Hands Off My Boobs!

When I was in my early 20s, I had opted for a professional bra fitting. What happened in that fitting room, without a measuring tape and the attendant who cupped and fondled her way (with a perfect poker face!!!) to offer me one the best fitting lingerie I’d ever purchased till then will, I guess, remain to be a confused-but-wtf-just-happened kinda memory for some time to come.

Fast forward to present times, as an advocate for women’s safety and a knuckle rapper for all things ‘sexual harassment’, I guess it’s a normalised idea that men touch inappropriately. I’m saying this because, as it turns out, my ‘girls‘ seem to have caught the attention of mixed preferences! And while I know it is a violation of personal space and a sexual advance regardless of the gender of the violator, I didn’t know how to react, let alone respond at the time.

Having a woman sneak up behind you and grab an obvious handful of bounty, in broad daylight is, well, clearly not done. It wouldn’t have been ok even if it wasn’t in brad daylight, just to be clear. Advocating for equal rights and sexual identity / preference does not mean, you get off on me. Sorry… no way, Jose! Your preferences do not mean I oblige per convenience – especially when MY preference is clear. I’m into men – and even then, I decide who gets close enough to cop a feel

(and please – that is not an open invitation to attempt!!)

Here’s what my thoughts were over this: I was caught off guard. I felt numb, of sorts… I definitely did not like/ enjoy it… I was surprised. I almost equated it with a little child inadvertently putting their hand on me…. but I know the woman intended it. It was not a joke. Even if it were, I wasn’t laughing.

Anyway, I’ve figured out a way to address this and I shall do so in my own time. But until then, folks, if you don’t like the attention, speak up. Your personal space is your own.

As for me, a little caution never hurt anyone.

Coming Into My Own

I guess I’ve always been fiercely independent. Well, to be honest, it was more like a balancing act mostly – sometimes being fierce, at other times being independent. Let’s just say I have always been intense – both in my ferocity and my independence.

Yet, there were times when I would feel like the protagonist in the duck metaphor – successfully and calmly swimming my way across the pond, paddling furiously under the surface – but keep that smile pasted!

But, somewhere in this above-the-surface-below-the-surface mismatch, there was a disconnect – somewhere in this affray, I sensed I wasn’t being honest with myself – at least not totally, not brutally – not in the way I expected of myself.

So I set about doing nothing about it…. only to realize that I was actually getting myself entrenched in this wholly wondrous world of discovering ME (or at least the parts that I wasn’t totally in love with!)

Self-work is not necessarily hard, but it is serious work. You can’t get into it as a toe-dipping session. It isn’t something you opt-into when you have the time for it – it is a complete immersion – you get fully wet – and if you don’t know how to swim, you drink in some of the water too! There’s no room for hiding and masquerades, but there are plenty of mirrors and reflective ponds. There are volume boosters telling you about what a shit you are and how you’re not good enough for anything, but there even louder ones that you find to turn up the heat on those quiet whispers that say, “I got you, babe!” & “We’ve got this!“

It took me six months of this year to to align myself to ME. And it took me all of those six months to remind myself of who I am and what I wanted. ‘Soul questions‘ as Deepak Chopra taught us – so I asked myself every day, every month – and asked others while leading meditations and beyond – those questions that tickled the very deepest parts of our selves – and eked out a response so deeply buried under all the conditioning of ‘What will people say?‘ or ‘What would someone think?‘ or worse, ‘Do I deserve this at all?‘

That was when the penny dropped!

I was like, “Hey! Wait a minute…“… “Wait for just one bloody minute!“

Who exactly was in charge here?? Who was driving the shots and me taking a call on what mattered most for me? Who was validating my need, my desire, my want for happiness? Who exactly was allowing me (or disallowing me) my connection to myself – to me being me??

And I FELT it. I really, truly FELT it – in my gut, in my chest, in my arms, my legs, my head – I felt the WHOLE ME – I felt ALL of me come to life – in tingles and bursts and fireworks. I felt my cheeks flush and my blood rush to my head. I felt it love – with myself, with the world, with people around me. I felt the kinship to that beautiful roaring fire of my Martian Pitta Aries nature and personality! And all of them came to the fore.

OMG!! OMG!! I felt ALIVE!

I FEEL alive!!

That sexy glorious sparkling feeling of being IN your element! That awesomeness!

I realize that this journey of self-discovery has been my springboard to reconnection – to the real me. What I do is in synch with how I feel and what I want. Unapologetically, truly me – forging ahead without the need for anyone’s approval or validation. Conscious of my falls, yet unashamedly willing to dust myself off and step out – again and again…. Yet, keeping it real enough by pooling in the wisdom of hindsight and the expectation of foresight – tinged on the boundaries with the courage, confidence and passion of fire.

No more the furious paddling below the surface – because what you see is what you get!

