Rough hewn

Mar 8th, 2012
by Jennifer McCullough.
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Rainbow Spirit by Pink Sherbet Photography
Rainbow Spirit, originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography

1.
I am trying to shape a female figure. But every time I try to complete the mud-pie woman with the traditional symmetry (two breasts launched proudly upon recognizable body), the whole thing crumbles to pieces. Finally, getting to my feet to abandon the entire project, I give it one last try. Stick a spare breast on the back of the figure. Add an extra arm to the neck. Dump one more nippled protuberance on top of the head. I stand back and look at my work. Unfinished it is, without doubt; rough-hewn and decidedly experimental, at least this figure holds together – Kim Chernin, Reinventing Eve

2.
Eighteen years ago. A man whose hair is black and grey around the temples sits beside me. It’s smoky, I’m in a bar, I’m drinking whisky. He watches me as I wait for the bartender to come down to my end. I concentrate on the beer bottles lined up in front of a long mirror, the ice being scooped and slid into a glass, my reflection. “You should be a model,” he says, and I like his voice – its cigarette tired, the edges of his words a little worn. I watch my reflection in the mirror, study the beer bottles lined up below my face, think about how interesting it is that I am skeletal, sick, drinking instead of eating, drunk, and about how it feels to hear I should be a model when what I am is a woman with anorexia. I am still a quiet person in the midst of the noise I am making with my physical self, but I am not flattered by his words. I watch the man’s reflection watching me walking away.

3.
Once, while I was a freshman, I walked between the boy I had followed to college and his roommate. They were checking out a girl ahead of us. I watched the girl in front of me. Her ass looked medium in size, well proportioned, not small but not large. The roommate had said he would marry a girl with an ass like that. I wanted to be a girl someone would marry. My ass was laughable. My then boyfriend laughed at my ass. It was what? Too saggy, too spread out, all of its oomph distributed in a way that was wrong. I thought that I was wrong.

4.
When I was 22 and just beginning to recover from anorexia nervosa, I was anxious about an upcoming trip to the beach. I did not want to wear a bathing suit and I did not want to cover myself up. I had been covering up my body since puberty, and I was trying to respect it a little more than I had in the past.

My therapist at the time wrote some directions down on a sheet of lined notebook paper. I took them with me to a beach which sat in front of huge sand dunes that caught peoples’ feet when they tried to traverse it. I read the directions on my wrinkled and sandy paper over and over, looking up and down the shore, looking behind me at the people who were unsticking themselves. Look at the people around you, the men and the women. The children, the older people. Look at the differences, the way no one is exactly the same. There is no such thing as the perfect body. Everyone is unique.

5.
There was a time that living with and in my body filled me with hopelessness – when being a girl and a woman pinned me down with rage. I thought I would never get it right, being female. Now I think it isn’t about getting it right, but about questioning, calling out, and replacing the damaging images and ideas that define what getting it right means. This is work to be done for ourselves, but it is also work to be done for others – on our own and in solidarity.

I recognize the image of the mud woman Chernin describes, created with pieces of the body and words that do not limit. The woman is disordered but not a disorder, larger with her extra parts and more than enough. Not restricted to the norm she is rough-hewn but holds together – one version of what a woman can be, she is a work in progress.

Vows

Feb 28th, 2012
by Jennifer McCullough.
9 comments

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about vows. My husband and I have been separated for more than a year now. As we make decisions about the direction we’re choosing to go, I’ve revisited my thoughts on my approach (and his) to wedding vows.

I’m going to be honest. For me, choosing love and marriage was a very scary thing to do. There was an enormous amount of beauty and growth behind that choice. My experiences of marriage and relationships, should I have chosen to use them to make my choice, would have sent me running in the opposite direction. Looking back, my focus was on choosing to marry, period. In my head, that was monumental and enough.

I did not write my vows. I stood in a county courthouse and listened as they were read, decided I agreed with them with thoughts like of course I will and of course I won’t, and then said I do. I understood them on an intellectual level. I understood them on an emotional level. But, I did not take time to dig deep. I didn’t think about the way I could have had a say in the vows I took, and then, I took them for granted. I did not allow myself to let them sink in, take root, contribute in a significant way to the foundation of my relationship, the ups, the downs. I did not see them as a map of markers that could be used to bring us back to each other during the hardest moments.

I didn’t live my life from a soul-centered, essence of myself kind of place back then and I can’t do anything to change the way I once approached my vows. That said, I now recognize the need for effort and a strong desire on my part – a willingness and commitment to going beneath the surface when it comes to making a promise. I recognize the need to check and see if the things I call vows come from a place to that is authentic and mine.

