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Body Narrative: Writing the Story of Your Body

Our bodies conceptualize not only themselves but also each other, murmuring:

Yes, you are there; yes, you are you; yes, you can love and be loved.

–Nancy Mairs, from “Body in Trouble” (2011)

 

What is Body Narrative?

Body narrative is simply writing the story of our bodies. In this type of writing, we blur the mind/body boundary through an activity that is typically more closely associated with the mind. As author Nancy Mairs writes, “Even if one has lived within a mind cut off from the body, the body has been there all along.”[i]

Body narratives encompass our mental, emotional, physical and spiritual power. They allow us to integrate body awareness, sensations, and movement into our writing and help us connect with our bodies as we write. They allow us to get in touch with ourselves.   

Body narrative can be a powerful catalyst for self-discovery. Writing the intangible and the invisible—the internal experience of the body–heightens our awareness of body sensations and emotions, provides insight and understanding, helps translate experience into language, and facilitates connection and healing. In the process of writing a body narrative, we may begin to accept our bodies and understand how our bodies hold our stories.

Imagine what it would feel like to accept your body, and stop viewing yourself through an out-of-focus lens.  Take for example, Walt Whitman’s “I Sing the Body Electric,” a poem that celebrates and glorifies the body in all its manifestations, whether stretched, flabby, or swollen:

 

The love of the Body of man or woman balks account—the body itself balks account;

That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

 

In writing our body narrative we can develop the sense that our bodies belong to us, and come to terms with our oftentimes fragmented existence. Through “writing the body,” we can move from living in the shadows to accepting ourselves.

 

To write as if your life depended on it; to write across the chalkboard,

putting up there in public the words you have dredged;

sieved up in dreams, from behind screen memories, out of silence–

words you have dreaded and needed in order to know you exist. 

 -Adrienne Rich

 

The doing of writing about and through the body helps us make meaning of what dwells within our bodies and helps us access our innate wisdom, which is often lost in daily life.

In one of her personal essays in Voice Lessons, Mairs writes, “Fortunately one cannot be without being a body. One simply is blood, thud of heart, lick of tongue, brain humped and folded into skull. And it is a body that one inhabits the past and it inhabits one’s body.”[ii]

 

Why Write Body Narrative?

We write body narrative to unearth our perceptions, judgments, and beliefs about our body, to increase awareness and esteem, release tension, unleash restricted physical, intellectual, and emotional movement, and celebrate our uniqueness and self-hood. Body narrative also allows us to explore our identity, sexuality, and ideals.

 

Here in this body are the sacred rivers: here are the sun and moon, as well as the pilgrimage places.

I have not encountered another temple as blissful as my own body.  -Saraha Doha, Indian Mystic

 

The process of consciously entering into conversation with your body, exploring body story, can enable deep and direct connection with issues that most need expression. The goal is exploration and reclaiming voice through the construction of reflective and insightful body narrative. Narratives written from the body can help improve our writing. Even if you’re a highly skilled writer, your writing can still benefit from body narrative.

  

How to Get Started Writing Body Narrative

Professor, poet, literary critic Hélène Cixous wrote, “Writing is writing what you cannot know before you have written.”[iii] To get started, try exploring even the most basic questions about physical experiences.  For example,

  • What do I think of my body?
  • What I like about my body most is…
  • My body was…
  • I was capable of…

To go deeper into the experience of the body, write from the following prompts.

  • I believed…
  • My body has a story to tell and this is the story…
  • What my body needs from me is…

Our body can also provide us an opportunity for reflection. British novelist and essayist, Nicola A. Griffith writes about life before multiple sclerosis,

I have always enjoyed my body. I grew up using and pleasuring it hard. I played tennis, did gymnastics, competed on the track. I worked as a laborer with pickaxe, shovel and wheelbarrow at an archaeological dig. I dug trenches and planted trees for the city council. I studied karate and taught women’s self defense. I had three lovers as well as my live-in partner. Drank whiskey, ate magic mushrooms, took a lot of speed, sang in a band half the night, went home with one woman or another and cycled to work at dawn after no sleep. I was invulnerable, unconquerable (probably insufferable). The fiction I wrote was physical: explosions, travel through space and time, fantasy figures rescuing fairy tale characters, and so on.[iv]

For people who have suffered physical or emotional trauma, please note that writing about painful or shameful issues is inherently risky. One can never be sure whether such writing or reading will lead to re-traumatization or recovery. Write with care, and take breaks as needed.

