Being Bodies
Guest sermon by Julia Corbett-Hemeyer
Unitarian Universalist Church of Muncie
June 28, 2009
Spoken Meditation
Since we're reflecting this morning on what it means to be embodied, I'd like to lead us in a brief meditation in which we recognize and honor our bodies. We can do so no matter what our body is like or how we happen to be feeling this morning. The time of silence for meditation will end with a piano interlude.
Let's begin with a two or three deep, centering breaths.
Now, focus your attention at the top of your head.
Slowly and thoughtfully, with compassion for yourself, move your attention downward until you reach the soles of your feet.
Be aware of any areas that feel especially good.
Acknowledge any areas that hurt or feel tense or tight. Breathe into those areas.
Let the warmth of your compassion surround any areas you don't like or have issues with.
Silently thank your body for what it does for you, what it enables you to do.
First Reading
Buddhism is, it seems to me, quite balanced in its approach to human embodiment. On the one hand, we recognize the preciousness and potential that comes with birth as a human being. Our first reading reflects this dimension:
"Contemplate the importance and opportunity of having a precious human birth. We are very fortunate indeed to be born as human beings and to encounter the Dharma. This human existence is invaluable, for we are endowed with the freedom and conditions necessary for practicing Dharma and cultivating our spiritual development. We have the opportunity to accomplish something meaningful, rather than spending all of our time and energy pursuing the temporary, passing pleasures of this life. To have this precious opportunity and not use it wisely represents a great loss. We can use this precious human birth to attain enlightenment and bring great benefit and happiness to countless living beings. Contemplate and reflect deeply upon this precious human birth until the fortunate opportunity provided by this human existence, which should never be taken for granted or squandered, becomes clearly apparent. Our first thought, as we begin to practice, must be appreciation for our human birth. Think about those who have a human body but who are not gifted with conditions conducive to their spiritual development. Contemplate those who attain a human birth but spend all of their time and energy on trivial, worldly pursuits or destroy their opportunity by harming others. Allow this contemplation to inspire within you the compassionate wish that all beings find liberation from spiritually impoverished circumstances. Contemplate, "I have attained this extraordinary and precious human birth. This human birth I will use wisely for my own awakening and for the greatest benefit of all living beings." Source: "Four Thoughts That Turn the Mind Toward Dharma" - http://www.naljorprisondharmaservice.org/pdf/FourThoughts.htm
"The point is that this precious human birth that we now experience is not something random that comes about meaninglessly or effortlessly; it is something that arises with great difficulty, something which comes about very rarely. In Buddhism there is a traditional analogy that demonstrates just how rare and precious this human life is. Imagine one solitary sea turtle in all of the oceans of the world, and this sea turtle is blind. Now imagine a small six-inch wooden ring floating on the vast surface of the oceans. This sea turtle surfaces only once every hundred years. It is said that chance of the turtle's head coming up through the ring are the same chance that we have to attain human birth! So you can see it is indeed very rare and precious." Source: Rime Buddhist Center - http://www.rimecenter.org/dharma.cfm?dharmaID=11
Second Reading
On the other hand, Buddhists are realistic about the troubles that go along with this precious human birth:
I am of the nature to grow old.
There is no way to escape growing old.
I am of the nature to have ill-health.
There is no way to escape having ill health.
I am of the nature to die.
There is no way to escape death.
All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change.
There is no way to escape being separated from them.
I inherit the results of my actions of body, speech, and mind.
My actions are my continuation.
Thich Nhat Hanh, The Five Remembrances, Chanting from the Heart
Sermon
Introduction
Early summer is perhaps a good time to reflect on what embodiment—being bodies—means since we're baring more of our bodies in the warmer weather. Our physicality is more exposed, and as our dermatologists remind us, more vulnerable. The title and part of the inspiration for this sermon comes from my recent re-reading of Being Bodies: Buddhist Women On the Paradox of Embodiment1. I've chosen to concentrate not so much on the paradoxes as on the more general question of what it means to be embodied and how we feel and think about our bodies.
I've been thinking a lot about embodiment of late. Aging, I think, has a way of encouraging that reflection. In addition, my daughter was recently diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. During a recent on call weekend at the hospital, I was with the families of four different patients who had died or were dying, all four of whom were younger than I, one a child. Death is a function of our embodiment.
The Complexities of Embodiment
Embodiment does make us vulnerable. The traditional Buddhist story of the Four Passing Sights says that on one of his journeys outside his carefully-protected castle existence, young Prince Siddhartha encountered someone who was seriously ill, someone who was old and bent, and he saw a corpse. Seeing these people caused a spiritual crisis for the young prince when it crashed into his consciousness that these things would happen to him too. (If you're counting, that was only three. The fourth was a Hindu holy man. Seeing the holy man pointed the way for the Buddha-to-be to resolve the spiritual crisis precipitated by the other three and eventually become the Buddha.) Simply because we're born into this physical body, we're vulnerable to illness, ageing, and finally death, along with myriad other things along the way, from broken hips and cancer to acne to stubbed toes and hangnails.