Attention to this topic also shows me there is something else to consider:

What are my vows to myself?
Do they go deep?
Do they reflect and support my truest nature, my spirit?

I have taken the time to identify my values. I have quieted my mind and pulled from the strongest parts of who I am at times. I have, over the past few years, gotten much clearer about the work I am pulled to do in the world. I’ve taken major leaps. I’ve gained a better understanding of what I will not tolerate anymore. But, I haven’t made vows in a way that feels intentional. I haven’t, but I want to. I want to take my commitment to myself and my life further. I want to dig deep and plant my vows in rich soil. I want the roots to be strong enough to hold in the worst of times. I want a garden of go to’s, a map of vows that can’t be bulldozed out of existence, waiting for the next best thing to take their place. I don’t expect them to rid me of the challenges of being a human being, but I do expect them to function as a source of light when I feel uncertain or forget my way.

These are the kind of vows that ask for some silence, time, and ceremony. They are things that are a part of us, already whole, waiting for our time and attention.

I know that one of my vows to myself is fidelity as I have paid dearly for not being faithful to myself. I think fierce compassion and the closest I can get to unconditional love are two more. But I’m not rushing into this just as I’m not going to withhold patience and clarity as I consider my marital vows. I’m making space, I’m getting quiet, and I’m listening for what is true. This is sacred stuff, I think, and I invite you to walk with me as you consider the vows you have made or not yet made to yourself. Where are you in this place of promises? Where do you want to be?

Dreaming big, feeling small

Feb 7th, 2012
by Jennifer McCullough.
14 comments

Sometimes when I find myself in need of dreaming (i.e., identifying desires, cravings) and feel stuck, I look back at how I handled this need when I was little. Between the ages of seven and eleven, I had no problem dreaming. Becoming an astronaut, famous folk singer, artist, director of plays, professional reader of books, and having my own business were dreams that made me feel full of energy and happiness. They carried a sense of excitement and often led to planning and manifesting an event. Summers almost always included a backyard play, selling artwork door to door, or going to the library for a book about a potential dream (e.g., becoming a ballerina or musician).

So what’s the difference between feeling stuck as an adult and the feeling of ease that came with dreaming as a child? For me, it’s all about size. When I was young, I felt completely connected to the world and the universe. That enormous sky I loved to look at in the evening? The sunset that filled up what seemed to be half of the world as I stood watching it progress at the end of my street? That was me. I knew in my bones that I was connected to these things. Feeling connected to things that seemed so physically enormous helped me experience spaciousness and room to dream that I sometimes feel disconnected from at the age of 38.

I am learning that when I feel stuck with dreaming I’m also feeling small or constricted physically, emotionally, or spiritually. My muscles might feel tight. I may resist going outside or being around others. I curl up inside of myself and forget that I am not alone. Often these responses occur from a place of needing to feel safe. Being small and living small is a habit I picked up long ago – one which I have learned to be gentle with and use as a sign that I am in need of something large, beautiful, abundant, and soul-filling that may also feel scary and boat rocking.

Stretching my body, doing yoga, taking a long walk, seeing the ocean or night sky in my mind, or taking time to make myself some tea as I get cozy and make space to dream are all things that help me feel kinder and more at ease. These things help me remember how large life is, how large I am in my connection to it, and how much space, energy, and power is available to me and my dreaming.

What helps you dream big when you feel small?

Nourishing others

Jan 19th, 2012
by Jennifer McCullough.
2 comments

Sometimes it can be easy to miss the way we all have the ability to nourish one another. It doesn’t matter if this happens in our interactions with a stranger, acquaintance, or loved one. It doesn’t matter if we are trying to do something kind or have no idea that what we’re doing is exactly what someone else needs. I am certain you have added some nourishment, some light to the world and others, without even realizing it.

*

Once when I was twenty-one I didn’t eat. That is not entirely true. I ate a very specific amount of pretzels per day (ten I think) and a Tootsie Roll Pop. That was all. Sometimes I replaced the pretzels with a plain bagel and spicy mustard from the bagel shop where I worked.

I barely ate and I was incredibly lonely. I do not recall ever being as lonely as I was then in my entire lifetime. My feeling of connection to others, those I knew and those I did not know, was miniscule. For this reason, I liked working at the bagel shop and making bagel sandwiches. It required me to ask questions, listen, and respond. Do you want mayonnaise or mustard? Would you like American, Swiss, or cheddar? Is this for here or to go? Such short, simple sentences, but they helped me feel tethered to the world. When people responded their voices were like tethers too. I barely ate but my heart was so hungry.

