Saturday, 21 March 2009

• fat + dancing / imagination - neurosis = ?

  There are so many things I want to comment about, but instead, I'm just going to go all stream of consciousness on y'all.
  
  I went to "free dance" night for the second time. The first time was four months ago (the link is that blog entry). Today, the stars aligned to allow me to go and so I went. I fretted for a few moments about what to wear, cursed the fact that I don't have any footless tights or leggings, and found a suitable ensemble in time to arrive just a wee bit late.
  
  I walked in, and was by a long shot the fattest person in the room. No one else even a little bit fat there. And I had to make a decision about what my stance was going to be, what I was doing there. I somehow came to the conclusion that I was going to dedicate the night to my own path to self-acceptance. I didn't really think of it that clearly, it was more something like:
  I'm going to honor my fat tonight. This one's going out to my fat. I'm going to dance as though I love my fat even though I'm so afraid that I look like a pathetic uncoordinated loser. I am huge-er than everyone here, so dammit, I'm going to just turn this fear I'm feeling into love.
  
  And then I had an interesting thought, followed by neurotic thoughts (that's about a normal ratio for me, one non-neurotic thought to one or more neurotic thoughts).
  The interesting thought was: "What if I thought of my fat being filled with love?"
  Neurotic (recurring) thoughts: "What? You mean my fat cells, filled with fat? But how would that work? Would that mean you think skinny people have less love? Or because they might have the same number of fat cells -- they would have the same capacity for love but they just wouldn't be as filled with it? Do you think you are storing you love in your fat cells? How would that work?"
  Next thought: "Shut up! Back the fuck off! It's a metaphor!"
  
  So, I danced with this metaphor for a bit
  I imagined I was filled with love in all of my fattest bits.
  My giant 44 DDDs or whatever-the-F size they are -- shooting off love like some sort of rays -- right breast -- pow, LOVE, right atcha -- left breast -- pow, LOVE, boom
  Belly -- emanating love like waves just vibrating outward
  Hips -- thrust -- love, love, love, love
  Inner thighs -- this was a little harder, but skoosh, love, skoosh, love
  
  I was envisioning the fear of judgement and fear of rejection just getting compacted down and in the process the energy being released as love. I stomped my feet to the music, stomping out hate.
  
  I imagined that if anyone looked at me with hatred of my fatness, all that would be coming back at them was a wall of love, that my fat, my fattest parts, my fat cells, were protected from that hate by a layer of love.
  
  I danced like I loved myself. When some ballet-like music came on, I pushed away thoughts of hippos and gracelessness and thought of myself as a cherub or a beautiful fat angel to the angelic music. To most songs I danced sexy and I danced free and I danced with grace and I jumped and I skipped and I leapt and ran and spun and rolled on the floor. I sweated and felt my heart pounding and slowed down and sped up and stopped and started and let my big fat body be as big as it needed to be. I tried to feel my body "out to the edges" -- and I felt like I could except it was hard with my belly to really feel it freely. That's okay, there's time. What I was able to do, was to let my belly lead. To not try to hide it or disguise it or guard it or shame it. It was free to dance with the rest of me, to bounce and hop and skip and roll.
  
  I want to dance like this again. More often. It was a safe space to explore in. I wish there were more fat bodies there, but there's an opportunity when there aren't any other fat bodies to take my fear and convert it into love.
  
  So, I realize, even when I'm not dancing, I have an opportunity with my breath, to take the fear I'm feeling, take the hate I'm so afraid of, and push it out through breath, to breathe in love and breathe out love, L-O on the inhale, V-E on the exhale.
  
  In my own estimation, I'm an awesome dancer. I move with grace and aplomb. I am sexy and free and fun and enjoyable to watch. I worry that's not what others are seeing, but I needn't worry, because it doesn't really matter. This wasn't a performance. Or, it was, but I am the only audience that matters.
  
  I'll end with a neurotic thought again -- to let it out -- "what I'm aiming for is heeee-larious but what people will think when they read this is paaaaaa-thetic."
  
  

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