However, these "unfortunate" characteristics of our being bodies come with their own gifts, at least so it seems to me. They can lead us into deeper reflection on the meaning of it all than we might otherwise choose. They can also lead us to greater compassion than we might otherwise have, because we know that every living thing, from the largest elephant or whale to the smallest amoeba or even virus is subject to the same vulnerabilities, although tailored to their particular styles of embodiment. The unique combination of reflexive consciousness and embodiment is part of what makes this human birth so precious and potentially fruitful.
But being a body isn't all about vulnerability, illness, ageing and death. Because we're bodies rather than disembodied minds or souls, we can ride a bicycle, sing, hike, paint or draw, make love, write, fly airplanes, hug, laugh and cry . . . the list is endless.
Embodiment, as our readings suggest, is complex and oftentimes paradoxical: It brings us both pleasure and pain—it's in this now-aging body that I wake up somewhat stiff, sore and creaky most mornings. . . but it's also in this body that I sit by an open window savoring the rich color, aroma and taste of my morning coffee and reveling in the symphonic chorus of awakening birds and the gentle glow of the rising dawn. Somewhat later I leash up my dogs and walk in the still-cool morning air, feeling the warm sun and the cool air against my skin, taking in the blue sky and all the myriad shades of green. If we're lucky, our walk will be blessed by the shy grace of a deer at the creek or the stately form of a great blue heron by the river. All about bodies.
The paradoxical nature of embodiment is expressed with vivid clarity by Linda Chrisman in her essay, "Birth," included in Being Bodies:
During the days before my son's birth I listened to requiems, over and over, for hours and hours. I listened and wept to Brahms and Berlioz and Fauré. I really don't know why, but I craved those requiems the way I had craved corn in the early months of my pregnancy. I was aware of death from the moment I knew that I was pregnant. As my baby grew in life inside of me, death grew as a presence beside me. Sometimes I was afraid my baby would die or I would die. Sometimes I was not fearful. The certainty of death, however, grew as my belly grew. I had understood the cycle of life into death and death into life, but now I felt this cycle. I could feel that in birthing this baby into life, I was also birthing him into death. (p. 60)
Reflections on Embodiment
From conception through dying, our body is our most constant companion. But our relationship to it is complex. We think and speak of it as "my body," yet who is it whose body it is? Who is it that "owns" the body, as the title of a recent book suggests?2 Clearly, we are our bodies, but equally we are not only our bodies. The title of the first chapter of the book suggests that the body is our "home," but who then is it who lives there? This question invites further exploration, especially in a Buddhist perspective in which there is no stable, unchanging Self who might be said to be the official resident owner of the body.
Current research shows that body and mind are not nearly as distinct from each other as we once thought. They're woven together in fascinating ways. Memory, for example, is not limited to the brain as its physical locus. Every cell in our bodies remembers. A host of integrative body-mind-spirit therapies have developed that utilize this embodied way of knowing. When physical and/or emotional trauma occurs that is too much for a person to deal with, it can get stored in the body. What we consciously forget, the body remembers. Such suppressed emotions and traumas can be a key factor in the development of chronic muscular tension, high blood pressure, heart disease, immune system weakness and other disorders. We experience this cellular memory in a happier way when we get on a bicycle after many years and discover we can still remain upright.
Then there is the intriguing account of a young boy who received a heart transplant. He had a large collection of Power Rangers toys and was quite fond of them. One day after he had recovered from the transplant surgery, he told his mother with great forcefulness, "I hate Power Rangers!" and threw them all in the trash. Nothing would change his mind. Later, when the recipient's family met the donor family, they learned that the child whose heart now beat in their little boy had hated Power Rangers.
Being embodied—and having the kind of consciousness that allows and compels us to ponder our embodiment—leads to other reflections as well.
Embodiment both unites and separates. Think of couples linked in sexual union, of mothers nursing babies, of fathers cradling children in their arms, of the heartfelt hugs of friends. I don't know what a purely mental hug would be like, but it couldn't be as nice as a big physical bear hug from a good friend. Even congratulatory back slaps and high-fives are ways we unite with others that are made possible by our bodies. Yet, embodiment also separates. At the most basic, I cannot know what it's like to be someone else, in part because I cannot be in their body, which is other than my own, and different. Sad events in our culture over the last several years have made it problematic for teachers to give students much-needed hugs or for others in the helping professions to touch their clients, even in the most benign ways.
