Love in Any Language

body love

I’ve been thinking a lot about bodies lately. Something so many of us do surprisingly little consider we’ve all got one. Mostly my contemplation emerges from reading women writing about their overweight bodies.  I’ve been researching for the essay I’ve been writing on my own unruly body; a body that was difficult to mold into Air Force standards. What I initially learned from this research was that I’m not fat enough to write about fat.

The other thing that I’m learning as I’m continuing to read about obese women coming to terms with their bodies is that I’m recognizing their narrative. And I recognize the language they use in their books from conversations with my not-obese and obese friends. I recognize the language in snippets of overheard conversations. I recognize the language in the ubiquitous, image-dense media. The cruel, bully-driven culture that shames people for appearances is so pervasive it is almost the carbon monoxide around us. I am in deep need of more oxygen.

No question, the cuts are deepest for people who cannot escape their physical appearance. For my authors, that is obesity and morbid obesity. It can also be gender. It can be race. It can be height. It can be an extra-large nose. One eye differently colored than the other. A perception of difference.

My point is that the climate that encourages people to make generalizations about other people and equate those generalizations to moral shortcomings engenders a climate of discrimination and injustice that moves beyond bullying someone for being fat. However, how we treat a abhorrence of fat translates to these other forms of discrimination.

Just today I lamented to my husband that I had seen skinny people who eat so much more than me. Later, reading Lindy West’s Shrill, I learned that there really is research that shows that struggling with weight isn’t as simple as “calories in/calories out.” And we all know that, somewhere inside, yet it was reassuring to find my sessions with a dietician whose horrified exclamation, “But you can’t eat less than 1200 calories a day,” was followed with my perfectly kept food diary and weight gain on her fiber-rich, calorie-low diet. Despite the personal trainer and the perfect diet, I put on weight that was not muscle.

My sense of kinship with obese authors makes no sense to me yet.

What I do know is that my affinity is most strong when they write about how other people feel justified shaming someone else’s body for perceived moral shortcomings resulting in their “problem.” When other people feel righteous about telling other people how to live their lives, maybe they should more time looking at their own lives. Like someone suggesting I’ll burn in hell because I love a glass of wine, where do the critics get the right to tell people what they should do with their bodies?  I would like to take your average white male troll who tells a woman her body is disgusting because she doesn’t match an unrealistic, male-driven ideal of beauty and remind him that if he could just grow a few inches taller, he might match my own unrealistic conception of beauty.  And until he does, to take his comments elsewhere.

This one goes against the grain. Let people make their own choices. And if those choices do not result in a thin body, don’t denigrate them for that. The worn-out arguments about health and self-worth really do not apply. Perhaps if we fixed our broken industrial food system and American “overwork” ethic, we could have a tiny start in making changes that really matter.

I’m not fat and I am interested in being strong and fit. But I would like to fight for the right to be fat without ridicule. My retirement, only about five months ago, from military standards of fitness has allowed me to loosen my grip on my disobedient body. What I’m finding is that it really isn’t so disobedient. It’s older now. It hurts more as I struggle to improve my cardiovascular fitness and muscle strength so I can join my brother for a couple hundred miles of his Appalachian Trail Thru Hike next spring.

But it’s also pretty great. It grows stronger with my work. It carries a load. It can run. And even though it looks different than that younger version I used to despise so much for its smooth muscles and tight arms that seemed to be mounds of unwanted fat at the time, I’m finding beauty in its unexpected willingness to conform to my demands after all.

Most of us have heard of love languages. My body has a love language—one that I think more of us would benefit from embracing. My body wants to be accepted for what it is by its own standard. If I set aside the images bombarding me from all sides, from the waif a strong wind could blow over to the power athletes nearly all pure muscle, and try to picture my body, independent from the others, I begin to see a beauty in a place that has only known a struggle.

