Tag: Weight

21 Day Body Love Challenge – Belly Laugh

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belly

I love my belly.

This is a relatively recent development. I would like it to be smaller, flatter, but I do not love it less because it is not.

My belly button has always been a point of pride, shaped like the entrance to a cave, it seems to mark the intersection where my belly stops and my waist begins. I have a whole belly, butt, hip combo area, as if I put on granny panties and just stuffed them full.

This area is soft but strong, it’s where I store my secrets and insecurities until I’m ready to look at them. It keeps me grounded no matter how many stories my mind makes up. It grows a little for support when I’m going through a transition, allowing me to maintain my emotional footing and mental grace. When I reach the other side, my body naturally discards this life preserver.

When I behave nutritionally my belly rewards me with less real estate, it flattens out a bit – at least when I’m lying on my back, but it will never be smooth. It has seen too much in its lifetime.

There are iridescent lightning bolts that indicate where my belly surrendered to the life growing within me, branding me as a member of the maternal tribe. Just above the entrance to the cave are two tiny lightning bolts that shot through moments before new life was released from my body, yielding to the last bit of pressure. I especially love these. There is a single thin line, a barely perceptible crease that runs horizontally from hip to hip where the base of my belly rested at its fullest. An indelible reminder of my capacity.

I have never had a completely flat belly, alas, my DNA chose another path. My mom calls hers a pooch. She has been thin as a rail most of my life but she still has this little pooch. Her mom’s shape more closely resembled my own and she too had “the pooch.” As a teenager on the drill team, or worse, the swim team, it was my shame and needed to be hidden behind towels or crossed arms. Even as an adult I would inhale deeply, sucking in my abdomen in an effort to minimize its existence. To this day I have to consciously relax the muscles of my mid-section when I exhale – holding in my stomach became as natural as breathing itself.

When I was very young my favorite place to be when I was sleepy or scared or sick, was laying with my head on my mom’s or grandma’s laps. They were soft and reassuring, nurturing. Now I have this gift that I currently share with four little furry friends and sometimes my husband. It’s a soft landing place in a world with so many sharp objects and hard edges.

I will never make it into Shape magazine because of my abs, unless it’s just a lot of “before” pictures. The oceans of the world will probably never see me in a bikini again, but protected by clothing and covered in puppies, and having housed a little human, it knows its worth. It’s priceless.

I love my belly.

“I want to be a big, fleshy, voluptuous woman with curves. I want a big bum, but I don’t have one.” – Cameron Diaz

 

21 Day Body Love Challenge – American Thighs

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Colonialette

“I think the quality of sexiness comes from within. It is something that is in you or it isn’t and it really doesn’t have much to do with breasts or thighs or the pout of your lips.” – Sophia Loren

I love my thighs.

Ok, that’s a  little bit of a lie. Like my knees, I find them very useful but not appropriate for all audiences. We’ve sparred a lot throughout the years and they’ve never quite measured up to my expectations. Or dreams really, I don’t suppose I expected a whole lot out of them based on the DNA of the female thighs in my family.

They introduced themselves to me sometime in the fourth grade. I was wearing culottes and playing in the front yard with my best friend Maria, when I noticed her legs were way skinnier than mine. Mine were normal, so were hers, of course, but I was at an age where comparisons were how I was making sense of the world. Bigger, smaller, better, worse, prettier, uglier, nicer, meaner. At this time, Tiger Beat magazine started to make an appearance, informing my tastes and educating me on all things cool and correct. This was the same year I took the book “Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex, But Were Afraid to Ask” into school to share with my friends at recess. I was exploring, let’s say.

From that point on my thighs were never good enough. They were never normal or pretty. My knees touched, knock-kneed I believe was the term, which made my thighs touch if I stood with my feet together. Other girls had this great space between their thighs and knees that birds could fly through. A piece of paper would struggle to make its way from the front of my thighs to the back. If I ran in corduroys, the fire department would surely be called.

What I didn’t realize at a young age was that the structure of my legs was what it was and there were millions of girls with that same structure. They just didn’t show up in cool magazines, hanging off the arm of an up and coming rock star. Or maybe they did but their legs were crossed or positioned in such a way that their deformity didn’t show.

