I have spent the last 4 days with 3 amazing
women. And not to be stereotypical, but
as women tend to do when they get together, we ate. A lot. And in between bites
we also laughed and talked and shared stories and maybe a little of wine as
well. The truth is, our days (and our
nights) revolved around food. When we
woke up in the morning, the first thing we did was put water on to boil for
coffee. After breakfast we went to the market to buy fixings for lunch and as
soon as the dishes from lunch were washed and dried, we would start making some
sort of cake for afternoon coffee. By the time “dinner” came around at 10pm I
found it hard to believe we were once again gathering around the table but yet
somehow we found room for yet more food. The past four days have been rich and
abundant beyond measure in every sense of the word. And I wouldn’t trade them
for anything in the world. That being said, I couldn’t help but be aware of the
nagging voice in the back of my head that seems to always be present- that little
voice that somehow tends to overshadow life’s richest moments by attaching
eating in abundance with guilt. This guilt is exacerbated when I become aware of
the 5 (okay, let’s be honest- maybe closer to 10) pounds I have gained over the
course of these 9 months when I look at myself in pictures and try to put on my
same jeans as when I arrived. As it
turns out, not only these past 4 days but these past 9 months have been mostly
centered around food, whether at church or at parties and barbeques. When I see the difference in my body (I am too
chicken to actually step on the scale), there is that engrained part of my
brain that wants to run to the gym for hours every day or try some new diet
trend to get the pounds off fast, but I realize that this just isn’t possible
here (especially as I enter the next 3 weeks of goodbye parties and
celebrations).
I have realized that I am just going to
have to sit with reality of the fact that living in a culture that enjoys
eating (and loves sharing their culture of food with foreigners) means you
might gain a few pounds. It might mean you might need to buy a new pair of
jeans or (gasp) maybe just put your mirror in the back of the closet for a
while. And the more I think about it, I
am okay with that (that is, at this present moment. Ask me again tomorrow and you
might get a different answer.) But all joking aside, if you asked me if I would
trade all the abundance, the experiences, the laughter, the richness, and the
love, of these last 9 months for an instant 20 pound weight loss, I would laugh
in your face. I wouldn’t give up the last 9 months for anything in the world. They
have truly changed my life, even if they have left a toll on my body.
But that being said, I am a woman who lives
in a culture that tells me and other women like me that our bodies and our
beauty are what define our worth and our ability to be loved. I live in a culture that attaches guilt to
food, leading to extremes of fasting and binging, instead of being able to
enjoy food in moderation, guilt free. Every day I fight against these messages.
Some days I win and some days I lose, but every day it is a choice I have to
make who I am going to believe. One of the days this past week somehow my
girlfriends and I got on the topic of analyzing our bodies. Not in the sense of
how round our waists are or what size pants we wear, but in oddities of our
bodies. Like for instance if your ring finger is longer than your pointer
finger it is a sign that you have a higher level of testosterone in your body
(anatomy people out there, I have no idea if this is true or not). We also
discovered three distinct types of feet shapes- Egyptian, Roman and Greek, and
all three types were represented among us. In the midst of the conversation I shared
with them that I remember as a teenager I thought I had fat knuckles, causing
me to think my hands weren’t pretty, until I saw a portrait of my grandmother
and realized I have her exact hands (and her voice). I also remember a time
when I was complaining about my thick calves to my aunt who said, “of course
you have thick legs- all the women in our family do. Look at your aunts.”
So I
have come to realize. My body is my body for a reason. There is a story behind
it. (for another great essay on the stories of our bodies- go here ).
Instead of looking at my hands with frustration when I can’t find a ring my
size, I ask myself if I would trade having the Grammy that I had for the
slenderest fingers in the world. Of course not. When I look at my calves that
are quite large for the average woman, I remember the feistiness of my aunts
and thank God that some of that strength somehow got passed onto me. When I look at the places that the extra 10
pounds has crept onto my body and stored itself over the last 9 months, I think
of all the churrasco with feijão tropeiro and delicious desserts, salgadinhos
shared after our church service on Sunday, and delicious pizza that is famous
in São Paulo. And more than this, I will thank God for all the abundant
memories of the moments I shared with people while eating all this delicious
food. These are precious moments to me. In
the end, my body tells a story. And it
is my story and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. That doesn’t
mean that I won’t get back to the gym when I get home. It doesn’t mean that I
won’t try to walk a few extra miles while I am here and take care of my health. But it means
that I am learning to be grateful for the story that God has given me, the
story that I have partnered in creating. It is no one else’s story but mine and
that’s what makes it beautiful.
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