As UU author Kenneth Collier writes in the Summer 2009, issue of UU World [link], the ego is the way of conceiving ourselves that is concerned with our individuality. He notes that the "great triumph of the ego is the realization that I stop at my skin, and the great tragedy of the ego is the realization that I stop at my skin."3
But do we really stop at our skin? I recently came across this fascinating piece. Back in 2002 a scientist and Nobel laureate named Joshua Lederberg coined the word "superorganism"
to describe the ensemble of human and nonhuman cells that constitute our body. We consist of about 10 trillion cells. . . . In addition to these 10 trillion human cells, the average healthy person also carries about 100 trillion non-human cells in the forms of bacteria, fungi, and entire organisms, such as mites, lice, and worms. These passengers are alive, many are capable of an independent existence and yet end up living in and with us. That we carry around 10 times more non-human cells pales beside the fact that there are 100 times more microbial genes within us than human genes."4
Far too often, embodiment forms the basis for our separating ourselves into "us" and "them." We categorize ourselves and others based on obvious physical characteristics: Female/male, disabled or able-bodied, sick/well, fit/fat, black/white/Asian/Middle Eastern (an especially problematic categorization after 9/11). Then we think we know something about the other, and perhaps about ourselves, based on these categories. More often than not, these quick and unreflective identifications are harmful and limiting. Occasionally, they're amusing in an uplifting way. I cherish the memory of a small boy I encountered at the hospital—not a patient, but a very young visitor being carried by an adult—who looked at me with big brown eyes and apparently saw something familiar in this particular configuration of height, weight, and gray hair. He sized me up for a few seconds, grinned broadly and said "Gramma!"
What we choose to do with our bodies also separates us, oftentimes by rigid boundaries that close us off from really getting to know the other person. We're gay/straight/bi/hetero/transgender. We're clean or a drug user, sober or an alcoholic, an abuser or a victim, a vegetarian or a meat eater. Again, our assumptions can crowd out truth and reality. There is a lot of stereotyping that goes on in these sorts of identifications. At the same time, our bodily characteristics and features are a significant aspect of our identity as persons. I'm different than I would otherwise be because I've lived my life in this particular body with its particular experiences.
Because we are bodies, we are firmly located within the natural world. We are a part of nature, every bit as much as are the trees, the animals, even the rocks and the oceans. Being embodied links us with the animals, those we blessed here this morning and all others. And yet, we are different, as our closing hymn suggests. "We are the earth," yes. But "upright and proud," the earth as "knowing." Far too often, this difference or perceived difference has led to an attitude of domination, a prideful feeling that we humans are superior to other forms of life rather than being woven together with all life in an endless web of being. We miss the essence of our kinship with all other life and thus fail to take responsibility for how we relate to it. And it heightens our sense of aloneness on the planet.
Saint Francis of Assisi referred to his body "Brother Ass," apparently at least to some extent a term of affection. Nevertheless, he found it necessary to keep Brother Ass under very strict control. Sometimes he did not feed him or give him enough water, or denied him some special food that he liked very much. Charitable as the saint always was where the weaknesses of others were concerned, he was so unsparing toward himself that at the last he felt constrained to ask pardon of Brother Ass for having treated him so harshly. While most of us likely do not think of our bodies as Brother or Sister Ass, the theme of controlling and denying the body figures into the mix for many of us. We seek to control our bodies is if they were something apart from us, something not us, rather like trying to control a wayward horse or a too-enthusiastic puppy.
The body is also the source or support of much of our wrong-doing, but also of much of the good we do. The traditional seven deadly sins—pride, envy, gluttony, lust, anger, greed and sloth—may not all require embodiment, but they certainly find their fullest expression in how we enact them through our bodies. We make war with our bodies, commit murder with them, rob and steal with them, notwithstanding the thought and emotion that lies behind and within such actions.
However, the seven good works that are traditionally listed in medieval catechisms are possible only through the body: feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, give shelter to strangers, clothe the naked, visit the sick, minister to prisoners, and bury the dead. It is only because we're embodied that we can build homes for Habitat for Humanity, tutor youngsters who need it, or pull up nonnative invasive plants so that native ones may continue to thrive or return.
Embodiment has historically been more complex for women, and continues to be so. Society frequently lays out standards for female bodies that real women either cannot attain, or can attain only at great peril to our health. Case in point: When researchers generated a computer model of a woman with Barbie-doll proportions, they found that her back would be too weak to support the weight of her upper body, and her body would be too narrow to contain more than half a liver and a few centimeters of bowel. The researchers concluded that a real woman built that way would suffer from chronic diarrhea and eventually die from malnutrition. Twenty years ago, the average female model weighed 8 percent less than the average woman—but today's models weigh in at 23 percent less, on average.
