A Bodily Prayer
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I grew up around people who believed in - or didn't, as the case may be - many different
things. Even though at times I was confused and felt slighted or angry by these differences, I
was also raised to respect that everyone is allowed to believe whatever they want, and that
all you hope is that they don't use these beliefs to hurt anyone.
Flashback to 8yo Loz (a few days after starting at a very religious primary school) in her first ever Religion class, arguing with the teacher that everything in The Bible (we'd been presented with our very own copies that morning and being too weird to have any friends, and extremely bookish, I'd skimmed over a few 'chapters' at morning tea) couldn't possibly be true, that it's just one view of religion. "But some people believe the Koran, or the Torah, are you saying they're wrong?", I'd angrily pointed out. Sadly, my fears about this teacher’s closed-mindedness were very quickly proved true; I'm not gonna go into this story any more, but let's just say that Religious Education wasn't my strongest point.
This lesson instilled in me the belief that religious people were cruel to those who believed other things. At a previous school I'd had a teacher who was incredibly Anti-Semitic and Islamophobic, ripping off a kippah from my friend’s head in a math class, and pointing out girls who wore hijabs and interrupting class to ask them horrible questions.
For years I
sulked in class and during services, hating that I was expected to be a part of all this 'hoo-
hah' that I didn't believe in... that was, until I changed schools and their brand-new Reverend
totally floored me. Apparently, my determination to hate Christianity in any and all of its
forms hadn't been lost on him, so he pulled me aside after a chapel service to 'have a chat'.
In my experience, 'having a chat' with a teacher usually meant I was about to be handed an absolute bollocking, yet I wasn't willing to just lay down and surrender - therefore when asked about my attitude in services and RE classes, I'd looked out the chapel window and told the Rev. that I didn't want to be a part of something that didn't respect what other people believed as well. He told me that I was completely right to not want to be a part of the disrespect, but that what I was doing was also disrespectful - pointing out that all the other students and teachers who either didn't believe what he did, or who believed in something else really strongly, didn't act the way I was acting. They sat with understanding and respect through the services and let the ones around us who did believe get what they needed out of it all.
I told him I still didn't want to believe in what he was telling us, and he told me that I didn't have to, that I could either just use the time to sit and think about other things that I wanted to think about, or that I could reflect on what they were saying and take away what I wanted from it - without having to believe in it at all. I was allowed to treat it like it was all just a big story that they were reading to us, and I could just take away whatever parts were useful to me.
And I did just that - during services I would let my mind wander up the walls and out the windows to a place where it could really consider what I truly believed in; and sometimes I'd drift back into the room to clap and sing a song with everyone, or to listen to a story the Rev. told us that piqued my interest.
Weirdly, I actually started to enjoy chapel and religion classes - and I'm forever grateful that the Rev. took the time to teach me it was okay to believe in things, and the importance of finding enough compassion to realise that these beliefs don't need to fit against anyone else's.
Flashback to 8yo Loz (a few days after starting at a very religious primary school) in her first ever Religion class, arguing with the teacher that everything in The Bible (we'd been presented with our very own copies that morning and being too weird to have any friends, and extremely bookish, I'd skimmed over a few 'chapters' at morning tea) couldn't possibly be true, that it's just one view of religion. "But some people believe the Koran, or the Torah, are you saying they're wrong?", I'd angrily pointed out. Sadly, my fears about this teacher’s closed-mindedness were very quickly proved true; I'm not gonna go into this story any more, but let's just say that Religious Education wasn't my strongest point.
This lesson instilled in me the belief that religious people were cruel to those who believed other things. At a previous school I'd had a teacher who was incredibly Anti-Semitic and Islamophobic, ripping off a kippah from my friend’s head in a math class, and pointing out girls who wore hijabs and interrupting class to ask them horrible questions.
In my experience, 'having a chat' with a teacher usually meant I was about to be handed an absolute bollocking, yet I wasn't willing to just lay down and surrender - therefore when asked about my attitude in services and RE classes, I'd looked out the chapel window and told the Rev. that I didn't want to be a part of something that didn't respect what other people believed as well. He told me that I was completely right to not want to be a part of the disrespect, but that what I was doing was also disrespectful - pointing out that all the other students and teachers who either didn't believe what he did, or who believed in something else really strongly, didn't act the way I was acting. They sat with understanding and respect through the services and let the ones around us who did believe get what they needed out of it all.
I told him I still didn't want to believe in what he was telling us, and he told me that I didn't have to, that I could either just use the time to sit and think about other things that I wanted to think about, or that I could reflect on what they were saying and take away what I wanted from it - without having to believe in it at all. I was allowed to treat it like it was all just a big story that they were reading to us, and I could just take away whatever parts were useful to me.
And I did just that - during services I would let my mind wander up the walls and out the windows to a place where it could really consider what I truly believed in; and sometimes I'd drift back into the room to clap and sing a song with everyone, or to listen to a story the Rev. told us that piqued my interest.
Weirdly, I actually started to enjoy chapel and religion classes - and I'm forever grateful that the Rev. took the time to teach me it was okay to believe in things, and the importance of finding enough compassion to realise that these beliefs don't need to fit against anyone else's.
