elizabethlevett

A long time ago my parents gave me a carefully crafted gift: this body. Since that day I have hurled it through space on a squeaking swing set, turned it upside down over and over on the monkey bars, and run it mile after mile. I have dunked it in the ocean and burned it on the sand. At times I tried to change it, unsure why my old friend and I were suddenly arguing, only to realize the fight had been instigated — as youthful squabbles often are — by someone else. In high school there were those who must have felt inadequate themselves and sought to see me settle down into quiet torment rather than continue the joyful noise of senselessly carefree teenage girlhood. Most of us got those messages — we weren’t skinny enough, or busty enough, not tan enough or blond enough. At times, this little body shrank in confusion and shame. My feelings about my body were leased out, offered up, as I allowed my self-esteem to depend on the opinions of others. If only young people could somehow feel that they are Enough.

When I was old enough to get a job and the athletic highs and aching lows of competitive swimming and speeding all over on my bike were in the past, I went to work and started living on tomato soup and low-calorie crackers at the office. Skinny was something I felt I could achieve. A tall, thin body would define me as disciplined, as beautiful. Until I saw a photo of myself in shorts and a tank top. It was all I needed to realize that too thin could become a dangerous possibility.

When I discovered sex, I allowed it to define my tenuous acceptance of my body. Always my evaluation of myself was bound to the way others saw me. But it was fun, and so I rode the wave, through boyfriends and into marriage. Over time, practicing yoga, running, languishing indulgently on a beach or hanging out with my husband, there came a sort of truce between my body and me. Still, there were times when injuries or missteps got me back to quarreling with this body. But I kept coming back into the conversation, kept trying to patch things up.

Lately, after so many years and so many changes, I’ve come to appreciate what this strong body can do. I remember this is the friend I’ve thrown into rivers, lakes, oceans, and even a deep blue and salty sea with boisterous joy. This body and I have climbed mountains, worked hard, given comfort and love, expressed joy. With aging, I’ve found there is a chance to let go of the old conflict. There is a final peace bound with deep love and the humble acceptance of this gift.

I was born for this body, and it has been my teacher. Someone once said something to the effect that, a person is not a body with a soul, but a soul contained in a body. Maybe this body was chosen for me by spirit, with full knowledge and intention. Who else then should be allowed to estimate its value? At sixty-six, I stretch and flex and push this old body. I celebrate its strength, its flexibility. I ease down slowly down into child’s pose, the camel, prayer pose and, finally, Shavasana, the pose of the corpse, rooted to earth and open to sky. All the bones and wrinkles and bags of this body are capable and to me, just between us, it is just fine and it is enough. My castle. My home.