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Dangerous Compassions

clothes

A friend gave me trash bags full of her mom’s clothes, maybe a year ago, as her mom moved into assisted living.  Her mom’s clothes mostly fit me.  Ming and I sorted through countless jackets, shirts, pajamas, pants, dresses.  Some of the clothes were worn out and done.  Most we gave away, but some we kept.

clothes

This shirt I said yes, and Ming said no.  I like the lace on the edge and cheerful flower colors.  There are stains on the front, where my friend’s mom must have spilled onto her shirt when she was eating.  The splotchy pattern of the fabric hides the stains on the front, but I can see them on the inside.

When I wear the clothes of my friend’s mom, I think of elders, health, my own mom who died last year, death, aging, disability.  I think of fatness also, and how fatness is demonized, and fat people can be demonized also.

I’m called “morbidly obese,” when I go to the doctor.  Every day I exercise in ways I enjoy, and I can mostly do what I need to do, in this body.  I unconditionally love myself, with fat liberation and joy.  I hope to live another 40 years–doesn’t feel morbid to me.  But a BMI chart scolds me in red, and many people like to echo that message.

For now, I feel like a model fat person.  My heart’s good, I can dance as long as I want to, and I’m happy.

But when I need a little more than I need now, like if I need oxygen, can’t walk, or get fat enough that I can only wear clothes specially made, I stop being so model.  I become a more problematic fat person, who even more people tsk tsk about.

honored

When I wear these clothes, I feel honored that my friend gave them to me and Ming, for my own use and to distribute to the community.  Yes, I wear this stained shirt with pride.  I feel beautiful, and I’m grateful to have clothes, friends, and Ming.

I love you, fat people, disabled people, elders, dying people.  You are good and have worth.   I’m not going to judge you for your weight or your health.

I notice people do a compassion calculation sometimes.  They hear so-and-so got cancer.

What kind of cancer?

Lung cancer.

Oh, did they smoke?

If they smoked, we’re not sorry for them.  But if they didn’t smoke–oh, what a tragedy.  Is compassion so rare and eked out with an eye dropper, that we need to judge like that?

How about just cancer is terrible.  If someone has a heart issue, it’s tragic, and we don’t need to know their BMI to figure out if they deserve love.

prayer

Mother God, please help me not to hate.  Please bless my heart with a smile, and help me not even hate the haters.  Please bless me to enjoy the moments of life left to me, and do your work.

Thank you for our blessings.  Please bless our choices, to balance caring for ourselves and caring for others.  Please lead us on the paths we need to travel, and help me make the art I need to make, and speak my truths to people who need to hear them.

We love you.  Thank you for another chance to enjoy life’s pleasures and do good.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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