There were days - when I was very young and apologetic about feeling awkward with my womanly body - when substantial, or presence, or "robust" seemed words more appropriate to …..someone else, that didn't want to be Twiggy. I wanted to be Twiggy.
Twiggy has to be explained to some girls...mostly blue collar, strangely. The other collars have to be coached to eat: the oddest dichotomy in a world of plenty, in a veritable insanity of .
Reversed irony.
I grew into my breasts - the symbol and signatory mothering indicator, corporeally, of God;
bestowed upon woman with bodily inhibitor and functions tasked with
Continuance.
Eventually women learn that the size of them is irrelevant. Men learn this, too. This comes with a respect for the sacredness of the human body, as vessel, rather than an idea about its ideal.
Women spiritually and physically despise themselves when there is a meltdown in this area, as a result:
by default, programming - and an excruciating acknowledgement of a part of themselves dying, unknown, (though felt). For some, it is breast. For some, it is embryonic extension. For some, it is the loss of self within layers of soft and comforting flesh, in which self is lost, and there is safety from pain.
The self loss is wordless, faceless, and leaves a chasm - in miniature.
Nothing fills it: food, drink, toning, pummeling (by yourself and others), proper diet, getting over it, under it, on top of it, beside it, around it....you have an area of space that inhabits you, inside, afterwards. Space: as in.....elsewhere. You connect to all the universe, through loss and the reopening of yourself to Nothingness. Even when the loss is automatic, instantaneous, triggered, accidental, occidental, or expected....Space and You are One.
This is how I know that there is much beyond this life, and that there is God.
Beyond this Strange Pain, there is inexplicable Comfort that is internal balm, realized. Even when it is not your fault, you can Forgive
Your own
Imperfection, and "Gestational Retardation" - (as in, "the ability to do so" - a kinder accusation, recalled and uttered by what I now refer to as "The Deceased Causal Factor")
and Live.
There are those who love Space, too.. It is what is unseen that they love, and recognized, instinctively and inexplicably, when there is genuineness beyond the carbon-based urgings.
This, too, is from God: two splices of God, remelding. Many welders like this analogy.
I call it "Metallica Love"...without a hint of rancor or dyslexia.
Here endeth the Smelting Moment. Long live Metallurgy.
Reversed irony.
I grew into my breasts - the symbol and signatory mothering indicator, corporeally, of God;
bestowed upon woman with bodily inhibitor and functions tasked with
Continuance.
Eventually women learn that the size of them is irrelevant. Men learn this, too. This comes with a respect for the sacredness of the human body, as vessel, rather than an idea about its ideal.
Women spiritually and physically despise themselves when there is a meltdown in this area, as a result:
by default, programming - and an excruciating acknowledgement of a part of themselves dying, unknown, (though felt). For some, it is breast. For some, it is embryonic extension. For some, it is the loss of self within layers of soft and comforting flesh, in which self is lost, and there is safety from pain.
The self loss is wordless, faceless, and leaves a chasm - in miniature.
Nothing fills it: food, drink, toning, pummeling (by yourself and others), proper diet, getting over it, under it, on top of it, beside it, around it....you have an area of space that inhabits you, inside, afterwards. Space: as in.....elsewhere. You connect to all the universe, through loss and the reopening of yourself to Nothingness. Even when the loss is automatic, instantaneous, triggered, accidental, occidental, or expected....Space and You are One.
This is how I know that there is much beyond this life, and that there is God.
Beyond this Strange Pain, there is inexplicable Comfort that is internal balm, realized. Even when it is not your fault, you can Forgive
Your own
Imperfection, and "Gestational Retardation" - (as in, "the ability to do so" - a kinder accusation, recalled and uttered by what I now refer to as "The Deceased Causal Factor")
and Live.
There are those who love Space, too.. It is what is unseen that they love, and recognized, instinctively and inexplicably, when there is genuineness beyond the carbon-based urgings.
This, too, is from God: two splices of God, remelding. Many welders like this analogy.
I call it "Metallica Love"...without a hint of rancor or dyslexia.
Here endeth the Smelting Moment. Long live Metallurgy.
