Issue 23: Body of Work
Plus: A book of poetry on womanhood + a magical new podcast
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Worth Considering: Body of Work
My body is not my own. It hasn’t been since August of 2018. I guess it was technically July, but I didn’t know my body didn’t belong to me yet.
And then, the pregnancy test. Naively, I thought my body was still mine—that every square breakfast and multivitamin was a proclamation of autonomy.
But my body knew better.
—
It began swiftly, without trepidation: My hips expanded, bones I once thought unmalleable morphing into new shapes like potter’s clay, pockets around them bubbling beneath denim.
My airways constricted, organs that didn’t exist—his and mine—filling the cavities of my body, leaving little room for breath, for deep inhales, for monologues and dialogues.
My veins screamed their presence, inky blue just beneath the surface of my skin; I imagined the prick of a pin over any one of them, cobalt turning to plum turning to scarlet, the Bordeaux-colored blood spilling down my chest.
Stretch marks formed, but not in the places I expected; fleshy grooves traveling like a roadmap from my torso to my thighs to places unknown, unseen, even in the honest reflection of the mirror by which I inspect every pothole and lane change.
My breasts grew fuller, giving me a shape reserved for someone more sensual than I ever thought myself to be. Dense, life-giving.
Ankles swelled, joints tightened, hips opened.
Finally, I contracted, labored and birthed. These hours felt like the very least of my body’s transition, a footnote in the takeover.
—
I bleed a thousand deaths over, each as surprising as the last. Tissue repairs itself, mending the tears and incisions without instruction. My figure relearns how to sit and walk—meekly at first, then with conviction.
I nurse and pump, sometimes both at once. I eat only to produce, gorging on gifted lactation cookies while I endlessly scour the internet for the supplements that will help my body do its job, the one it was designed for but is failing at.
I exercise not to drip sweat or reimagine my shape or relieve postpartum anxiety, but for strength to carry my baby everywhere, to make it through the day without collapsing into a puddle.
I spend months performing these charades, then give up the ghost: I make the formula, pack away the nursing bras, buy a larger pair of pants to accommodate this new body.
And still, it’s not my own.
—
My ears search for his pleas; what was music anyways?
My eyes protect from danger; prose and poetry rarely cross their path.
My nose hunts for soiled diapers, burning chicken nuggets; my vetiver candle gathers dust.
My lips kiss scrapes better, my teeth clip tiny nails, my mouth scolds and praises; I’ve forgotten the lingering taste of chocolate mousse on my tongue, the slow divulging of truths from my throat over a bottle of bourbon.
I mostly float outside of my body during sex, looking down and wondering who that woman is, where that body came from. Laying in bed at night, my hand grazes my stomach, loose and doughy. I try to hold my palm there, make peace with it, thank it for what it's done, only to quickly pull away, embarrassed and resentful.
In this second pregnancy, I feel the familiar giving over of my body to her, realizing it was never given back to me between birth and conception. My uterus grows twice as large in half the amount of time, embarking on the journey without formal invitation.
I perch my toddler on my hip while positioning his legs above my expanding belly, a three-person beast of a creature.
I gather scattered crayons from the floor on my hands and knees, unwittingly in practice for the fortitude of another delivery.
In fleeting moments I find rest, only to wake mercifully unrested; any tiny fragments of energy gained will be used to pour the goldfish crackers, retrieve the blankie, play with you, mama.
—
Maybe my body was never mine—always his, hers, theirs. Laying dormant in wait for their tenancy, unabashedly usurping the land that was made for them.
I recoil at this concept, that my body isn't meant to be mine. That we are designed for the giving over, the loss, the selflessness, the martyrdom. We proclaim ourselves goddesses and miracle-makers when we are bearing life; where do those sentiments reside when I am only me and no one’s mother? We marvel at our changing form, our body’s intuition. Where was that praise on a Tuesday morning in January, lifetimes before motherhood began?
I dread nursing again. I don’t long to carry any more babies once I hold her in my arms. I fantasize about dressing myself for pleasure and not function. I yearn to hold myself without the encumberments of another’s needs.
And still, my hands cradle my belly to feel the frenetic pulse of her kicks, expected and unexpected at once. And still, I gather him in my arms as if I have never held anything so miraculous before.
I am here, I say. I am yours, I say.
