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Cellulite Wars
I’m a regular at hot yoga and I get the opportunity to share the class with about 30 other individuals, mostly women. Together we stand bravely in front of the wall length mirror obediently folding and stretching as per the melodic instructions of the yoga teacher. In the midst of the gentle invitations to focus on our breathing, we are more intent on noticing how our bodies accommodate the postures requested of us. And more than that, we are engaging in the inescapable past time of comparing how our bodies look and move compared to the one next to or in front of us.
“Does my belly roll show when I bend over?” “How wide do my hips look in tree pose?” “I should have worn my other yoga top that’s longer so that I don’t have to keep pulling my top down to cover up my stomach.”
In the midst of this we wonder how others are managing to stay poised. With temperatures up to 40 degrees Celsius, less is better. This rule only carries so far though, and then self consciousness takes over.
From my mental meanderings, I’ve determined that yoga attire is not unlike the armor knights of old used to don when entering battle. The molded metal was no doubt very heavy but indispensible. It kept the warrior in the fray and allowed him protection from charging swords. So too in the yoga room, the Buddhist bastion of love and acceptance, can one find a similar armor adorning the occupants. We bravely enter the arena with the most worthy opponent of all, a mirror which reflects back to us all of our perceived flaws. Relentlessly we battle with our bodies to accommodate moves that will enable us to overcome the foe, the fat that prevents us from being completely at ease with our physical form.
Occasionally a fearless warrior will enter our ranks, and she will be appropriately attired in a “boob top” and scant shorts that allow her body to perspire openly so the sweat can evaporate naturally off her skin. We take furtive glances at her and notice that indeed, there is cellulite on her thighs. In fact, her belly does roll when she bends over. But she does not seem concerned about bothering with adjusting her clothes. She just continues to bend and twist and stretch despite the images of the fearsome mirror. It exposes her cellulite but this does not cause her to shrink from the image.
“What’s wrong with her?” we wonder. Why is she not shuddering at the collective enemy, the mirror? How can she continue without wanting to hide? Yet, the more we secretly watch, the more we see the beauty of the rolls surrounding the midriff, the subtle grace of the cellulite rippling in harmony with her muscles. More elegant than the most intricate pose, we see that her body is in perfect balance. This balance comes from within and it allows her to respond to the rigors of the class without a knowledge that she should be afraid or ashamed.
Her ease of mind and grace of body is like the sunrise emerging over the horizon after a stormy night at sea. It illuminates that time in our lives before the world programmed our self perception. It casts light on the inner world that does not know it is supposed to care about mirrors or appearances; that does not know it is supposed to be ashamed of itself. We are awakened to this and we marvel at the wondrous simplicity of what life could be like if we were at one with ourselves.
Watching, we see her body evolve before us. The cellulite is the bloom of womanhood that has celebrated her birthdays, gotten up in the middle of the night to be with a friend, and sat around the campfire singing songs and eating marshmallows. The midriff rolls are the tears shed when her mother died, they are the miracle of childbirth, they are the nights spent worrying after losing a job.
Her life in all its intricate complexity is written on her body. We share her sorrows and rejoice in the triumph of her spirit. We see her in us and we recognize what being at home with yourself is like again. For so long we have warred with the physical entity that has housed the multitude of our life experiences. We have fought with it. We have rejected it. We don’t even understand who a friend is when she is starring right back at us for an hour.
I am so thankful to the warriors who walk unabashedly amongst us. They lead us back to ourselves; to the health and beauty that awaits us when we open our eyes and take off our armor.
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