naked

Sometime after my parents’ divorce my mom decided to move my younger brother and me out of state. She didn’t really feel keen on trying to live in the same little community post-divorce as she had pre-divorce, and wanted to be closer to her family. My best friend organized a going-away party for me, inviting just my ballet buddies. On a Friday night after class about a half-dozen of us watched movies, ate food, then slept on the living room floor. The next morning we decided to see if there was enough water in the river to go swimming, so we grabbed our suits, divvied up towels, and headed down to the river.

The Carson River waters pretty much every farm in Churchill County. When the water was being sent to farmers downstream the river would be really full, maybe chest deep. When it was diverted anywhere else there’d be just enough to keep the riverbed muddy, sometimes not even that much. It was always a crapshoot. That day we were lucky! The water was just about waist deep, and an even deeper pool had formed in an elbow upstream. We claimed a sandbar where we laid out our towels, then tromped a path through the cat tails and sedges where we could launch into the pool. Pretty quickly a cycle developed:  leap into the pool, float downstream, scramble onto the sand bar, tromp upstream through the cat tails, repeat.

At some point someone, I can’t remember who, dared someone else to skinny dip. With little (no) encouragement, and in no time at all, we were all naked, covered in mud, and running through the cat tails as if our collective mothers had never taught us a damned thing about propriety. We threw mud, yelled, and laughed. We were ridiculous.  

My friend had brought her camera to record the event and to satisfy the need for some photos for a school project. By the time we were all naked and ridiculous she had only one or two frames left. She had us all stand in the muddy water and crouch down until the water line was just below our shoulders. The result is one of my favorite pictures:  a small black and white photo, a little grainy, exposed pretty well for a newb. Our faces are radiant and hysterical.

Within a year of moving I was blind-sided by some pretty gnarly depression. Anti-depressants were recommended, and I began the messy process of trying to find something that didn’t have intolerable side-effects. Eventually we found one that seemed to do its job well enough without crippling me some other way. They still had a strange effect, though: I felt like my thoughts were sort of wrapped up in a gauzy, gray film—a protective layer which kept all emotions just on the other side of the fence. I didn’t like it, but it was the lesser of two evils, so I took the drugs. 

After a decade or so I’d had enough gauze brain and decided to come off the meds. I remember walking with a friend after work one day, a month or two after being med-free, telling her about some of the things I was thinking and feeling-- I was so overwhelmed! She laughed at me and said, “Those are called ‘emotions’, Rebecca! Normal people have them, and now so do you! You’ll get used to them.” She was right. I eventually did get used to them, but it was a long time before I stopped being startled by how sharp even the every-day emotions of contentment, frustration, disappointment, and cheerfulness felt. I still whirl precariously with joy and loss. All the same, I’m glad the gauzy, gray film is gone. The film protected me from Death, but it also kept me from wholly entering Life. 

Recently I decided to remove another protective layer. In my religion many devout members receive an “Endowment of Blessings” which includes the donning of a sacred undergarment. It’s presented as a gift from God to cover our nakedness, so it also serves as a modesty standard. I’ve worn mine for a dozen years or so. It’s been a symbol of my commitment to my religion, to my God, and of promises I’ve made. But I find I cannot wear it now. Though the reasons why are hard for me to explain, it’s not a decision I’ve come to lightly. Removing my Garment is the same as an Orthodox Jew shaving his beard and cutting his forelocks, as a devout Muslim removing her hijab, as a Sikh setting aside his turban. No, it’s not a decision I’ve come to lightly. I’ve wept and prayed, and wept some more. But it keeps coming back to this: I have to take the risk. If I ever want to fully enter into Life’s country, this life, this earthy, fleshy one, I have to lose the protective layer. I can hear my elders and peers crying out in judgement and fear, many concerned for the safety of my soul. I have rebuttals and explanations, but they’re not really going to make sense to anyone who hasn’t stood in my body. The truth is, I wasn’t taught modesty, I was taught to be ashamed and apologetic of my gender and my body. I was taught to hide because of my nakedness (both literally and metaphorically) and I cannot stand to do it one more day. Perhaps, as some have suggested, I am throwing the baby out with the bathwater, but I’ve felt around in the murky water for a long time and I can’t seem to find the blasted baby. If she’s ever going to be recovered the tub must be tipped.

A few weeks ago I was out jogging. It was a glorious day! Even though it was pretty early, the sun was already hot. I was on a green trail in my East Bay hills, more or less alone. I took off my shirt and stood in the sun, feeling the sweat evaporate from off my shoulders and torso. I looked into the hard, blue sky where some turkey buzzards were circling, felt the breeze cool my belly, listened to sparrows and finches in the grass and trees. I felt. For the first time in a really long time I felt! Not the feeling that happens inside my heart and my head, but the “feeling” that happens as my skin comes in contact with the physical world. Hot, cold, soft, sharp, wet, sandy. You know? Feeling. I looked at my exposed flesh, slapped my hands on my stomach, and said aloud, “Belly, meet the world! World, meet ma’belly!” I felt so alive, almost giddy with my own… I dunno... aliveness! I started to run. No, I started to skip and jump. If I’d been a calf or a colt it would have been called frolicking. I was ridiculous, and I didn’t care. Memories of the day I’d spent at the river with my friends swam just behind my eyes, which began to sting with tears. It was as if the world was saying, “Welcome home, sister-friend, welcome home.” I threw my arms into the air and ran recklessly downhill. As I ran I remembered other times in my life when I’d felt this same sort of giddy liberation. The word I’d used to describe those old experiences seemed equally applicable to this new one: redeemed. Snatched, paid for, set free... free to act for myself, and not to be acted upon. 

There is a lot left to be sorted out as I work to understand my place in my church. Though I feel like the tub’s gotta be dumped, or the building brought down to the foundation (probably lower), I don’t believe I can, with any integrity, turn my back on it. I do know that the rebuild will be a construct of Grace—there’s just no other way—and I know that the new structure won’t look very much like the old one. This time ain’t no room for Shame to dwell. Nope. She’s sleepin’ outside.

Ain't no shame in that.