The Temple In Which She Dwells

Here is an old-fashioned feminist poem, straight from the bra-burning seventies:

A KISS

The hardness

with which you still hate

your body

is a kiss for the fathers.

Now, the Matron isn't wagging her finger at men, but she's feels deep affinity with the lines "the hardness with which you still hate your body." She knows very few women who aren't actively sucking in a stomach or dressing to hide some thighs.

So she takes the first stanza of that poem and pits it against the Christian concept of the body as a temple, infused with Spirit and something to be cherished.

She takes that first stanza and pits it against the Buddhist concept of loving kindness. which requires first and foremost a full and unjudging acceptance of what's in front of you -- even if that's a pair of marshmallow textured breasts with acorn nipples.

She takes that first stanza and pits it against everything she hopes for her daughter. An embodied joyful existence.

Buddhism reminds us of how easily we cling to our misconceptions and judgements. It's hard to let go of hating if hating is a long time practice that constitutes the self.

Hate your hair, face, breasts, bottom, toe nails, tummy?

Last week when the Matron practiced loving kindness, she was startled by how little of that impulse was left over for to herself. Indeed, she leans a bit toward the battle of the flesh bent.

But today, she has decided to move into a temple. The battlefield is getting a little stale. She can't change the chaos around her or right the world's woes. No. But every time she has a judgemental thought about her aging maternal body, she can immediately replace that thought with this: Thank you.