More mirror work (and Poetry Thursday)

from the DHD Multimedia Gallery

I still hesitate on the way to the mirror. Oh, not because I don’t know what I’ll see...I do. Sometimes I even smile a little—it’s a bit like greeting a friend who is going through a hard time. In this case, familiarity has bred a certain affection. Sure, the hair is a little blowsy in this humidity...my curls have seen better days. And the body is still a little lopsided, a little soft where it should be taut. But it inspires tenderness in me...we’ve been through a lot, after all. I’ve learned to look at myself curiously, like a child—is that what it means to be nonjudgmental? I genuinely want to know more as I stare at myself...why is my skin doing that? Are those lines around my eyes wrinkles? When did that happen? Look at that gray hair or two...where did those come from?

I don’t expect to look 18 anymore.

But the mirror work has brought up so many unexpected questions—why do I carry myself so tersely, unwilling to relax, to be touched? Why have I decided that sensuality is an aspect of my former life—does my body no longer deserve to wear soft fabrics, to be adorned and perfumed and soothed by rich lotions?

I’ve always thought of myself as ambivalently sexy. When I was younger, I loved to push myself forward, wearing provocative little chiffon dresses that murmured promises I wasn’t always quite sure I wanted to keep. I played with fashion, with vintage dresses that suggested something of the woman I wanted to become—artistic, bohemian, but also passionate and sensual.

Sex and sensuality is an enormous aspect of a Latina woman’s life—just watch Univision for five minutes and you’ll see a woman gyrating suggestively. I wanted to taste it, that power—I wanted to be watched the way my mother was, as she sauntered down the street. She owned every movement, calculated with a grace that seemed effortless. Beauty, my mother always said, is a woman’s power, and any pain it might bring (said to quell my complaints as I waited for her to finish getting dressed) was worth it.

But even as I longed to be beautiful, to be sexy, I wanted to be able to revel in my other side—the intellectual who loves to play in the ethereal realm of ideas, who wants to forget about the body and its tyranny for a while.

As I grew older, I felt like more of an awkward fit in my culture—all of the pleasing, teasing poses that other girls put on with ease...I just couldn’t master them. I’d inevitably grow serious, grow pensive. I couldn't quite pull it off, wasn't quite voluptious enough, wasn't quite flirtatious enough, or not in the right way, or not at the right times. And the greatest sin of all...I’d question the game itself. Why should I turn myself inside out to please a man? Why should every man be able to judge me in almost a proprietary way...judge whether my clothing was skimpy enough, my hair loose and wild enough, my curves beckoning enough? Why was it so important to make sure the man felt good, strong, macho—what about me? I wanted to feel strong for myself, confident even when I wasn’t being reflected in some admiring man’s eyes.

So I rebelled, wholeheartedly embracing the life of the mind—or the version of it that I could cobble together from my books and imagination. I didn’t want to be seen as one of those wild, "hot" girls, forever burning white hot for a man. No, I wanted to be cool, instead...to live for something beyond my own appearance. All of my most important moments would take place above my neck. I would claim myself as an intellectual, beyond those base bodily pleasures.

But now, facing myself in the mirror, I wonder...why did it have to be either/or? Was I like those men, seeing those beautiful girls as the sum of their bodies, denying them personhood because they dared to be lusty, to be physical? Yes, Latin culture tends to be patriarchal, but did that mean that they saw themselves that way? Why did I need to see them that way? Why did I reduce them?

And why did I reduce myself? So desperate to be taken seriously, I cut myself off from pleasure, from sweaty passion and the adult strain of taut calves in my high heels.. From enjoying my own body and knowing that I could STILL take myself seriously as a thinker even if I wore crushed velvet and blood red lipstick.

This is something that is coming up in my marriage, as well. TEG is very conservative with his ideas about women's appearance...he thinks less is, well...less. He's always said that he LIKES that I am "modest", especially compared with the way he sees Latina women in the media and when we visit my family in Miami. But...I don't feel especially modest, not really. I DO want to flaunt myself, after all. I want to come up with my own standards rather than feeling bound up in his. But I don't want to lose his admiration. And I don't want to have another reason to fight.

But it's beginning to feel dishonest...like I am affecting a reserve that doesn't feel true. And it's one more way I feel like I'm betraying myself.

I have such a hard time manifesting things in the world—my words remain trapped inside my mind, my body remains starved for beauty. I long to embody wholeness—to look on the outside the way I feel on the inside. Why can’t I claim that?