In short - I decided that I believed, and at the same time didn't believe, in everything.
I believe in myself, in humanity, in what had come before and what was going to come. I believe in the rhythm of the sun and sea, hot chocolates, the magic in every single rain drop, and kindness - that all of us and everything balance together in some incredibly complex and fragile harmony.
Because what I've come to believe in is so big, it means that I also believe a little bit in all the things that other people do, because their reasons and decisions make up my world as much as mine do.
I say I believed in myself - but as many people do (especially lanky, awkward teenage girls with braces and frizzy hair), I didn't really. I wanted to, but it always felt like the weight of the world somehow magnetically held the myself away from me, not letting me respect myself.
Now I understand that these feelings were brought on by advertising, bullying, models of behaviour I saw by those around me that I admired, too many hormones and a dose of good ol' fashioned anxiety; and I'd be lying if I said they don't often still sit on either of my shoulders, yelling into my ears that I'm not good enough, not worthy enough and that I absolutely, definitely and most positively do not have the right to believe in myself.
These days I just try to sit my feelings down calmly, as the Rev. did with me when I was a kid with more opinions than understanding, and ask them to explain themselves. I listen to the fear and revulsion that comes along with them realising I'm not the best, and gently point out that I don't need to be the best, and when you're an imperfect human being - as we all are - that wanting and trying to be better, will always be good enough.
I also try to moisturise every day.
"But how the hell is body cream relevant to this conversation?" I hear you cry out, "Has Isolation finally completely sapped her mind from her body?!"
No, pals, it hasn't. Just bear with me a sec.
I have pretty dry skin - something that no matter how thin, tanned, fit or happy I was in it -
means that it will get itchier than a woolly school jumper if it's not anointed with a moisturiser
each day.
This act of lathering my whole body in a cream each day has always been a time when I've been able to look at my body totally objectively.
My thighs feel both soft and muscly, the cellulite is bumpy, the scars feel rough and somehow more fragile.
One day I realised that my body tells the tales of my memory.
Since then, every time I rub moisturiser into my ankles, as dry and wrinkled up as the ground in the most desolate of deserts, I remember the sprains and twists they've endured while carrying me - and the many hours of physio and training they had to see out to bear my weight once again. So, I thank them for their support, and their loyalty, and their perseverance.
When I reach the scars on my legs, I remember all the grazes and gouges my flesh has been subjected to, and I thank my body for healing them, ensuring that I've been able to go on to make innumerably more.
I reach the sometimes hard, sometimes rolling hill, of my belly. For years my poor guts were always in pain, and I struggled to eat or live normally. Regardless the state of its fleshy coverings, my digestive system has worked as best it can, and I thank it for letting me grow.
Because what I've come to believe in is so big, it means that I also believe a little bit in all the things that other people do, because their reasons and decisions make up my world as much as mine do.
I say I believed in myself - but as many people do (especially lanky, awkward teenage girls with braces and frizzy hair), I didn't really. I wanted to, but it always felt like the weight of the world somehow magnetically held the myself away from me, not letting me respect myself.
Now I understand that these feelings were brought on by advertising, bullying, models of behaviour I saw by those around me that I admired, too many hormones and a dose of good ol' fashioned anxiety; and I'd be lying if I said they don't often still sit on either of my shoulders, yelling into my ears that I'm not good enough, not worthy enough and that I absolutely, definitely and most positively do not have the right to believe in myself.
These days I just try to sit my feelings down calmly, as the Rev. did with me when I was a kid with more opinions than understanding, and ask them to explain themselves. I listen to the fear and revulsion that comes along with them realising I'm not the best, and gently point out that I don't need to be the best, and when you're an imperfect human being - as we all are - that wanting and trying to be better, will always be good enough.
I also try to moisturise every day.
"But how the hell is body cream relevant to this conversation?" I hear you cry out, "Has Isolation finally completely sapped her mind from her body?!"
No, pals, it hasn't. Just bear with me a sec.
I have pretty dry skin - something that no matter how thin, tanned, fit or happy I was in it -
means that it will get itchier than a woolly school jumper if it's not anointed with a moisturiser
each day.
This act of lathering my whole body in a cream each day has always been a time when I've been able to look at my body totally objectively.
My thighs feel both soft and muscly, the cellulite is bumpy, the scars feel rough and somehow more fragile.
One day I realised that my body tells the tales of my memory.
Since then, every time I rub moisturiser into my ankles, as dry and wrinkled up as the ground in the most desolate of deserts, I remember the sprains and twists they've endured while carrying me - and the many hours of physio and training they had to see out to bear my weight once again. So, I thank them for their support, and their loyalty, and their perseverance.
When I reach the scars on my legs, I remember all the grazes and gouges my flesh has been subjected to, and I thank my body for healing them, ensuring that I've been able to go on to make innumerably more.
I reach the sometimes hard, sometimes rolling hill, of my belly. For years my poor guts were always in pain, and I struggled to eat or live normally. Regardless the state of its fleshy coverings, my digestive system has worked as best it can, and I thank it for letting me grow.
