Commiserating with another woman about how we feel about our bodies is the kind of thing that we do every day, often without even thinking. It’s become polite, or expected—it’s just what you do. We can complain about our thighs, our dress size, our weight, or our diets to women we barely even know, but by virtue of the fact that we’re female, we know we’ll share the same feelings. It’s become such a commonplace that it can be unsettling to meet a woman who doesn’t feel the same way (how often have you or someone you know joked about “hating” another woman because she seems confident and comfortable with herself?). The problem is that we don’t often take a moment to think about how damaging this practice is. In accepting poor body image as a means through which we can bond and forge relationships, we’re acknowledging that it’s not important for us to make an effort to feel any better. It may be the status quo for us to feel badly about ourselves, but that doesn’t mean it’s right, and it doesn’t mean we should seek out relationships and experiences that enable us to perpetuate our feeling that way.
Wednesday May 4, 2011
Tuesday May 3, 2011
- Deepak Chopra: "Neurons that fire together, wire together. Rewire your brain for higher consciousness."
- Paulo Coelho: "Translation: Fall In Love."
- I would add: fall in love with the ground, the spring wind, the way the sun moves to the horizon, your friends, your happiest memories, your most profound lessons, your own hands, the way you walk, the sounds, the below, the above
Foucault, 1966—Maybe it should also be said that to make love is to feel one’s body close in on oneself. It is finally to exist outside of any utopia, with all of one’s density, between the hands of the other. Under the other’s fingers running over you, all the invisible parts of your body begin to exist. Against the lips of the other, yours become sensitive. In front of his half-closed eyes, your face acquires a certitude. There is a gaze, finally, to see your closed eyelids. Love also, like the mirror and like death—it appeases the utopia of your body, it hushes it, it calms it, it encloses it as if in a box, it shuts and seals it. This is why love is so closely related to the illusion of the mirror and the menace of death. And if, despite these two perilous figures that surround it, we love so much to make love, it is because, in love, the body is here.
The above is too good not to post again
Tuesday May 3, 2011