by tashmcgill | Oct 22, 2014 | Bodies, Culture & Ideas, Health, Mind
I got to 200 the other day. 200 gym sessions this year. I train for lots of reasons.
I need the stress release of boxing.
I like to talk to my trainer who is both my friend and therapist.
I like getting up to go to a place I want to be in the mornings.
And then there’s the real reason, that I sometimes admit to myself.
Because I want to be beautiful, I secretly whisper to myself.
Then I have to follow it up with empowering feminist phrases like ‘beauty is strength’ and ‘healthy is beautiful’.
But I released when I counted to 200, I’m not chasing beautiful at all. I’ve been chasing normal these 200 sessions or so. In fact, normalized beauty is probably what I’ve been chasing since my early teens.
So much comfort is found when you can establish your identity within the spectrum of normal. Society doesn’t push uncomfortably on any of your sharp edges that way. Nothing feels like a mis-fit if you can find a spot in the middle of everything.
Normal is not even about being a certain weight or shape. It’s about fitting in. Fitting into clothes, fitting into expectations, fitting into.. normal. Fitting in substitutes for having a sense of belonging, but belonging to what?
Normalized beauty is a set of homogenized templates. Haircuts, fashion cuts, brow styling. Slightly deeper we get to athletic versus curvy and I’ve already talked about the fashionable butt trend. I was just reflecting on the waif trend of the early 2000s. Normalized beauty changes to reflect societal trends. Normalized beauty is formed by comparisons and averages.
So that changes something for me, because actually I’m not humble enough to aspire to normal. I want to be beautiful. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be captivating – and I want to be all of that beyond a normalized beauty template.
At my age, the internet and Facebook is full of pithy sayings and blog posts from women who mean well. They write about becoming comfortable in their own skin, loving their stretchmarks and how their partners are truly attracted to them when they are full of confidence. I want to rally against that, because it feels like just another form of normalization.
I do want to be beautiful in ways that are more than just my body, my shape and my skin. I want to be seen as beautiful in all the ways that only I can be seen. I want to be incomparable, therefore nothing about my beauty can be normalized. I think we all do, men and women alike.
I think I am idealistic. At my age, I’ve pursued this game before. But perhaps it’s not a game. Perhaps all I’m chasing at the gym each morning is strength. Perhaps it is confidence that makes you beautiful, once you know who you are. Perhaps it’s having confidence that there is beauty within you, instead of being concerned with how I average out on the scale of ‘normal’.
Normalization is a creeping vine that has the power to choke us. It pushes us to keep up with the ‘human experience timeline’ – marry at a certain age, buy a house, have kids, change careers, travel overseas, buy that beach house… and so on. Normalization starts on the inside though, in how we see ourselves, then how we see others, how we relate or compare ourselves to others and then how we compare against the timeline.
It comes back to identity. Who am I? What am I about? Where and how do I find meaning for myself. What am I going to do about it?
I’m going to get up in the morning and hit the gym for session #201. I’m going to look in the mirror and see what I see, instead of what I’ve been looking for. Instead of chasing normalized beauty, I’m just going to chase uncovering, discovering me.
by tashmcgill | Oct 21, 2014 | Church, Culture & Ideas, Leadership, Spirituality
My commitment to my community was questioned the other day. People wondering whether or not I was ‘all-in’ were finding it tough to entrust me with some influential positions. It was diplomatically posed: if you’re not here (present) with us, how do we know if you’re really with us (committed)? The exact phrase was ‘people have the sense that if you’re not doing something here, you’re not always around’. The subtext: how much of you being here is about us, and how much is about you?
Right across society, it’s usually those who demonstrate their commitment and loyalty that earn the right to be influential. Our commitment to being present is a show of loyalty. Particularly in churches, there are lots of ways you can be involved, but you have to be ‘all-in’ in order to have influence. But what does ‘all-in’ really mean?
It’s how we test Ambition. People want to know how much you’ll give before you want or need to get something back. Most people want influence and power. In the church, that looks like positions of authority, which usually come with microphones.