For more than 49 years, the gaze coming back at me in the mirror has not wavered. The same eyes take in the same flesh. That is nothing short of a miracle. The flesh expands as it needs to accommodate life and the inevitable changes of age. As the browns emerge on my hands, the puckers evolve on my thighs, and my belly softens into a pouch, there is beauty in the colors and the shapes that make up me. Because they are me. Because there is only one that is me.

I’m learning to sing a song of love in my body’s language.

Lunar Howl


Chill blue.
Mountains mere ink blots,
Trees stretch bony arms.

An orb ascending in the vast
Infinity of space.

Nothing infinite about this space.

I can’t read.
Can’t watch.
Can’t barely breath.

It’s all too real.
History unraveling before me.

There’s nothing new under the sun.

Then the remote glow breaks
Over peaks, higher than you.
Higher than me. Higher than this.

Lake transformed to a
Mirror reflecting other-worldly light.

Is it too much to hope for,

Something new?
Under the new, full moon?

A River Drives Through It

Wednesday morning, we loaded the dogs in the car for a jaunt back down to Monument—a thousand feet away in altitude, but a three-hour drive in distance. The tough part about moving far, but not very far, from our old home is that we think we can “run errands.”

Driving past the glittering waters edged in crystalline pines, we could have been the sole survivors on a peaceful morning, years after an apocalyptic event traveling on horded fossil fuels. We were insular, music and each other. Who needed the world?

In the first small town, a few cars passed from the other direction, and we stopped for lattes. Berthoud Pass bridged us to the other world—I-70, brake lights, a downhill slide into the murky inversion layer smothering Denver.

By the time we were surging, rubber band snaps of start and stop outside of Castle Rock, I realized I was seeing my former life through new eyes. Mt. Herman was a gentle slope and Pikes Peak was rounded majesty like a chubby cousin to the sharp crags surrounding our new home.

The landscape that had once opened my heart, this time, seemed like a perfect picnic, a cornucopia of verdant plenty, overrun by ants.  I couldn’t know that my sustained, if very short, sojourn in a little more rural and rugged part of Colorado would have this effect on me.

The traffic was the defining difference. Despite the contrasting blue skies, strutting elk, and pine-lined trails of my new home, it was the presence of all the cars, not the absence of these finer points of beauty, that did me in back on the Front Range.

The flow of driving runs its own narrative, a fiction formed by the non-fiction around us.  When the white Volvo held up six cars behind it, I imagined how her small world was, and surely more important than the thirty people involved in the small drama playing out in two northbound lanes. The little Subaru Impreza that tortoise and hared around us with disregard for safe space was also oblivious to the rest of us, texting and driving her way for 45 miles of our journey. In the absence of parallel driving at my new home in the high country, I had forgotten how much we, as modern humans, only care about ourselves. Everyone else should bend to our wishes.  People aren’t less selfish up here, I just don’t witness that self-centeredness on a daily basis.

Now I wait for the fiction that unravels from full-moon nights laced with gliding deer and hung with lingering coyote howls. I wait for the breathless moment when a stand of trees unbends into the regal step of a bull elk or the transformation when river willows raise their branches and become the massive-palmed, knob-kneed, awkward-grace of a moose. I wait until the automobile river becomes full light-years away.

Persephone’s Retreat

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Curving away, murmuring
The water turns coy.
Dashing past rocks,
Muddy banks and tendrils of ice.

These retreating days are sensory.
The brown lets off a waft of decay,
Insects composting, in late warmth,
A brush of summer on my cheek.

The tawny grass leans askew,
Like a middle-aged woman
Whose good looks echo
In the curve of her cheekbone

Hints of a verdant summer linger
In the long, broken stalks.
A time when the river swelled
Luscious and ripe, overwhelming the rocks.

Today, the ice fingers off branches,
Dipping into the subdued, slowing pools,
Patterning away from edges,
Consuming the river a molecule at a time.

I can anticipate a pillowed white day,
The water converted and still,
When muted shapes suggest an underworld,
Awaiting Persephone’s gentle touch.