I continued to put on a brave face and wear normal clothes, even baring some thigh skin on occasion but I always checked the legs of those around me. As I got a little older I busied myself with extra-curricular activities in hopes I would find my thighs a safe home. Drama club, sports, keyettes, homecoming committee. When I was involved in a sport or otherwise occupied I didn’t give them much thought, but when I was lined up with other girls my age for a swim team photo or soccer composite, I always glanced from leg to leg to see if mine were thinner than at least one other person’s.

When I look back at photos of myself now, I see how ridiculous I was, but at the time it was all so true for me. Today my thighs continue to refuse to conform to the photoshopped, super model ideal I have set for them. And they’ve picked up a few bad habits; spider veins, a little extra cushion, skin that’s lost a bit of its elasticity and of course a few well-earned scars. So they remain mostly hidden.

Then I see women, whose thigh circumferences far surpass my own, with cellulite and all, wearing short shorts or cute little skirts. And I don’t judge. In fact, I’m a little jealous. And then I have a realization. It just doesn’t matter. The only person that cares about the shape of my thighs is me. I’m the only one who is keeping track of how big or small, firm or not they are or have been. Those who ARE judging my thighs are the ones who have the insecurities. I should know. I am them.

They wonder if their own thighs look better. Or could there’s end up like mine and what kind of life would that be? They wonder who could love a woman with thighs like mine and thank God they have a husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, children or friends who would never judge. Yes, thank God.

Oh the irony. All over a body part gifted to the soul that inhabits it.

At some point in my young adult life I learned it was rude to refuse a gift from anyone. Yet daily I, and let’s be honest, you, refuse the gift of life in one way or another. This body, and even these thighs, are here and this way to help me do whatever work I am here to do, to help move humanity forward. And that’s really why we’re all here. On some level you already know that. You know that worrying about the size of any body part is distraction from your real work. In fact the size of whatever body part you’re consumed with may be the doorway into your soul’s work.

If a 300 pound woman wearing a bikini pushes a beached dolphin back into the ocean, does the dolphin notice her rolls of fat? If a 98 pound woman lifts a car off a pinned child, do the parents comment on her scrawny stature? If a 175 pound woman with big thighs loves even a small portion of humanity back to health, will there be an editorial about her weight?

It’s all subjective. My thighs will never look like a speed skaters or a ballerinas. Nor will they ever look like Heidi Klum’s. They look like mine. And my mom’s and my grandma’s. They’ve looked like this for most of my adult life and they’re not going anywhere, so I’ll just have to embrace them. Be extra kind to them while slathering nourishing exotic lotions on them. Take them on more walks; they really like walks, especially hills. Dip deep in Warrior postures.

And dance, oh how they love to dance!

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 5 – Return of the Dragonflies

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pink grass IMG_1600I am being stalked by dragonflies today. I’m not worried. It’s not the first time. At the post office there was one above my car. He looked me in the eye then sped away. I went to the vet to pick up flea medication, when I came out – yep. Maybe it was the same one. At the gas station they beckoned to me from the nearby landscaping. I followed; they flitted and played but would not pose for me. That’s not what this is about.

At the grocery store – all clear. Until I came back out. Another one above my car. As I pulled into my garage I wondered if one would follow me in. Nope. He just hovered over the driveway where he incorrectly suspected I’d be parking.

I would say it was the same one, but I recognize their difference readily now, soon I’ll be naming them.

Once inside my house I opened everything up and let the dogs out. I knew there would be no dragonfly on the dragonfly branch in the back yard. It’s too early in the day, too hot in the sun for stillness. But, as I was walking back inside the shadow of a huge butterfly glanced the slats of the fence leading my eye to…please tell me you know what I’m going to say here.

They are clearly my current animal totem. I used to think I could pick the animal that best fit me. I thought that about men too. Turns out I was wrong about both. For a few years snake medicine served me well, it kept me in line. If I strayed off the path a snake would show up to guide me or scare me back on. In my dreams, in my yard, in the clouds and once in my kitchen.