Exercise:

Look at pictures of yourself at different ages and stages. Look at the change in yourself over time. What do you see that you didn’t see before? Can you remember what you felt at the time the photograph was taken? How do you feel now looking at it? Have some characteristics stayed the same over the years? What has changed or shifted? How has “life” changed you?

Study these pictures of yourself and answer the following prompts.

Before today I never thought about________. I believed I understood_____________, but now I’m considering ________.

Thinking deeply is how we grow. And writing your thoughts commits you to examining them more fully than you can in internal monologue, or even in spoken conversation with others.

Future columns will discuss specific issues and writing techniques used in body narrative.

 

Sources

[i] Rainer, T. (1998). Your Life as Story.  New York, New York: Tarcher Publishing. p. 202.

[ii] Mairs, N. (1997). Voice Lessons.  Beacon Press.

[iii] Cixous, H. (1994). Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing, New York, New York: Columbia University Press, p. 65.

[iv]  Griffith, N. (n.d.). “Writing from the Body.” Retrieved December 9, 2013 from http://nicolagriffith.com/body.html. Permission provided via email.

 

Debbie spent 30 years as a registered nurse. She became a certified applied poetry facilitator and journal-writing instructor in 2007. She is currently a student in the Johns Hopkins Science-Medical Writing program. Her publications have appeared in Journal of Poetry Therapy, Studies in Writing: Research on Writing Approaches in Mental Health, Women on Poetry: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing by Successful Women, Statement CLAS Journal, The Journal of the Colorado Language Arts Society, and Red Earth Review.

 

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ESSAYS | Layers of Energy

HistoryAshley Inguanta discusses her art with Eckleburg. Her works are on exhibit at the Eckleburg Gallery. She invites us to consider layers and energies that embody us.

 

I want to shape a moment for you:

Twentynine Palms, California desert. 2011. Mid-morning.  Lava-rock mountains surround.

I drive, dirt rising from the road, cakelike. I open the windows and the air is hot, too hot, beautifully thick with heat. I pull into a gas station. Two teenagers are sitting out front with a pit-bull; they’re drinking Slurpees. I go in, and as I walk I feel the precision of this moment — the dirt and heat, the way each lava rock fits its counterpart, the way these teenagers sit with this pit-bull, all together.  I didn’t take a photograph. This moment felt like a needle to me — thin, compact, sharp — and the thread was movement, driving away, understanding that we all grew from this planet somehow.  That, to me, was art. IS art.  Layers, growing. Energy, wrapping. The way we discover when we stay present. The way these discoveries bloom.

“Energies” are the feelings that shape us, feelings that stem from experience, from awareness in the moment. And yes, I realize that we can become more aware as time goes on. In a way, that is also how time and layers come together to create certain energies. Falling in love, for example, is a way to be wrapped in energy. Honoring a friendship by being fully aware, present, delving into each other’s lives without judgment — wrapped in energy. Being aware of how these experiences affect the body, where they “grow” — wrapped in energy.

Every time I connect with another being (human, animal, plant, etc.), I think of this being’s past and how each moment from birth until how has created this being’s energy. I also feel this, not just think this. The combination of feeling and thinking, of experiencing moments with another being, bonds time and the layers of this entity’s life.

