like to get off my chest (or out of my pants) and what better place to do it than a body-positive, Earth-spirituality blog? 

For example, I am bleeding today, and I had to go to work even though my belly was twisted in cramps and my back ached.  I couldn’t get comfortable in my office chair, and every time I stood up, well…ladies, you know the GOOSH!!! I was nauseated and hungry and my IBS was at a fever pitch, and I thought to myself, “My Kingdom for a Moon Lodge.”

Resources for the Holy Puppy

As promised, here is a list of books and DVDs that have been helpful to me in my struggles with body image, spirituality, and identity. 

There are dozens of books out there on these subjects, but these are the ones I have read, loved, and got a lot out of.  I’ve read plenty of others that I don’t wholeheartedly recommend. One of these days I'll compile a list just of cookbooks (trust me, those are vitally important in learning how to nurture your body, as they give inspiration for what can be an extremely dull and depressing thought--cooking for yourself).

And of course I would recommend my own book, The Body Sacred.

Most of what’s here is geared toward women; titles with a (*) are those that are non-gender-specific.  Those I’ve found especially moving and life-changing are in bold.

Spirituality and the Body

The Body Sacred by Dianne Sylvan
*Crafting the Body Divine by Yasmine Galenorn
*Sexual Ecstasy and the Divine by Yasmine Galenorn
Eating in the Light of the Moon:  How Women Can Transform Their Relationships with Food Through Myths, Metaphors, & Storytelling by Anita Johnston, PhD
Aphrodite’s Daughters: Women’s Sexual Stories and the Journey of the Soul by Jalaja Bonheim
*Sweat Your Prayers: Movement as Spiritual Practice by Gabrielle Roth
*Rites of Pleasure: Sexuality in Wicca and NeoPaganism by Jennifer Hunter
*Moving into Ecstasy: An Urban Mystic’s Guide to Movement, Music, and Meditation by Amoda

Self-Esteem

The Fat Girl’s Guide to Life by Wendy Shanker
The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler
Cunt: a Declaration of Independence by Inga Muscio
I’m the One that I Want by Margaret Cho
Fat!So? Because You Don’t Have to Apologize for Your Size by Marilyn Wann
Kiss My Tiara: How to Rule the World as a Smart-Mouthed Goddess by Susan Jane Gilman

Food, Health, and Fitness

Real Fitness for Real Women: A Unique Workout Program for the Plus-Size Woman by Rochelle Rice
*Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser
*Don’t Eat This Book! By Morgan Spurlock
*Mad Cowboy by Howard Lyman

Fiction

Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner (I'm rereading it right now, as a matter of fact--it makes me cry every time.)

Film

Margaret Cho: I’m the One that I Want and Notorious C.H.O.
The Truth About Cats and Dogs
Last Holiday (anything with Queen Latifah in it, actually)
Real Women Have Curves

Have anything you'd like to add to this list?  Leave it in comments.

A Belly Rub For the Holy Puppy

It often surprises people who are familiar with my work that I, Dianne Sylvan, champion of self-love, despiser of the beauty industry, she who wrote an entire book about accepting and treating the body as the sacred instrument of righteous awesomeness it is, often have days when I wish I could walk around with a bag over my head.

It's true.  Sometimes I shriek when I look in the mirror, I poke my jiggling thighs in disgust, and I weigh the merits of tapeworms versus gastric bypass.  I am a human being, and I live in this culture, and I am not immune to Fat Days or Good Christ am I a Dog Days, even after all the progress I've made.

One of the first signs I'm heading into a depressive tailspin is how mean I am to my body.  I eat tons of junk food, I talk smack about myself, and I conveniently forget all that groovy spiritual stuff I spent months writing on how not to treat yourself like crap.

One of the first signs that the medication was working was when I decided enough was enough.  After two months of dithering, I finally wrested control of my eating habits back from the slings and arrows of my seratonin levels, and in the last couple of weeks have already made great strides toward improving my health.  It's amazing how quickly your body will respond to crazy things like vegetables and abstaining from sodas; it's like a ticker-tape parade.

Despite the fact that I remain to this day a loud and obnoxious critic of the diet business, I would be the last person to tell you not to take better care of your body.  We're not stupid; we know what's good for us, or most of us do, although people who eat meat for dessert might want to get their cholesterol checked. 

If taking care of your body means you eventually drop five dress sizes, hey, more power to you.  If that means you stay a size 20, stop beating yourself up and don't put off that spa weekend, new job, or sexy lingerie just because you're not a stick person.  Health and disease both come in all sizes.  So does self-worth.

That, right there, is the whole point.  Self-worth, self-love.  Acknowledging and tending the sacred flame of your spirit, housed in the altar of your flesh.  Loving yourself from hairy toes to saggy breasts to receding hairline.  Health changes, in my opinion and experience, are more likely to stick if approached from a place of reverence for the warm little animal the gods have gifted you with. 

If the Goddess appeared before you and handed you a puppy, would you tell the puppy it's ugly and fat, or maybe have its paws surgically reduced, or starve it?  What kind of reaction do you think that would get, both from She who entrusted you with the puppy's care, and from the puppy himself?

Take care of your holy puppy, or he'll pee on your shoe.

In my next post I'll offer some resources for Pagans with body image, food, and self-esteem issues.