You are a phenomenon, my darling
From D.W.: Bodies, man. Am I right? These weird tote bags we’re all sloshing around in and trying not to talk about, or think about, or get too attached to. I’ve never had much affection for mine. It’s been at best a burden and at worst a saboteur. But even though I’ve never sung the body electric, Rachel seemed to appreciate it for some inscrutable reason. I guess that’s just the kind of nonsense thing that love will do to a person.
“Why are we talking about bodies?” you ask. “Mind your business, weirdo,” I retort. With the risk of being even more overly intimate firmly in mind, I’ll try and make sense of it:
When someone dies, you miss a lot of things about them. Sometimes you miss them all at once, but sometimes particular things stand out and hit you extra hard and you mourn them all over again in new ways. Sometimes you’ll miss their empathy or their sense of humor. Having someone to talk to when work is hard or celebrate accomplishments with. Sometimes it’s just mourning your favorite road trip companion. Since Rachel died, I’ve certainly been through the cycle of missing every part of who she was over and over, and that’s normal and predictable. And each time another aspect of the loss comes around to take its turn at the plate, I can almost see it coming from the windup. It’s tipping its pitches.
Missing her physical body, though, I never see coming. I don’t know why that is. Maybe it’s just that we’re so conditioned to believe that a human being is more than and different from the body they inhabit. Separating and emphasizing a body, even your partner’s, seems crass and reductive. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve been missing her body. I’m not saying that in a sexual way, but I’m not not saying it that way. There are physical bonds that are formed between bodies. Corporal threads that flex and stretch and compress and multiply. Einstein-Rosen bridges built between two people that Death can’t dismantle but can make impossible to travel.
So, that’s why we’re talking about bodies this week. You asked.
Facebook. July 7th. 2020
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but it’s probably worth saying on the regular (and most especially during a hot and very sweaty summer during a weird time in the world and during which we may all have been consuming more of some things and less of others, and maybe things don’t fit or feel just right).
(And maybe we’ve all been secretly contemplating ordering a kiddie pool and setting up daily delivery of two hundred pounds of ice for said kiddie pool even though you don’t have any kiddies but do have a very secluded spot in the yard that seems reasonable and people driving by should just mind their business. *fine maybe it’s just me...but I doubt it.) I know you, just a little bit. And because I do, let me also say this:
You are allowed to take up space in this world. Your body is here and there is room for it. It’s different than anyone else’s because you are in it. That makes it special and holy. It may not be what you want it to be for a whole laundry list of reasons. But you are in your body, and it’s holding you right now. And that is worth being thankful for. Be kind to what holds you. Say good things to it and about it, the way you would any other growing, living thing.
Your body has and always will look and move and feel differently than any other bodies. It is yours. Just yours. Your body is beautiful because you are in it. It has traveled a long way with you, taken you all the places you’ve been. It’s pretty great, the place you live inside. I’m glad it’s you in there. I’m always glad to see your whole self. You are the best you.
Anyone who tells you that you aren’t beautiful or holds up ridiculous standards they don’t keep themselves isn’t telling the truth to you or themselves. You are entirely too smart and powerful and good to believe that garbage, but I know it stings and leaves marks and makes you feel bad. But you aren’t bad. And neither is your body.
You are so special. There is no one like you in the whole rest of the wide world who has ever been exactly like you. You are on purpose. You are so beloved—your whole self, all of it, even the parts you always keep hidden or exposed or masked or veiled or painted or whatever. You are star dust and flesh and bone and blood and breath and spirit. You are on purpose. You bear the image of the Creator on your brow, and creation was crowned anew at your birth. Breath not of your own making has filled your lungs from your first breath. You are a phenomenon, my darling.
You are on purpose.
You and your body are here together. Make friends with it. Be kind to your whole self. You are a fantastic friend, and I should know—you are mine.
I love your guts and liver and face and all the rest of it five-ever,
rachie
Unpublished. March 31st. 2022
The Gonzo Prayer
Are You There, God? It’s Me, Rachie.
We need to talk about how perimenopause is bullshit because I already did puberty in the forward direction. While I have not yet experienced A Chico’s Kind of Day, I am looking forward to it. My friends who have them all the time seem very glamorous and optimized for breezy and effortless appearances—in other words, to be non-drenched in sudden hot flash juices. Plus, I think my inner Towanda would be less likely to come out if she were wearing an elegant floppy palm leaf sun hat, or at least she would just queen out regally instead of rear-ending a parked car. Just like Fraulien Maria never actually sang while she was lollygagging all the way from the convent toward the shock of her young life: WHAT WILL THIS DAY BE LIKE, I WONDER? WHAT WILL MY FUTURE (OUTFIT) BE? I WONDER…
I like to think that once the fire sale in my ovaries is finally over, I’ll have that Chico’s Kind of Day, God. Until then, I’ll just be here in my beloved athleisure wear with extra wicking power and a large plastic cup full of ice and plain seltzer, God. I feel like that’s ok with you.
Also, what the fuck is the deal with these chin hairs? One day, they aren’t even there and the next, they are actual inches long. God, I don’t understand if it’s a trick of the light or because I need stronger bifocals, but I really feel grossed out about them. And my husband found one while he was petting my face in a nice way, and he was really sweet and funny about it. But I almost died, God. But then I remembered that’s not how I go, and tweezed that fucking hair, and then microplaned my entire face. God, thank you for having Aunt Nea teach me about micro planing and directing my path to the Walgreens facial care section and to the several YouTube tutorials I consumed regarding same.
I know you are always sending me signs, God. I promise I am not trying to be a dumbass, so especially thank you for the unmistakable ones. Bodies are sure weird ass wonderlands, God. It becomes more and more clear to me that your ways are not our ways. But I’m trying to learn the difference. No shade, but you fight dirty and I do not want any of that action.
I’ll wait to see what you have to say about Chico’s. Time is a flat freezer pizza and I want a whole one.
Oh, one last thing, God, before I go back to petting the dogs and catch up on the morning news: Please tell Jesus I said HI and that I understand why he’s stalling. It’s fucking wild down here. I know you know that. But for real, it’s nuts. If you could just, and I know you said not to worry about it, but…maybe you know… I know it doesn’t work like that, but maybe just a little push? Tiny little sweet pat? A little friendly boop on our dumb lil noses? I’m just saying—maybe think about it? Ok, if you need any more solid pitches or thoughts from me about this last bit, I’ll just be here with the dogs and my curriculum project for that Church thing—you know the one.
And God, please bless the sisters of my soul. They are so very special and I love them so. Thank you for this way of being a family. You’re great and I love you.
Your Friend,
Rachie