When I worked at a florist’s shop, I didn’t need to know the exact history of a flower before I cut it; but I did know that the flower was a cut flower and that was enough: The flower was technically no longer alive when it arrived; I was dealing with energy that had passed on. The flower came to me with its own sacred geometry, its own energy, its own way of moving between existence in this world and existence in the place our energy travels next. I treated each flower with care, noticing each one’s smell and texture. A blossom grows, opens, shows its layers over time.

With the friends I’ve photographed for this Energy series, I was going to talk about the amount of time I’ve known each. But that is not important, I’ve realized. What’s important here is that each of our lives has brought us to this point — the point of photograph — and when I did these shoots, each friend knew the challenges and obstacles and joys I was experiencing in my life at the time. And I knew theirs, too. With Leslie, for example, we were both in transition. She was in the process of moving to North Carolina and I was in the process of moving back to Florida from California/New Mexico. We both wanted heavy change. We went into the water for this shoot, too, but I ended up using that photo for the 15 Views of Orlando book cover.  “History” and “Leslie” made it into this set because each photograph uses material to physically show layers, how they grow, where they grow. In the photographs, why do these layers grow where they do? We experience feelings within the body. In this series, I focused mostly on the throat/third eye/crown areas of the body. Body, mind, and spirit are connected when it comes to feeling, when it comes to creating energies, being wrapped in energy.

I’ve been very thankful for the relationships I’ve experienced that take into account the layers of one’s life — what each person/being has been through, how this past has transformed into the present somehow. In other words, energies can also mean complexities of life, and being wrapped in energy can mean how we experience these complexities.

Eckleburg: Are your works always in black and white? 

Not always, but a lot of my photographs are. Over the past three months I have been taking more black and white photos than I ever have. At first, I wasn’t too sure why. I knew I wanted to highlight shape and texture, not color, but I didn’t understand that I was craving shapes that were “drained” of something. I only understood that I wanted color drained a few weeks before I moved to Brooklyn from Orlando, Florida. I gave most of my clothes that were not black, white, or grey to a second-hand store. I kept few items with color and some Earth tones. But for the most part, I wanted a wardrobe that would feel, to me, very much like a foundation. I wanted the foundation to be enough.

Black and white photography portrays the base of shape, of texture, and I was very aware of how texture was working in these photographs.

Eckleburg: Among the pieces you submitted to us, do you have a favorite?

I am not sure if I have a favorite, and in terms of gratitude, I’m thankful that all of these photographs happened. “History” and “Leslie” were taken during the time of powerful transition. “3841” and the other numbered photographs were taken on a cold day in Florida this year, years after “History” and “Leslie ” in 2011, at a time of resistance, confusion, hope. Numbers play such an interesting role in our lives, too. We use them to control, to understand specifics. When I took this photograph I sensed that I was reaching the base of something. I was just starting to understand why I needed to use material in my photographs — feel the layers, fold the layers, understand the way moments unravel and wrap.   

“Mother of Nature” was taken shortly after the numbered pictures, and during these moments I could feel community blooming, not only between the subject of the photograph and myself, but among our friends, the city of Orlando.

Eckleburg: Why do you choose photography?

I have never felt more connected to landscape and life until I started practicing photography in 2008.  I was working as a copy editor/reporter at the University of Central Florida’s school newspaper, and I was supposed to cover Margot & The Nuclear So and Sos with the photo editor.  Water ended up leaking on her camera, and she was unable to photograph the show, so she asked me to do it. I used my point and shoot and couldn’t believe the connection I felt in those moments. Photographing the show changed the way I experienced each moment of the show — I remember the way the pianists’ movements slowed as I held up my camera, the way I felt grounded — in the moment — as I pressed the shutter. I ended up pursuing photography from that point on.

I love the mindfulness photography requires. When I am shooting, the moment means everything. I must stay fully present. That, to me, is one of the biggest gifts I’ve ever been given in life.  And to stay present doesn’t mean I discount the past — it means I honor the way it has rolled into the present, the way it has layered itself into the present.