There was a boy named Bob who worked at the bagel shop for a short time. I learned he had a crush on me which I didn’t understand. Why would someone, anyone, have a crush on me? This was how I felt back then. I had forgotten how much I had to offer, how much I mattered.

Bob asked me out on a date and I surprised myself by saying yes. Even though I craved connection I was also so deep inside of myself it made it difficult to come out and interact with others. I think my yes was a sign that I still had hope – that I wanted to live.

*

Bob played guitar and had traveled outside of the United States. He spoke about his travels over coffee at a coffeehouse in Over-the-Rhine. Usually travelers made me fall in love a little bit and very quickly. I was a romantic. Travelers and musicians. Artists too. But I remember just listening, half listening, and not feeling much of anything. And then I thought, This is a kind person. I bet there are people in the world who really like this person. But that was it.

After coffee, we went to the ice skating rink downtown. It was closed but Bob didn’t care about that. He wanted to skate and he wanted me to skate too. He had a nice smile and longish black hair and it didn’t take him long to convince me to go out onto the ice with him. We skated around in our shoes. It was snowing – big slow falling snowflakes. Facing me, Bob grabbed my hands and we spun round and round like children, arms stretched, laughing. I hadn’t laughed in a very, very long time. I looked up at the sky as we spun and my mouth ached with grinning and the snow landed on my eyelashes, making me blink.

*

Seventeen years have passed. I don’t know what happened to him. I don’t know if he is still alive, or married, or a father or what. But I know this. He fed me that night. He fed my spirit. And I have never forgotten it. And I don’t think I ever will.

Befriending life, befriending ourselves

Jan 3rd, 2012
by Jennifer McCullough.
6 comments

In her book My Grandfather’s Blessings, Rachel Naomi Remen writes about befriending life. She shares that she has spent many years “learning how to fix life, only to discover at the end of the day that life is not broken.” When I was very young, after some especially difficult experiences, I began to believe that a) life was indeed broken and b) I was not good at life. I would think to myself, I’ll never get it right. I felt I was defective, flawed, inept, not capable. I did not befriend life and so I did not befriend myself.

I spent much of my childhood and adulthood trying to fix life and get it right in order to avoid the things I imagined were just around the corner, waiting to make my world fall apart. Afraid, I thought if I could minimize my voice, size, desires, and differences in order to keep things even and stable, the scary stuff would stay away. But I could never count on myself to please everyone. I could never count on myself to stay small and silent. It seemed that as hard as I tried to follow the rules, as much as I wanted to be someone I was not in order to feel safe, I couldn’t do it. And so it wasn’t just a matter of believing I wasn’t good at life – there was also the issue of trust.

It is difficult to befriend something you don’t trust. It is difficult to live a life filled with distrust for yourself.

This is one version of my story. The other truth is that there has always been a long, fluid Something Else with me made of hope, courage, love, and wisdom. Always right beside the doubt and distrust of life, this truth has said life can be trusted. More specifically, it says my life can be trusted. This truth has encouraged me to lean into my intuition and life’s synchronicities, to embrace the things that make me quirky and bright and full and different. This truth has always whispered things about God and who I really am.

*

One day in 2010, I found that one of the things I’d feared had happened. This fear was incredible in its depth and age, about 30 years old. The thing that happened made sounds come from my body I had never heard before. I went to the floor in my grief and felt myself being totally consumed by pain. I rocked back and forth saying, I’m all broken. I’m broken. I’m all done. I thought I might lose my mind.

It was then I saw I’d gone so far with it that I was on the other end – that there was some kind of other side to be found. What this experience, this kind of pain, this walking through the fire so completely had done, was strip me down to the core of who I was. I found that the woman I was, the soul that I was, was not afraid at all. I found that she was courageous and whole and indescribably and unconditionally loving. I found that she not only befriended life, she was life. I knew myself as the self I was before I ever became Jennifer or a wife, mother, daughter, sister, and friend. I discovered the I AM/God/Divine in myself.

Or maybe, I simply remembered it.

*

Life has not been without struggle since this experience. This kind of waking up and remembering has brought new challenges. But it has also merged with that Something Else, that other truth, and this is a powerful partnership. The worry about getting life right or fixing life is almost never with me anymore. I still have my moments of fear and pain. I still get caught up in the rush and To Do lists that are in my life. But unlike before, it doesn’t last as long. Now, within a few minutes or a few days, I remember to reach out with my right hand and allow myself to imagine and touch that fluid, powerful knowing that runs beside me and that is me. I reach, trusting and befriending life, trusting and befriending myself.

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