ELEMENTS OF SELF - FAVORITE BODY PART

This weeks prompt for "Elements Of Self - Favorite Body Part" required a lot more thought than previous weeks. Perhaps a fitting title should be "The Good...The Bad...And The Ugly" since this post is about what I feel I good about and actually like about my body while the next prompt will focus on my least favorite body parts. I feel like I have been playing a game of "Head and shoulders...knees and toes trying to come up with what I like...a very short list... while the self critical part of me can easily we pick apart all the things...cognitive, physical, emotional, and spiritual etc. about my self that I don't like. Generally the list shifts depending on the circumstances and where I am in my life. When life is a bummer it's is much easier to fall into a negative pit of self hating. Liking myself was much more difficult when I was younger, shyer and more self conscious but I have found that the older I get the less important it is to me. Perhaps I have finally grown into my body or maybe I have reached a point in my life that I just really don't give a shit anymore and accepted the fact that I never had an hour glass body...and I never will. I try to focus more on trying to keep my weight in check, staying active and eating a healthy diet because, saggy boobs, belly rolls, bad skin and frizzy hair I do want to stay in the game for many, many more years.

My Two Favorite body parts are:

...my wrist

...because no matter how the rest of my body fluctuates
from a healthy weight
to a heavier weight
after falling off the wagon,
my wrist never change,
always staying slender
...a reminder that underneath all the padding,
there is a little person.



... and my feet

...not much to look at and painful at times,
they keep me mobile and when placed in the right hands,
they give me immense pleasure.

I would have to say that there is little that tops
the pleasure of a good foot massage...

For More Elements Of Self join
host Juliana at Shakti Mama.

ALL THAT GLITTERS

With some time off this week I had a chance Monday to do one of my favourite activities…Frenchy shopping, but this time I was on a mission. I was on treasure hunt for all that glittered, more specifically, tops,…skimpy, shinny, sexy and glittery tops to go with a black skirt I was lucky enough to find a couple of weeks ago. No, I was not looking for something to wear bar hopping, but something to complete my belly dance costume. While I found oodles of tops that shimmered, none were large enough to cover one boob let alone two. While luck wasn’t with me in my top hunt, I did find another skirt perfect for dancing, a pink floral print wrap around silk skirt that I plan to wear on our final night of lessons a week from now.

I was feeling pretty excited about my find, envisioning that I would be the “bell of the ball” for the final dress up night, until I went to my lesson Monday night and “she” arrived, a little late, in full belly dance attire.. One of the things I love about my belly dance lessons is that we are a group of women of all ages, size and body types that get to “let it go”. Instead of sucking it all in, we are encouraged to let it flow and ripple, the more the better. Throughout the dance you feel your body move in ways you may never think possible and you work muscles you didn’t know you had, so that the following day you feel tight and toned …for a while anyway.

To get back to “she”, she is probably the youngest of our group, fairly tall, slim and toned. with beautiful long curly “naturally” golden locks.. You getting the picture now? She was the embodiment of a goddess in a class of…well the rest of us. Now, I’ve always believed that our bodies are our temple to be loved and honoured, but it gets really hard finding the love when there are those among us walking around with nicer temples…makes me feel like I got stuck with a shack.

Back to “she”, she was wearing a gorgeous costume that a friend brought home from the Mediterranean, a deep purple low cut organza skirt. trimmed with beading and silver coins and to top off the costume, a purple bra decorated with matching beading and coins. We have the option of showing our bellies, but for good reason we choose not to, but if I had a temple with perky little boobs like hers, I too would be showing it. But, alas, I don’t think my boobs have ever perked, except for maybe that time I walked into a hornet’s nest and was stung all over.

After the lesson was over we all flocked to her like pigs at a trough to examine her costume close up. I had to resist the temptation to poke one of those perks just to see if they were real. Throughout all our poking and lifting her skirts, she remained calm and accepting until we had our fill. But I had noticed in previous lessons a calmness and an almost zen like quality about her. Even without her costume, there is a warm and radiant glow about her, and while I am a little envious of her youth and beauty, it is her calmness and natural glow I would like to capture for myself.

HONOR THY NAME

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Marisa - pronounced ma-REES-ah

I have a beautiful name. I didn’t always think this, but as I grow older I appreciate more and more its uniqueness. As a child I hated my name. I hated that other kids couldn’t pronounce it, hence I earned the nick name “Meecie,” or “Meece”, as my father continued to call me until he passed away when I was 40.

I hated that every time I got off the school bus at the end of the day, I was taunted with “Meecie Mouse, get in your house,” by the other kids.


I hated that there was no one who shared my name, and I longed for a more common name, like Julie or Katie or Linda…any damn name but Marisa, although I see the name Marisa popping up quite often in recent years.


I hated that all throughout school my teachers continued to call me
Ma-riss-sa and I had to correct them over and over again until they finally got it right, only to repeat the process all over again when a new school year meant a new teacher.

As an adult, I just gave up and for the most part ignored it when people miss-pronounced my name, especially those whom I was unlikely to meet again, but I have began lately to assert myself and not settle for being called by any other name.

My name was bestowed on me by my mother, not at birth, but at some later date. On my birth certificate and baptismal certificate, I was registered as “Marcia,” but for reasons of her own my mother started to call me Marisa. It was the only name I knew until I turned 16 and needed my birth certificate to apply for my beginner’s licence.

I’m not sure how my name change came about. One theory is that my mother read my name in a book after my birth and liked it so much she started using it. Another is that she wanted to name me Marisa from the start but bowed to pressure from her mother-in-law to choose a more acceptable name. I will never know. It is just one more of many questions I wish I had asked my mother when I had the chance.

Is it any wonder I have an identity complex. It made for a lot of confusion, remembering what name to sign on documents, to the point I had my name legally changed to what I had grown up with, Marisa, a name I now love and plan to keep. Perhaps some day it will be passed down to a future grandchild or great-grandchild.


The meaning of the name Marisa is - Sea Of Bitterness
The origin of the name Marisa is Italian

The meaning of my name, Sea Of Bitterness, is not a true depiction of my character or nature. I am not a sea of bitterness... a kiddie pool maybe from time to time, but most certainly not an ocean.

COMING OUT OF THE CLOSET

The time has come for me to finally "fess up." I am not who you think I am. Three months ago when I started on this blogging journey,I never expected that I would stick with it let alone generate a small following. Who knew there would be someone out there willing to read my shit. My fictitious name, "Marjean", was created out of fear and insecurity. I was afraid of rejection and insecure in my ability to come up with something worthy of a readership. "Marjean" provided some anonymity... a blanket against ridicule for my blogging efforts. In my mind, they would not be laughing at me, but some crazy old woman named Marjean.

I found that as my followers list started to grow, so too had my confidence. The wonderful comments to my post had given me the encouragement to continue on with something that started as a whim. My fear of rejection slowly faded...like a fart in the wind, and I found myself considering using my real name to take ownership of my blog. The pivocal moment came on the weekend, when my daughter said to me, "Mom, I would read your blog even if you weren't my Mom."

So here I am, "Marisa", fresh out of the closet and I feel free, liberated...the world is my oyster and I am a blogger!

You can read my blog if you want...or not...laugh if you want...or not...leave comments if you want...or not, and I will not feel rejected.

"I is what I is!"