I’ve also painted with watercolors, but I haven’t done that in a while. I wanted to feel the body emerge on paper with color, stroke, shape.  I’ve also painted with acrylic and done some collage work. I am working on building an installation in a suitcase, too, that may take years to finish, which is inspired by Janet Fitch’s White Oleander.

I love that it takes certain projects years to finish. Decades. Even lifetimes. 

 

Ashley Inguanta is a writer/photographer who recently moved to Brooklyn from Central Florida. Her first collection, The Way Home, is out with Dancing Girl Press (and has been re-published for Kindle with The Writing Disorder), and she has translated the collection into a live performance, too, with music and dance. In late November, she had the honor of co-hosting Poetry Cover Night at The Bowery Poetry Club. Ashley is also the Art Director of SmokeLong Quarterly. 

 

 

 

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Deep-Fried Diversity

SwayambhunathOn Thursday, my family and I will (thankfully) have a festive Nepali meal. We’ll gather around my parents’ 1980s country style dining table with its white legs and blond wood top. There will be an awfully white, bright light above us spotlighting our non-traditional meal. And seven people will be squeezing in around the table, making the best of an American holiday.

For much of the 1980s, the first decade my family and I spent in the US, we spent a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at the home of a family friend. This family lived in rural Bucks County, about forty-five minutes away from where my parents and I lived in a town outside of Philadelphia. There were over twenty people at the dinner table, including children. There was turkey, duck, ham, several sides, and so many types of pies. The women cooked, with the mashed potatoes being made closest to the dinner. Those not cooking would be in the basement, either watching a football game or chatting by the warm fireplace. There was a refrigerator in the basement, and my brother and I enjoyed many a cold coke bottle during those hours waiting for dinner. While waiting, we’d chat shyly with the other adults there. At least once, the host would take us out for a ride on his farm tractor. We’d pass the other hours playing billiards. There was a formal pool table too, and I formed my first schoolgirl crush on the man who taught me how to play pool one year. These gatherings shaped my family’s fond anticipation of this holiday.

In the 1990s, each member of my family left the nest for one pursuit or another. For a few years, my mother taught in Upstate New York, and family gatherings usually consisted of just us four. Then, I went to college and so did my brother. I went to graduate school. My mother went to Nepal to find employment. And my father moved to Virginia. It wasn’t until the early 2000s when we found time to gather again, consistently, as a family during Thanksgiving. But by then, our palates had changed.

This year on the dinner table there will be: puri (a fist-sized round flat bread rolled from chapatti flour and then deep-fried), two vegetable dishes (one a curry, the other a sautéed green), homemade yogurt (which I won’t eat because I’m vegan and the yogurt is not, but the vegetarians in my family will enjoy eating it with the puri), and cilantro chutney. When I first shared this menu with my parents, there was general satisfaction but my mother was hesitant.

What about mashed potatoes, she asked? Oh my. I became anxious.

The story of the mashed potatoes:

In 2002, many years before the idea of making our Thanksgiving meal align with our taste buds that are accustomed to Nepali food, I started the tradition of making vegetarian and vegan lasagnas a standard main courses at our holiday dinner. Sometimes the rice cheese either didn’t melt or if it did, tasted odd, musty. I managed to get down each cruelty-free bite with the help of a heaping forkful of cranberry sauce. Fortunately, there were also mashed potatoes at the table. All I did was add water to the boxed mixture. I was the only one who liked it.

In 2003, I tried to make mashed potatoes from scratch. It would be vegan and easy to make. No recipe needed. What else was there to mashed potatoes then just, well, mashing? But the word glue comes to mind with this memory. At first, I dug into the process of making mashed potatoes using my hands. It was, to say the least, hard to do. I persisted. But soon I switched to crushing the cooked potatoes with a big fork. Then I tried adding milk, which only made the potatoes more viscous. There was no fluffy quality to them. Like I said, glue. I eventually discovered the reason behind the congealed quality of the taters was that I didn’t use the masher tool that could transform potatoes into clouds. It’s quite an essential element.