Yes, I have come into my own…. and dancing to my own rhythm, my own fire…

Being OK with Being Me

Last week something happened…  No, wait, a couple of things happened actually. Without going into the absolute details of what happened, I’ll jump right in to what the events got me thinking about – uncomfortable things, for sure, personal insights for certain.

It got me thinking about relationships.

Pretty much a universal thought anyway, but this time, relationships got my goat because here I was faced with a relationship prospect of significant implications.

Now I know some of you must be wondering if I’m going to be spilling the beans about a romantic, passionate liaison. If so, I guess I’m going to have to disappoint you immediately, but you never know…  I’m not really here to spill any beans, this isn’t entirely a romantic wait-till-you-hear-about-it – but let’s just wait to find out where I’m headed with this.

So as I sat with these relationship thoughts in the middle of all the chaos of ER visits, daughter’s pinkie finger fracture, pop-up exhibitions, assignments and work, I also became aware of this deep sense of awareness – a realization that with all the chaos around me, there was this one part of me was still, unaffected and well, happy.

It was strange getting in touch with this part of me – stranger still that I was surprised it actually existed! Now, I’m no self-realized, saint who  has attained that level of detachment or any of the things that many of us aspire to attain – no I’m not that, yet, and this post isn’t about that either. What it is, for sure, is the recognition that the moment I stumbled upon this part of me, I also stumbled upon a whole list of feelings that I really didn’t know existed – at least they existed till some years ago until they quietly muted themselves.

So this quiet, inner self came with its own plethora of feelings – and emotions. Feelings of excitement, thrill and a sense of want or desire and at the same time wisps of doubt, confusion and inner conflict. But underlying all of them was this strong undercurrent of recognition – a recognition of womanhood – my womanhood – my identity – a sense of being in touch with ME.

It took me a week, but it brought me up close and person to what I was feeling in this moment of radical choosing. I felt liberated in the knowing of what really matters to ME and what I needed to allow that to happen.

And above all, that I was OK with it – ALL of it!

I was OK with ME.

This is where the lines go a bit blurry, right? Because even as I read it I’m thinking ‘Oh c’mon, Luvena, this definitely sounds like an intro to a passionate ta-da-da-daaaa story!’ So it is, in an odd way – it is a love story that I’m spilling the beans about. My love story with me – my love affair with myself unabashedly recognizing what I need and what I want – and what I choose to do about it. And I guess, in that equation, sometimes, well, other things also happen!

But …

These radical choices that I was making came with a whole bagful of existing complications. You see, I started thinking about what other people would say. And I thought about for a whole 10 seconds (yes, I gave it 10 seconds) – and realized that I didn’t really care about society being ready for my choice. I also wondered if it was something about it being my fortieth year and all that (still true, you know, the women-get-naughty-when-they-turn-40 bit).

So here’s the thing that was getting me worked up.

Values!!!

Everything about The Curvy Yogi was talking #BeyondStereotypes, #Diversity & #Inclusion. Yet, faced with my own deeply personal ‘in-touch-with-me’ moment, and faced with the probable ‘complications of the radical choice’, I was left challenged with my own values – a face-off between my personal ethos and my professional tagline.

I was questioning my own authenticity.

It was an ugly question.

It needed to be answered.

So I took a few deep breaths, grounded myself and just asked myself what the source of my discomfort was.

The answer, in all this simplicity, surprised me.

The ‘discomfort’ as I called it was, in fact, a new feeling of a grounded investment in ME. It was the sensation of change, the sensation of a shift – a telltale sign of me operating from a place of, ‘This is Me’… and it wasn’t going anywhere, at least not in the near future.

When we are invested in our own values, when or values are an authentic expression of who we are and what we stand for, they define the who, why, what and how of everything we do and represent. Our values vibrate with authentic integrity when there is no shadow of doubt that everything we do arises from that energy. Our personal and professional foundation rises from the same set of beliefs.

Living on purpose = living truly from my set of values, owning them, embodying them – and knowing when to drop guilt out of the equation.

Going beyond stereotypes was my mantra of purpose – of being rooted in my essential nature. (Well, yeah, it is also a Pitta thing like some of my friends would recognize)

The year I birthed myself

Today marks the anniversary of one of the most significant challenges I have ever faced. It also marks the anniversary of the series of events, fortunate and otherwise, that built the intensity of what was to come. As I look back on the year, I see the 3rd of March 2017 as the day a new life was conceived. It took nine months for this new life to take shape and as the year draws to an end, a new birth is ready to create an eventful entry.

This journey is mine – my conception to my birth – my rebirth.

It wasn’t an easy year – by any standard it was the toughest. I saw physical injury, mental torment and emotional upheaval. I saw betrayal and relationships withering down to nothingness and human dignity stomped upon in an effort to prove power, control and authority. I saw a man take pride in holding a whiplash and I saw women stand aside allowing for the que sera, sera. I saw my worldview of relationships, social structure and reasoning crumble and witnessed myself questioning the sanctity, the plausibility even, of marriage, and if such an institution justified its existence at all!