The barrage of messages about thinness, dieting and beauty tells ordinary women that we are always in need of adjustment, of improvement, and most of all that we must control our eating—and that the female body is an object to be perfected by molding it into a cultural notion of beauty that in the end is wholly negative. It's always given me pause for thought that so many of the women's magazines manage to have cover stories on how to lose ten pounds in ten days on the same cover with features on seven layer chocolate tortes and how to love your body. Which is it?!
Religion, too, has characteristically had a hard time with female embodiment. I recently came across a Buddhist account of the goddess Tara, a Tibetan manifestation of the Great Bodhisattva of Compassion. I'd not read this story before. It goes like this: Before she became enlightened as Tara, she was Princess Yeshe Dawa—Wisdom Moon. The monks who knew her or knew of her were awed by her wisdom, and repeatedly urged her to pray that her body would be transformed into that of a man. Enlightenment, you see, was believed to be impossible to achieve in a female body. Princess Yeshe was so close to enlightenment, the monks believed, that all she lacked was the requisite male body. Yeshe Dawa thanked them courteously, but declined to pray that she be either transformed into a man or reborn as one. She told the monks that she had indeed given serious thought to this matter and had decided that worldly beings—which, of course, included them—were in fact quite deluded about it. "Nowhere can I find," she explained, "what is male and nowhere can I find what is female. These are forms of being, no more separate than a wave is from water. But since most Buddhas have chosen to come in a man's body, I think it would be most helpful if I came in a woman's body. Therefore, I vow to only become enlightened in a woman's body, for all time, in all worlds, until all suffering is ended for all beings."
Especially for women, but I think for many men as well, and even for children too, it's become increasingly hard to love and appreciate our bodies in the face of constant cultural criticism and unrealistic expectations. It's much harder for us to love and appreciate the "soft animal of our body" (Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese") than it is to be critical of it. Two examples from my own experience: When I think of my legs, it's too often easier to think my thighs are heavier than I might like, and I have enough spider veins to make a roadmap. However, on further reflection, these are the legs that can hike all day and awaken the next morning ready to do the same thing again. Of my face, it's easy enough to focus on the lines and skin that isn't as tight as it once was. When I look at it with appreciation and love, I know this is what being 60-plus and having lived through the challenges I've lived through looks like. The powerful truth of my unique life is engraved in my face.
I want to end this reflection on being bodies with a guided meditation. We'll start from the top down and take time to love, appreciate and smile to our physical selves. If you feel a little silly doing this, know it's a common reaction, and I think it stems from our usually not regarding our bodies this way. So settle into your chair, take a few deep breaths and let's begin:
So many of our senses are primarily located in our head.
We can taste, see, smell and hear because we have a head.
We can think because we have a brain, and speak because we have a mouth, a tongue and all that goes with it.
Breathing deeply, smile to your head and silently thank your senses for all they do for you. Thank your neck for supporting your head.
Thanks be to heads and necks!
We move next to our shoulders, arms, and hands.
Their strength enables us to lift and carry,
Their gentleness enables us to hug, hold hands, and help in many ways.
Smile to your shoulders, arms and hands and thank them for all they do for you.
Thanks be to shoulders, arms and hands!
Next, let's shift our attention to the core of our body, our torso.
So much goes on in there!
Our cardiovascular system and lungs circulate blood and provide vital oxygen to our bodies.
Our digestive tract is in charge of food handling, providing us with nourishment and eliminating what we cannot use.
Our liver and kidneys help remove toxins.
Our reproductive organs allow us to reproduce and provide pleasure.
Smile to the organs of your core and thank them for all they do. Without them, we could not live.
Thanks be to torsos and all the organs they house!
Now let your awareness rest on your skin, your body's largest organ. We thank our skin for holding us together, for protecting us, and for helping us interact with other persons and things through the sense of touch. Skin is important; it deserves a smile.
Thanks be to skin!
Finally, let's focus on our legs and feet. They enable us to walk, to run, to jump.
They take us where we need to go.
Thanks be to legs and feet!
Thanks be to this body!
When you're ready, gently allow yourself to return to ordinary awareness and notice how you feel.
Benediction
Go in peace and go in joy.
Love the soft animal of your body
And rejoice in this precious human birth.
Endnotes
- Lenore Friedman and Susan Moon (eds.), Being Bodies: Buddhist Women On the Paradox of Enlightenment (Shambhala, 1997)
- Mehmet Oz and Michael F. Roizen, YOU: The Owner's Manual, Updated and Expanded Edition: An Insider's Guide to the Body that Will Make You Healthier and Younger (Collins Living, 2009)
- Kenneth W. Collier, "The Human Condition," UU World, 23:2 (Summer, 2009), p. 22. Click here to read online.
- Reported in Spirituality & Health, May-June, 2009, p. 37