I can feel my lungs rising and falling in deep unison beneath my ribs, and I thank them for
breathing for me all these years, never missing a single intake.
My shoulders and collarbones - bony, despite many years of trying to grow muscles on them like all the girls I admired around me - nonetheless hold my arms, which have always been strong. I thank them for joining my parts together.
And finally, when I reach my hands, I feel the aches and stiffness from injuries layered on injuries, some even requiring specialty rehabilitation, the beginnings of the arthritis that I know will plague me as it has my mum and her mum; and I thank each digit for never failing to work no matter how hard they were pushed.
I look down at it all, all of me, and I'm always amazed at what my body has done. I wonder what else I will put it through, what we will adventures we will go on together. I thank it wholly, and I remember that even when I haven't believed in me, that my body has, and I apologise for the times when I didn't appreciate what it was doing.
So, next time you have a shower (or maybe before bed, if you're one of *those* people - a morning showerer - eugh), try and give yourself a full on bodily prayer. You don't need to say Amen at the end of it, but give every bit of your fleshy cocoon a good slab of body butter or aloe, and take the time to thank every joint and digit for it's years of service. Have a laugh at the memories it brings to the surface, and promise it that you'll have its back during the ones you've still to make.
I leave you with the wise, wise words of Ziggy Marley and the song he wrote (also known as the Arthur theme tune, which you should probably get up on Spotify right now because it's scientifically impossible to listen to it and be sad at the same time).
Every day when you're walking down the street
And everybody that you meet
Has an original point of view
And I say hey! (Hey!)
What a wonderful kind of day
If you can learn to work and play
And get along with each other, hey
You got to listen to your heart
Listen to the beat, listen to the rhythm
The rhythm of the street
Open up your eyes, open up your ears
Get together and make things better
By working together
It's a simple message
And it comes from the heart
Oh, believe in yourself (Believe in yourself)
For that's the place to start (Place to start)
And I say hey! (Hey!)
What a wonderful kind of day
If we can learn to work and play
And get along with each other, hey
Lots of love, Loz xx
~ Also the biggest thanks to Tay for reading through this and helping edit my terrible punctuation situation, you're a fkn queen ~
My shoulders and collarbones - bony, despite many years of trying to grow muscles on them like all the girls I admired around me - nonetheless hold my arms, which have always been strong. I thank them for joining my parts together.
And finally, when I reach my hands, I feel the aches and stiffness from injuries layered on injuries, some even requiring specialty rehabilitation, the beginnings of the arthritis that I know will plague me as it has my mum and her mum; and I thank each digit for never failing to work no matter how hard they were pushed.
I look down at it all, all of me, and I'm always amazed at what my body has done. I wonder what else I will put it through, what we will adventures we will go on together. I thank it wholly, and I remember that even when I haven't believed in me, that my body has, and I apologise for the times when I didn't appreciate what it was doing.
So, next time you have a shower (or maybe before bed, if you're one of *those* people - a morning showerer - eugh), try and give yourself a full on bodily prayer. You don't need to say Amen at the end of it, but give every bit of your fleshy cocoon a good slab of body butter or aloe, and take the time to thank every joint and digit for it's years of service. Have a laugh at the memories it brings to the surface, and promise it that you'll have its back during the ones you've still to make.
I leave you with the wise, wise words of Ziggy Marley and the song he wrote (also known as the Arthur theme tune, which you should probably get up on Spotify right now because it's scientifically impossible to listen to it and be sad at the same time).
Every day when you're walking down the street
And everybody that you meet
Has an original point of view
And I say hey! (Hey!)
What a wonderful kind of day
If you can learn to work and play
And get along with each other, hey
You got to listen to your heart
Listen to the beat, listen to the rhythm
The rhythm of the street
Open up your eyes, open up your ears
Get together and make things better
By working together
It's a simple message
And it comes from the heart
Oh, believe in yourself (Believe in yourself)
For that's the place to start (Place to start)
And I say hey! (Hey!)
What a wonderful kind of day
If we can learn to work and play
And get along with each other, hey
Lots of love, Loz xx
~ Also the biggest thanks to Tay for reading through this and helping edit my terrible punctuation situation, you're a fkn queen ~
ps. if you're struggling with how your body is changing/potentially may change in this time of
isolation and increased Netflix and snacking, please watch this video by someone far more
eloquent and sensible than I -->
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhOuX2vBVjg
*in this case, famously is used with extreme levels of poetic licence. As no one has bothered to collect and collate my thoughts on life - and only my friends have ever really been inclined to pay much attention to what I'm thinking in general (and then for small periods of time, less they realise what a lunatic asylum the inside of my brain is) - there is absolutely no way under any circumstance, that I could be considered in any way even the tiniest little bit famous.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhOuX2vBVjg
*in this case, famously is used with extreme levels of poetic licence. As no one has bothered to collect and collate my thoughts on life - and only my friends have ever really been inclined to pay much attention to what I'm thinking in general (and then for small periods of time, less they realise what a lunatic asylum the inside of my brain is) - there is absolutely no way under any circumstance, that I could be considered in any way even the tiniest little bit famous.
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