I want to turn the lights down low, and dance to salsa as it thickens like smoke around me.

And I want to do it for myself.

***************
I have had Leaves of Grass on my mind for a few days now, especially this stanza, which haunts me as I continue to face the mirror.

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul;
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy, walks to his own funeral, drest in his shroud,
And I or you, pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye, or show a bean in its pod, confounds the learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.

*******************

For more poetic goodness, go here.

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Money

from library.thinkquest.org

Wow, that’s a blunt title. If you could see me right now, you’d see me trying to look away.

I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not like money was a forbidden topic while I was growing up. On the contrary—money stumbled to the kitchen for breakfast, money fried up the plantains, money sat on the couch and drank beer with my father after a long day. Money consciousness was everywhere—and there was never enough of it. My parents dreamed of the day that they’d be able to afford the many luxuries they saw on television—or the day we’d be able to afford them in their stead.

Perhaps my greatest form of rebellion against my parents is to disagree, fundamentally, with their opinions on money and how essential it is to have a lot of it.

Of course, their message sunk in anyway, and suffered a sea change that I am only now dimly beginning to understand. See, I’ve always thought around money—worrying over specific bills, thinking about my own class issues. But I never really faced the way money shades every aspect of my life—how completely it lives in my shadow. On the surface, it’s simple—money is bad, a necessary evil with the emphasis on the evil part. I noted approvingly (and a little smugly) that most world philosophies and religions agreed with me. I would live my life unfettered by such material considerations! I would choose a career based on love and passion, not ever thinking about money! I would go to the expensive school, trusting that somehow I’d find the money to pay all of those school loans, even though the field of publishing is not known for being financially remunerative.

But this holy head toss about money masked a deep fascination with it—and a fear. I’ve always loved THINGS—beauty made tangible. When I was younger, I’d arrange and rearrange my small treasures, touch them like talismans, rotate them depending on my need.

I love objects and I hate that I love them. So I practice a form of asceticism, pretend I am above all that. Tell myself that I’ll prove that I deserve something I desire by learning how to make it (and alas, I never do). I’ll chastise myself for wanting something popular—am I a sheep? If I were really cool, creative, artistic, smart, fill in the blank—I wouldn’t need objects to validate that fact. Sure, I see all around that people use things to display something of their personality to the world. But, isn’t that a failing, somehow? Are we really the sum of all of our things? I feel in my heart that my answer is mostly a "yes" and I feel ashamed.

Meanwhile, I go around and around, putting off most purchases and suffering almost unbearable buyer's remorse on those few occasions I finally give in. I am the opposite of a conspicuous consumer. I am a material anorexic.

So I’ve long longed for money, but I never wanted to do anything to really earn it, fearing that it would compromise me, or sell a part of me that I could never get back.

On a deep level, I didn’t believe I could earn it. I didn’t believe I could offer something that people would want to pay for—that was what adults did. I didn’t believe that I could take care of myself, so while my friends from college made plans to move out of their parents’ homes and into small apartments crowded with roommates in outrageously expensive NYC, I stayed at home, congratulating myself on my good sense.

I watched them enviously. I could no more imagine paying all of those expenses on my own than I could imagine flying to Jupiter. I did the right things, I suppose, but always with that insidious little whisper in the background, I can’t afford it. I can’t take care of myself. No one will value me because I can’t do anything.

Oh, sure, I lived a good life those first years after college. Traveled, worked, had dinners out and movie dates. But the truth was, I didn’t pay for those trips—TEG did. He paid for most of our dates, movies—bought me books and CDs and leather coats and jewelry. He paid for most of our fairly expensive wedding. He paid for my first trip to India. Always, the refrain—he paid, he paid, he pays. And sadly, this makes me feel safe—like it’s fine to spend HIS money, but not mine (a moot point with a joint bank account--and sadly, I don't even know how much we have in the bank). My mother always wanted to be with a financially successful man—saw that as the way a woman achieved security and success for herself. She taught me that a woman should always have a sneaky little nest egg, caged from household accounts and hoarded from her "allowance" and that the man should pay for everything to show that he cares. I suppose that she saw that as the way a woman could wrest some control from a situation where she was essentially dependent and subservient.

I shudder to think that I have followed her script only too well. I don't pay our bills. I no longer have my own 401K or IRA account. My eyes glaze over when TEG shows me the spreadsheet. I thought this freed me to follow my happiness without worrying about money. Instead, I think about money, and power, and how I wish I had some more of both, all of the time.