Worth Reading: What Kind of Woman by Kate Baer
Baer’s collection of poems—which cover topics like motherhood, female friendships, and the patriarchy (naturally!)—has given me a big ol’ sucker punch to the gut upon many readings. She manages to make her pieces feel modern without being hokey or flippant or trite. I keep it on my desk and have been reading (or re-reading) a poem of hers each morning, which has been a lovely way to start my day. I’ve included one of my favorites in this issue’s “Worth Quoting” section, below.
Currently on my nightstand: Infinite Country by Patricia Engel; The Power of Ritual by Casper Ter Kuile
Worth Listening: Your Magic - Spotify
As you may (or may not!) have noticed by issue 23 of this newsletter, I do have a soft spot in my culture consumption for things that might be considered woo-woo and touchy-feely and definitely for those that fall in the self-help and personal development category. My feeling is: if we aren’t on this planet to learn about ourselves and grow through our experiences, what’s the point?
So when I happened upon this new podcast—which, at its core, is an exploration of astrology, tarot, and other witchy endeavors—I was all in. I binged all seven episodes and am eager for more. Michelle Tea is a fantastic host, at once owning her love of the spiritual while not taking herself too seriously (a hard balance to strike). Plus, each episode concludes with a spell (!!!) from a listener. It’s just fun. Now, off to prep my crystals for the upcoming new moon cleansing…
On a completely different audio note: Under the Influence with Jo Piazza. A deep-dive into influencer culture (the good, the bad and the very ugly) with a focus on “momfluencers.” It’s voyeuristic and so fascinating.
Worth Making: Pretzel-Crusted Chicken Salad - How Sweet Eats
Spring is underway here in California, which means I’m on the hunt for delicious and filling salads that work as a main dish. This one was simple to put together and is full of lots of my favorite things: honeycrisp apples, sharp cheddar cheese and a sweet-savory honey mustard dressing. (And if you live in the Bay Area, be sure to pick up Plenty lettuce for the base - the crunchiest, best greens around. Thanks to my foodie pal Sara for the mention!)
Worth Spending: Tru Fru
This rec—which is basically just white and dark chocolate-covered frozen fruit—is incredibly lowbrow but something I felt I must mention! These little gems are super tasty and the perfect easy dessert or snack. Just trust me on this one. You can find them at most Target stores, and I’ve seen them at Costco too. Also: I’ve had their non-frozen variety and decidedly prefer the frozen treats.
Bonus buy: I finally picked up the Supergoop Glow Screen and it really is as great as everyone says it is. I still need a layer of my go-to tinted moisturizer to balance out my skin’s redness, but otherwise the Supergoop could absolutely be used as a one-and-done minimal makeup solution on most mornings.
Worth Quoting: Kate Baer - from her book of poetry What Kind of Woman
To Take Back a Life
First, you must learn desire. Hold its
fruit in your hands. Unmarry it from
the hunger to be held, to be wanted, to
be called from the streets like the family
dog. You are not a good girl. You are not
somebody’s otherness. This is not a dress
rehearsal before a better kind of life.
Pick up your heavy burdens and leave
them at the gate. I will hold the door for
you.
Worth Noting: This Week’s Honorable Mentions
Loving these chic planters. (Folia Collective)
Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad is being adapted and looks incredible. (Amazon)
A short, poignant essay on finding wonder. (Terms of Endearment)
Flushable pregnancy tests feel revolutionary. (Lia)
I’ve been after incense papers for awhile now, and this Japanese variety by HA KO may have sealed the deal. (Takamichi Beauty Room)
Clean, minimalist beauty line MERIT is tempting my wallet; I’m after all four shades of the tinted lip oils.
New York friends: Go visit this Goodnight Moon-inspired exhibit at Fort Makers for all the nostalgic feels. (Wallpaper)
Adding two beautiful bottles to my bar cart: Ode to Babel gin and Soul of Scarlet bourbon.
We’re renovating our kitchen in two weeks (!) and I *kinda* wish I had known about this innovative kitchen cabinet company that streamlines the process of an otherwise overwhelming endeavor. (BOXI)
What are the world’s most interesting people reading? (Books Read By)
De-clutter your brain with mind gardening. (Refinery29)
Eyeing several pieces from Free Assembly, a sustainable new clothing line at Walmart, of all places. These jeans are at the top of my post-maternity wardrobe list—very Madewell-esque. (Walmart)