Dragonflies are illusion and I’ve been thinking an awful lot about magic lately. The word magic holds a charge for some people – they immediately go to the dark arts. I am talking about everyday magic created by nature, God, the Universe – whatever higher power you would like to credit.

It’s the way perfectly normal looking grass sprouts pinkish red feathers in the fall. It’s the scent of jasmine coming from the neighbor’s yard on a soft breeze after dark. It’s the hand of a loved one reaching for yours for no reason other than to be close. That’s magic.

It’s being followed by dragonflies. I get so immersed in my relationship with them that I actually speak out loud, asking them questions. “What are you trying to tell me?” “Where? Over there? Is that where you want me to go?” “Show me where you want your picture taken.” “Hold still.” “Thank you.” I’m sure I’ve been caught. With any luck at all I’ll develop an eccentric reputation and a cool name like the crazy dragonfly lady.

According to the Medicine Cards dragonfly is asking me to look at the habits I want to change. A bit ironic considering the 21 day challenge I just issued myself. It could be that I haven’t challenged myself enough, but I don’t think that’s it. I think I know exactly why they’re staring me down like a petulant child waiting for the correct answer – which is always permission to do the thing that makes them grow and you let go.

So this thing, this habit I have to change, might be more a belief and that takes some emotional surgery. A belief is an attachment. It is something so strongly identified with that any other way is hard to imagine. It has already been assimilated; it’s snuggled nicely into the DNA. Illusion.

The smoke and mirrors in my life surround money.

My entire adult life I have been in debt. Sometimes magnificently, other times just annoyingly and repetitively, just out of reach of solvency. I have lots of great reasons why. They have not helped me eradicate this “issue.” It is a weight. I play it off, “I’ll take care of it, but I’m not going to stop living just because I owe money on my credit cards.” There is so much truth in that last statement for me that I really can’t see my way around it.

Sitting still, denying myself experiences and working a job I hate feel like death to my spirit. I have done that. It feels completely unhealthy. Maybe being in debt isn’t a bad thing or a big deal. But if I am giving it this much energy and attention, it is a detrimental thing for me.

The option then, if I am truly genetically pre-disposed to indebtedness – and if my actual physical DNA is any indication, then yes, I am – is to make more money. The concept is so simple. I am of an age now where I can see how the income to debt ratio works. Got more money? Spend it. Stay stuck. No, just make more than you spend. Simple. In theory.

Why then am I still in debt? How is staying at this level of “almost there” serving me? Do I feel I owe the world something? Do I feel I don’t deserve to go where I want when I want? Or is it deeper than that? Am I afraid that I will no longer be tethered to this life? Owing money creates a line of energy between me and that entity. If I’m solvent, I’m cut free. If being in debt has been part of my identity for as long as it has, who am I without it?

Here’s the more interesting question. If I were to pay everything off tomorrow – everything, all of it, credit cards, student loan, car – would anyone else see a difference in who they know me to be? I suspect on the face of it the answer is no. But if this act of financial freedom opens me up, then the answer is decidedly a yes. Or is it? Perhaps I project to the world the free Allison. Perhaps you are holding that space for me to move into it and you don’t even know it.

It comes down to fear. Letting go of the illusion of who I am. You and I do not see me the same way. You and I do not see you the same way. We are more than likely much more forgiving of each other. We accept the other as they are; appreciate the differences and intersections in the relationship. So I can’t use you. You can’t fix it. You can’t hurt it. You have nothing to do with it. Never did.

My fear, and I suspect yours as well, is stepping into my own power. It scares the shit out of me. In my mind it’s this huge, big, scary thing. But I think it’s not as big of deal as I make it out to be. It’s the monster under the bed that’s just forgotten clothes. It’s illusion.

Does this resonate? Wherever you see the word “debt” insert your obstacle. The “thing” could just as easily be weight or relationships or a disability or pick an issue. Pick an excuse. This could just as easily be you. Illusion is about seeing beyond the smoke and mirrors. It is identifying that very specific roadblock on the road to the bigger self and healing it. It’s trusting the process and knowing that maybe what has been a solid truth is actually the block. The illusion.

