To be a body

It wasn’t said outright, but I would read the verses that said my flesh wasn’t to be trusted, that it would cause me to stumble and sin.

Only my soul would save me.

And I loved that feeling, my soul being enflamed with the love of Spirit and community. It could carry me on days when I didn’t sleep, I smiled at everyone I passed, I prayed for people with distressed faces sitting around me on the bus. Being a lover of God was my joie de vivre.

I didn’t know how to be a body. I kissed a boy on our first date over a plate of hummus and falafel. It was quick, it was endearing, and I felt so special. Later at his house, his kisses felt like attacks, and he continued to touch me while I froze. I was 18.

The same situation would repeat itself over the years with different people. Sometimes it was only once, often times I went back to take control and convince myself the first time was only a mistake or misunderstanding. I could have been more clear, surely.

I’ve gone over past journal entries, and seen the blame I put on myself for not resisting, for giving into the desires of the people who pursued me. Praying to be stronger, praying to be pure and good.

Actually, fuck a prayer.

My body was clever, and in her evolutionary wisdom, she protected me. She waited until I was older and wiser, and had the space to process all the shit that happened, all the times my boundaries were infringed upon.

I grew softer and wider, as my body expanded to handle the stress. And of course my societal programming screamed against these changes, pummelling my psyche for the audacity to expand. But I grew tired of the fighting, and instead held my body with kindness and grace for all that she has done for me.

I know how to be a body now. And it feels sweet and juicy and real.

But I miss being a deep soul too, a soul enamoured with purpose and justice.

I suppose there’s no rush to be it all.