Think about it. People who demonstrate how ‘all in’ they are, tend to wind up in influential positions. We’ve created a culture where you have to earn your way into those positions; for lots of reasons.
Good reasons
- If you’re going to be endorsed or giving a position of influence, you’ve to got to be trustworthy
- We don’t want you to influence in an unwise direction
Bad reasons
- Those with influence don’t always like to share
- People don’t like to be outshone or overshadowed
- To maintain the chain of command
- No chief wants to give influence to anyone who might not be loyal
We create systems to ensure that trustworthy people make it through the hoops and untrustworthy people fall out. The trouble is, it’s easy to abuse those systems to make sure that only people who’ve proven their loyalty sufficiently make it through. But loyal to what? You ask me if I’m all-in, but what do you want me to be all-in to?
What does ‘all-in’ really mean?
I’m all-in to the purpose of making a good change. I was raised to make a difference and I take it pretty seriously. I’m all-in to being the best I can be, in the place where I’m likely to make the most difference. And often, I don’t find those places inside the Church. For lots of reasons.
Here are 5 times I was All-In
- I was preparing to take teenagers to Eastercamp instead of the church prayer event.
- I was at the 21st of a young person who’s like family instead of church conference.
- I went from the Maundy Thursday service to the corner bar and talked about the meaning of Passover with friends
- I helped a single mum and her 4 small kids move house instead of being at church that weekend.
- I had a house full of teenagers watching movies and making food, instead of being at Sunday night church.
I don’t spend much time actively pursuing the pulpit. I’ll never turn it down, but I don’t intend to chase it. I’d rather have my life and actions speak of meaning and purpose. Because I love to communicate, I relish the opportunity to share my observations and conversations with others. I’ll spend my time engaging in meaningful conversation, always prepared to do my bit for the Church, but I won’t be there for the sake of being there, if my sense of purpose is beckoning me somewhere else.
Here’s the truth – there are hundreds of people in the pews every Sunday, Thursday and Friday who will give their all to the Church at the cost of places where they could be more meaningful. Church services are often club sessions for people who feel comfort from being with the like-minded to be encouraged, affirmed, you name it. It’s a good thing. But it shouldn’t be the ultimate expression of our faith.
In fact, I’d go so far to say that the goodness I want to bring to the earth, has little to do with my church affliation and much more to do with the fulfilment of my identity as a whole person. I’d hate for anyone who has known me to reduce my actions on this earth to “well, that’s what those Church folks do.” Because there are not that many church people living how I live or doing what I do.
I spend my time pursuing people. People at my dinner table, people in the important stages of their lives, people in trouble, people in the world and sometimes people in the pews.
- The Church encouraged me to be in the world, making a difference. So I’m out there.
- The Church taught me that it’s important to serve. I did dozens of tests to figure out my gifts. I’ve been made to serve, so working is both giving back and fulfilment of all I was taught to be.
- Busyness is also an answer to loneliness. Being present with nothing to do highlights my loneliness in ways that don’t help me. Doing something meaningful with my presence is good for me.
I’m all-in. Are you?
by tashmcgill | Oct 15, 2014 | Culture & Ideas, Mind, Spirituality
The greatest churches I have been to, I’ve never crossed the threshold of. I couldn’t give you directions to them, or tell you ahead of time.
I’ve simply found myself in the midst of them as they have risen around me. Great cathedrals of human expression… Songs of triumph, hope and victory, psalms of despair and suffering shared through the rhythms of shared humanity that seem to rose up from the earth.
I know one thing to be true: genuine spirituality of any form is both individual and shared. Both elements are required for authenticity. A genuine internal engagement and shared common experience.
That raw spirituality, the ruach Elohim, the wai rua that rises when humanity reaches outside of it’s current self and toward something other… That is where I have been to church, rarely on a Sunday.
In a swathe of human diversity, in dark halls devoted to melody, in moving picture shows seated next to strangers..In concert halls, food halls and markets where plates are shared and passed. Where sight, sound, smell, taste and touch are swamped in sensory experience.