It is stepping into your personal power, my personal power and wearing it like the cape and tiara I deserve. It is owning the essence of me that I believe is hidden. But that’s an illusion too. You can already see it. I can see yours too.

So let’s make an agreement. Let’s continue to recognize that we only see each other because our bigger selves, our powerful selves, recognize each other. It can be no other way. We are all mirrors for each other. My bigger self salutes yours. You are wise and powerful and so I must be too if I see it in you.

So dear dragonflies, thank you for the messages and persistence. Thank you for the reminder that beliefs can be illusions too. I promise to continue the work if you promise to keep following me.

[Photo: You were expecting a dragonfly maybe? Not today, they won’t sit still, so instead I present to you magic grass, also known as Muhly grass. It is native to Florida and grows quite easily and heartily sprouting these magical pink feathers in the fall.]

21 Day Challenge

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Dragonfly IMG_1136

I am issuing a 21 day challenge. To myself. I have always resisted the word challenge, pretending to be non-competitive. But I feel it’s suitable here. What I am challenging are deeply held habit patterns that I want to change or eradicate all together. This is not a challenge to lose weight or achieve a specific goal, this is a challenge to live my most enchanted, magical life.

I have been a planner as far back as I can remember. To be honest, more of a dreamer. My plans sit on the pages of my journals full of hope and promise, lost as I turn the page to dream anew. These plans are not grandiose. On the contrary, they resemble mundane to-do lists instead. But the underlying theme is always, do this to get that. Once I get, do, have, etc. THEN…  It’s a common malady. But I plan to end it now.

It takes 21 days to make a habit – I intend to make several.

You should know that I am using you. I have assigned your presence, real or imaginary, to be the gatekeeper of my conscience. It is you that will keep me on track.

The impetus for this change? I am a charlatan. I am not walking my talk.  I am a yoga teacher that rarely does yoga. A holistic health counselor whose favorite late night snack is pinot noir and Ruffles. A jewelry designer that rarely wears any of her own creations and an interior designer who has lived with peach Formica counter tops for the past 13 years. The only thing I’m doing with any consistency lately is writing and taking pictures. But how long can that last, really, given my history?

So the challenge is this: daily yoga and yoga nidra twice each day. Write for at least 2 hours and take fresh photographs daily . No alcohol and the gym twice a week. For three weeks.

I am publishing this declaration as a way to motivate myself. Even if I suspect one person is reading this and thinking,” I wonder how she’ll do?” or secretly wishing failure upon me (maybe even more motivating),  I’ll rise to the occasion. For some reason I, like many people I suspect, will meet and often exceed other’s expectations, but seldom rise to meet any goals or terms I set for myself. I forgive myself way too often, making excuses that sound like reasons. Mind trickery.

I am not going to weigh or measure myself or drastically change my diet. My baseline diet is very good. I suspect focus these goals will lead to more dedication to overall health and well-being which will organically spill into other areas of my life, like dark chocolate.

It’s not about weight, although it would be a nice side effect, it is about fire. That crackling radiance at everyone’s core. Those who focus only weight or wrinkles or aging or anything superficial for that matter, have not yet met their own light. Those who have, recognize these outward appearances as temporary, they tell a story – excess weight, gray pallor – but they are not the person who dwells beneath the extra pounds. With a little encouragement, if your light is strong enough, it can help reignite another’s flame. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Sharing the light, uplifting? That’s the gift and the responsibility. It’s nothing more than showing up as yourself. Authentic and comfortable in seat of your own soul.  I have felt the heat of my own flame. Now I’m calling it back. For me it is the height of creativity and synchronicity. It is joy for no reason. And it’s where I intend to live.

The physical component is a necessary balance. I know that if I do yoga and yoga nidra on a daily basis, I come from a different place. My mind is clear, I am calm and inspiration crackles all around me. If I add the gym component it accelerates the whole process. It’s about opening the windows and letting the fresh air in. Airing out old belief systems, dismantling self-defeating habit patterns and recognizing the magic in everything.

I promise to post every day. Even if I fail to meet the daily challenge. But I suspect you’ll keep me in line. Perhaps there’s something you could do for 21 days that will enhance your fire.