So what do I contribute to our lives? I know money isn’t the most important thing—hell, I’ve spent most of my life loudly affirming that even as I repressed my own shadow desires for money and what it represented. Freedom. A way of propelling myself into the world. A way of being surrounded by things I love. Learning to depend of myself and stand up for myself, without endless compromises that really end up as me giving in completely. A way around the cognitive dissonance of considering myself a feminist, and living like a dependent child.

So much for me to face. When I do my mirror meditation, I see a woman who is waiting for her Fairy Godmother, or for ANYONE to take care of her. I see a woman who denies herself almost a matter of a course, so that the word "no" is the drumbeat of her days. I see a woman who desires and wants and needs, and feels powerless, and indecisive, and resents herself.

Why do I feel so much ambivalence about money? Somehow superior to those who have it and frankly enjoy it, but knowing that it’s a lie—this ascesticism is not rewarding, it’s not spiritual. It’s dour and soul killing. It just makes me feel endless lack, a hunger, and a fear that if I relax this death grip on myself for one second, I’ll spend every penny we have to feed this gaping maw of want.

In many ways, money rules my life just as much as it ever ruled my parents.

I don’t even know where to begin to heal my rift with money.

Sorry for the somewhat rambling nature of this post. I’m still puzzling this out, trying to name it somehow. I'm not sure I've done it here.

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Thoughts on mirror meditation

It almost felt like a date. Every time I glanced in the mirror, I realized that soon I would be REALLY looking at myself. Not just pushing my flyaway hair out of my face, not just checking to make sure that none of my clothes had pureed sweet potato on them. Just...looking.

I decided I needed to somehow "fix" myself first...try to take care of the frizzies and maybe do something about that alarming little growth of hair above my lip and on my chin and... But this seemed somewhat against the principle of the project. Not to mention, I had a rainy day and a cranky almost-toddler on my hands, so I didn’t exactly have time to go into an extensive beautification ritual. Or, you know, any.

All day, I talked to myself about this, surprised at how apprehensive I felt about it. I was trying to orchestrate the experience, trying to prepare the insights before I even sat down.

It came to me that I do that too often in my daily life...project myself into the future and try to force experience into whatever narrow frame I’ve wrenched together with gritted teeth and throbbing temples.

So...Madam went down for the night, I went into the bathroom with the nicest lighting, and sat in front of the mirror.

This is so silly. I feel like a little girl making faces in the mirror.

I tried to look deeply into my eyes, but it just made me laugh. So I let my eyes roam over my face, trying to empty my mind, focus on accepting those tired bags under my eyes, that new blotchy skin near my lower cheek, the aforementioned alarming hair growth...

Stop! I took a deep breath, determined to stop the litany of my physical failings. No one expects me to look 18 anymore, or 21, but my mental image of myself has frozen there, and slides the image in front of my eyes whenever I am looking in the mirror. A kindness, perhaps. But also a way to avoid what is right in front of me.

So...am I looking for beauty or for myself? And why have I decided that the two are incompatable?

As I look for another minute, I slide into focus. Not as the 18 year old who seems to dominate my memory. Not as the 33 year old who gets glances only when she needs to be chastised. But just as...me.

I need to grow back down into my body. Perhaps as a reaction against pregnancy, since Madam has been born, I’ve avoided the physical as much as possible—choosing to lose myself (find myself?) in books and online, or in my writing. I can’t be bothered to take care of my body, my stretched, sagging, postpartum body.

It occurs to me that I don’t WANT to take care of it. It has disappointed me by aging, by requiring time I don’t want to give it, because it doesn’t deserve it.

What value does it have, after all? My mind is all...my mind is the place where I can still pretend that I am the same person I was before I gave birth, where I can range lightly and freely in memories of my many selves.

My body is just there, inert. Unused and unusable. I treat my body the way other people treat stay at home mothers--like it needs to justify itself. Like it has nothing to say. Like it might have mattered once, but now needs to remember its place and remember that people just want it to be quiet and inobstrusive.

It occurs to me that this needs to change, somehow. I am a divided woman. Can my body be as interesting, as beloved as my mind?

I look away from the mirror now, unable to sit with this realization for very long.

But I know that I will be back tomorrow.
____
Thanks to Liz Elayne for the inspiration.

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