This past year tore through my concept and belief in faith and trust and instead, held me in a vice of mistrust. Friendship, love and loyalty were questioned and I realized that to some, blood was thicker than water after all. I saw people I loved struggle with integrity and values – and saw my heart break, little by little in great big chunks, when these people chose safety and loyalty over standing up for someone who needed a hand up.

In this past year, I was abused – categorically, mentally, financially, emotionally, verbally and materially. I was violated of my dignity and shamelessly stripped of my legal entitlements. I was manipulated till I was almost twisted out of life itself – squeezed to see how much more I could take – till those beads of sweat probably oozed a little of blood (not literally) – and yet, I saw bystanders – standing by watching the drama unfold – justifying with a “Sigh! What can we do?“

And that was when life showed me the single blue line.

I was pregnant this past year – passing through every phase of pregnancy while I nurtured and prepared for my own imminent rebirth.

By early April 2017, I was sensitive enough to experience the nausea and discomfort of morning sickness early on – that intuitive sense that something unusual was happening. Those  visual and energetic clues of pulsating discomfort when you know something was about to happen, yet you couldn’t put your finger on it. By the end of the month, I was in the throes of emotional morning sickness. Of course, laying in bed nursing a broken leg also immobilizes you to large degree, so along with the pregnancy of myself, I embarked on another exploration and creation – creating works of art and craft – things of color and beauty.

By June, I had no doubts of this pregnancy and with the morning sickness settled down, I was at the prime and glow of helping the new me get stronger with each passing day. The previous three pregnancies didn’t really help – the challenges of birthing yourself were unique – an experience so taxing yet intimately personal, the reward just as special and beyond words. Over the two months, I was filled with the knowing that my pregnancy and birth (or rebirth) was entirely in my hands – how I shaped this new me was going to be my own story – and a path that I was going to tread alone.

I was super sensitive to elements that amplified my growth and systematically detoxified where needed – letting go of people, things and relationships that, although much loved, were just not serving any good. I choose to believe that as they stopped serving my growth, me getting out of their way probably helped them too – win-win!

By the end of this trimester, I was clearly ‘expecting’ myself and the aches and pains of this energetic pregnancy were akin to the backaches, acidity and reflux. Life provided me with ample pain points and triggers to serve the purpose – relationships began to fail miserably, situations cramped up and resources started dwindling – all in the name of power-struggles. I coped, I struggled, I carried on.

By September, I began the last mile of this pregnancy, the outcome palpable. I was excited – but at the same time, the fear of the impending process was dreadfully nauseating. I was tired of carrying myself, my body physically sore from exertion, but I was also aware that I had no choice but to follow through. I found myself being intuitive to future needs – preparing for a time when current resources would be spitefully snatched away. As if acting on a premonition, I found myself planning for otherwise unforeseen eventualities – but instinctively preempting them. I was aware of hostility and knew when the air was getting rarer.

By October, I started ‘nesting’ – that phase when you clear, declutter and prepare the space for the newcomer. I started looking for midwives and doulas and amazed at how and from where these people arrived – these women! My mother, my sister, my friends, dear ones who helped with organizing a baby shower of sorts. My own circle of women.

I started cleaning up – and letting go some more. This new me needed a whole new space – a whole new room – a whole new environment.

November marked the end of 12 weeks of my third trimester – and just like that, I was primed for labour – that last stretch – the home run.

When my oldest was born, I laboured for 71 hours. When my leg broke, I calmly organised everyone around me. When my hip dislocated, I took myself to the doctor and recuperated over the next two weeks. When I was down with dengue, I didn’t wait to see what it was, I just took myself to the ER and demanded blood tests.

An average birth canal is about 3 to 4 inches long and it takes about 20 minutes to an hour for an infant to pass through it unassisted and naturally.

We’re talking about a grown woman who has to pass through the metaphoric birth canal, unassisted, without pain relief and no scope of a C-section! And this birth canal allows for the ebb and flow of the contractions – knowing fully well that birth was inevitable!

So, I knew this labour was going to be one helluva ride – and trust me, it was… it is.

So I keep pushing – because the contractions are getting stronger – unbearably stronger on some days and then some more on others. The breathing space between contractions getting shorter and shorter – the urgency to push and bear down significant in the here and in the now.

A pregnancy technically lasts for 40 weeks – and newer babies of this generation naturally are staying in utero for longer. I’m turning 40 this month. A few more pushes. A few more breaths – panting, holding time, supported by the circle of doulas and midwives who are surrounding me with salves and potions, warm towels, chants, hymns and love….

I am the phoenix – watch me rise!