These are the great churches of my generation.
Too often, contemporary spiritual or religious practice has stripped “church” down to programmes and attendence, formalised patterns of reverence and expression. There is beauty and wonder in it, yes. But before we had liturgy, before we had structure, before we had church doors and pews – humanity has had stories, songs and music. We’ve sung our blues, our joys and our sufferings. We share language of human experience this way, we share language of divine encounters this way.
It is no surprise that music festivals draw out thousands, or that Burning Man encourages something in the soul that yearns for a gritty spirituality. These gatherings evoke the primal in us.
We ought to rid ourselves of any flimsy thread of cleanliness or tidiness between spirituality and humanity. It’s all dirt and grit and messiness, and we’re the better for it. We ought to rid ourselves of the straightlined pews more often when seeking genuine spiritual encounters.
When we loose ourselves into the dust or rhythm of a dance we learn as we go along – we realign to the balance of humanity and divinity in Creation. We ought to do it more often and at every chance.
So go to concerts, play live music. Buy a drum and bang it with your bare feet toes down in the grass. Breathe. Connect. Go to church.
by tashmcgill | Oct 14, 2014 | Church, Community, Culture & Ideas, Leadership
We live in a world where the contemporary sacred longs to be relevant and connected to the secular. In rural and small towns, this connection is easier to build in meaningful ways. In urban centres and sprawling cities, there is one resource that the church has in spades, that could revolutionise the way churches contribute to communities and cities.
What is that precious resource? Space. It is the one commodity that urban centres long for and churches have an abundance of.
If the broader contribution of the church to human civilisation is to patron the arts, then more of our spaces should be devoted to sharing space. Opening up space. People in cities and urban spaces are constantly constrained from pursuing their gifts, talents, business endeavours because urban space is so expensive and hard to access. Shared spaces and hotdesking in virtual offices is on the increase but what if the Church, in all those prime city and city fringe locations opened it’s doors to people who need space.
I don’t mean leasing our space either. I mean opening up the doors of our buildings in prime central real estate that often sit half unused and pouring that resource back into the communities that are longing for it. For the small and medium sized businesses that are in start-up mode, where every penny they can save on overheads can go into smarter and better products and services. Into innovation and invention.
We should splatter the walls of our cathedrals with the acrylics and plaster of our artists, sculpting, painting and making in the vast caverns of space that we devote to holy emptiness.
We should fill those spaces with good works. The works of hands and minds. There should be no caveat of Christian belonging either. Just being human ought to be enough to make use of the resources we provide – free internet, hot water, meeting rooms and desk space. Studio space. Creating and making space. So what if our bills go up slightly and we have to vaccuum more often? Think about the relationships we could build. Who cares if occasionally people take advantage? Think about the ones who won’t.
The point I’m making is that the Church mets week on week and searches for ways to be meaningful and build bridges into communities and cities in ways that contribute to broader society – when the easiest thing we could do is remember what the preciousness of our sanctuaries and spaces is all about. People.
I frequently recall the words of Mike Yaconelli, who wrote about the necessity of stained carpet. We worry so much about the straight lines and cleanliness in our welcoming space but there is an authencity to stains on the carpet and on the walls that says ‘humanity is welcome here’.
Humanity with all it’s mess and creativity. Our sanctuaries and buildings were always meant to be for people. Filled with people, resourcing people, providing help and shelter for people. Providing opportunity and support for people.
The Church often gets confused into thinking that in order to be meaningful it must be us that does the work. That the work must be of our hands. But often the greatest impact is had simply in what we can facilitate. What opportunities we create for others by our being.
by tashmcgill | Sep 25, 2014 | Bodies, Culture & Ideas, Health, Mind
I’m not Beyonce or Kim Kardashian, but I’ve got booty. And I’m resolutely proud of it, actually. Prouder now than I was ten or even five years ago. It’s a symbol of strength, capacity and my relative wealth. Still, I’ve scorned and joked my way through endless Instagram posts.
“Do you even lift?”
“Squats all day.”
“Every day is leg day.”