In 2004, my dad wanted to spice up my mashed potatoes with mustard oil and salt. Mashed potatoes are to be eaten with gravy, not mustard oil, obviously. And while I was still no expert at the art of mashing potatoes, I at least new that gravy provided that complete feeling to the mashed potatoes. My father added the mustard oil and salt anyway, trying to make the best out of cold and gooey potatoes, trying to salvage my version of mash into a Nepali dish.

In 2005, I got into a fight with my brother, because I told him that he couldn’t mash potatoes with a plastic masher, which my father had proudly bought at the Food Lion. I’d forgotten to bring my stainless steel masher — which I owned by then — and I was beside myself with fear of eating lumpy mashed potatoes. That year, my American boyfriend from Michigan joined our dinner and created magic with the masher and the potatoes. We ate silently, but thankfully.

In 2012, my parents insisted on boiling potatoes and getting them ready for my boyfriend to mash. We ate them, but the consistency, according to my mother, wasn’t as good as in the previous years. My boyfriend investigated. It turns out that I’d erroneously guided my father on what type of potatoes to buy.

What about mashed potatoes? My mother asked this year, knowing they would be the cloud kind made by my boyfriend, not me, and so they are now a desirable dish. And she knew that he wouldn’t make the same mistake as last year. Still, I had to stop myself from asking her why she wanted mashed potatoes when lately she was against eating white starch. In the last two years, she’d even convinced my father, who grew up with a rice paddy as his backyard and who needed white rice at the table even when there was bread, to substitute quinoa for rice. She seldom cooks with potatoes. It’s safe to say that my mother and I have tension when it comes to potatoes, my go-to vegetable.

In the space of the last eight years, we have attempted and then given up on some of the more traditional American Thanksgiving dishes—mainly disregarding the thought of lasagna altogether. One year, I tried to serve soup in a bread bowl. My parents couldn’t figure out how to eat the bread, especially with soup in it. Honestly, I didn’t know either. That year, I fed much of the bread carcass to the birds. Another year, I cooked Tofurky. The boxed quantity of it was too big for us, partly because of how filling even just one bite of it was. Everyone said it wasn’t a bad dish, just “interesting.” By this time, my boyfriend’s delicious mashed potatoes were a staple at the table. So we didn’t go hungry. I’ve been asked not to cook “that tofu” dish again.

As you can imagine, preparing delicious yet vegetarian and vegan-friendly Thanksgiving dinners is a challenge. Another year I offended my brother, again, insisting that no turkey be cooked in my presence. I have to admit that while I am proud and thankful that no turkey has since been cooked in my parents’ home, that demand once made, has created an uncomfortable social environment. Which brings us to this year and how I wanted the menu to be simple and uncontroversial.

A few weeks ago, I declared to my parents that this Thanksgiving we eat Nepali dishes for dinner. Thankfully, they obliged. My mother and I usually discuss the dinner menu about a month or so out. Typically, these conversations are dissatisfying because every year, we’re trying to find that dish that is a perfect substitute for the turkey. Yet, we haven’t even eaten a turkey at Thanksgiving in over ten years. I figured we could make dinner this year to be simple, since it will just be my parents, my boyfriend, and a few family friends. The family friends are of South Indian and Nepali ethnicities. And then there’s my white American boyfriend from Michigan who, thankfully, likes Nepali food.

The 2013 menu: puri, two vegetable dishes, the homemade yogurt, and cilantro chutney. We’re also including mashed potatoes and gravy (no mustard oil and salt), cranberry sauce (of course), apple pie (I make it and my parents love it), and pecan pie (because my mother has been craving it). Sigh. The intentions for a simple dinner are already becoming complicated again. Like us, like my family consisting of Nepalis, a mid-western white American, and people with both vegetarian and vegan diets. Regardless of the success (or failure) of the meal, we will all be thankful for each other. We can, after all, be a family as complicated as our meals, yet still love sitting a bit squished next to one another around the Thanksgiving table, enjoy our diverse meal and diverse selves all under bright lights.

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