I never considered myself to be body-obsessed, let alone butt-obsessed. Body conscious, for sure. Who isn’t? I’ve written about those issues some. Then I was talking with my friend Jessie – the talented, intelligent and compassionate @bloore). In talking about self-image and the age of selfies, she told me about removing almost every mirror from her house so she could learn not to look at herself.
Jessie’s captivating thought, while not the central idea of my post is worthy of a summary. Our obsession with mirrors and now, selfies, causes us to form our identity or self-image from an external observation. We observe ourselves and pass judgement or scrutinize our flaws. (At the same time, I think it gives us carte blanche opportunity to indulge our vanities too – TM.)
So I tried it for a few days. I paid attention to how I used the mirror. To be honest, I think I did ok. Not that many selfies, a tiny mirror in the bathroom doesn’t allow much scrutiny and there’s no full length mirror in my bedroom either. That might explain a few things. But I was totally mistaken.
I realised what was happening while I was walking to work. Past a run of glass windows, I caught myself studying my reflection. I’m a secret glancer, but not too secret. I caught myself almost every day. Not just mornings, but on the way to meetings and leaving at the end of the day.
So I paid attention to the pattern my eyes travelled. Butt, hips, knees, hair, sometimes the shadow of my chin, and then my butt. Lingering on the butt, particularly if walking uphill. In the work kitchen, the mirrored splashback means I pay attention to my hair and eyes, same as in the rear-vision mirror of my car. But anywhere else, I was a butt-watcher.
Day after day, I caught myself in the same patterns. So I started to think even more about what I was paying attention to and what I was looking for. Then I realised it was beauty, normalised beauty. My stomach is strong but soft. My arms have definition and curves. My legs are powerhouses. I’m short and curvy and strong, but all of that is acceptable in the curvaceous globes of those gluteous maximus and their supporting muscalature. In those moments, I belong to the beautiful crowd – we are alike. Those rounded curves are just as well formed as some of the best I’ve seen, hidden in clothes.
That beauty is more than just a physical sense of appreciation. It’s deeper. We have to become reconnected to our bodies and integrated with what they tell us. My butt is a staunch reflection of my character and personality. Gregarious, generous but in proportion, equal parts soft and strong, with strength that can’t be seen but only felt or experienced. My butt is one part of my body that really feels like me, if my heart and soul was flesh and blood. And my ass doesn’t make apologies, or demand them from me. It just opens doors with a kick of my hip or sashays down the pavement when taken by the mood.
I’m in two minds about the the endless parade of booty songs on the radio – they are not the kind of empowering I was looking for. But they rightly give women the opportunity to reclaim their bodies. I just want to reclaim mine for more than sex, whilst still being sexy.
I don’t wear yoga pants outside of the gym. I do wear tight jeans. My ass is not #belfie-perfect but I do squat and lunge and lift and climb steps taller than my calves. My ass is not a sex-symbol, it’s a powerhouse of confidence. That’s no brave feminist voice, either. I literally can carry 15 – 20kgs of toddler on each hip, supported by that butt. It powers me up stairs faster than my long-legged colleagues and it cushions every hard and cold surface I have to sit myself on. Am I a proud butt-watcher? Well, I don’t know. I’m not watching anyone else’s. I just see what my own is accomplishing and feel somehow stronger. I appreciate how I fill out my own jeans. I’m not likely to post a #belfie anytime soon – but I have a butt worth admiring on it’s own merits.
What is this vanity – this self-obsession with my physical being that can produce such torment and such joy, such satisfaction and a sense of pride? Can I weather it, just accept it and let it be – that the one thing I might catch myself watching is the one thing that gives me confidence instead of robbing it?
There are other parts of my physical self I might add to the watching list then; my cooking callouses, my calf definiton, the scalloping abdominals under their soft stomach blanket. The skin that carries my stories in tattoo, the eyes that are equal parts my mother and father. There are many parts of my body I would reclaim and let them be pride-stirring, strength-giving reminders that I am in fact, not my body. But my essence is reflected in it.
