It is the spring of 1987, and I am 7 years old. I am sitting in a church pew, waiting to be called to make the sacrament of penance for the first time. I am a Supercatholic, often fantasizing about joining a convent when I get older. I love God. I am never without my children’s bible. I am JAZZED for this moment.
I feel beautiful and glamorous as I climb the marble steps towards the confessional in my white JC Penney dress and patent leather Mary Janes. I step into the confessional and choose to see the priest face to face rather than behind a screen. The old, wooden kneeler creaks under my knees as they sink into the velvet pillow that covers it. With poise and respect, I inform the priest of my sins. I tell him that the night before I stole a cookie from the cookie jar. I tell him that that morning I did a cartwheel in the kitchen, which I am strictly forbidden to do. I tell him that I spend way too much time outside because I love being on my swingset so much, and when my mother calls me to come inside, I sometimes ignore her.
He instructs me to say three Hail Mary’s and an Act of Contrition for my “sins”. Then and there I decide: if I feel good in my body, it must mean I am doing something VERY BAD.
It is 1999. I am 19 years old, and I am having sex for the second time in my life. I do not really know this man, or like him that much, but the remnants of my virginity feel like a drastically out of style jacket that I am desperate to shirk off.
Because I have no voice yet, I do not speak up about my discomfort with having the lights on. As we lay there, both of us trying to figure out what to do, I feel awkward and ashamed. As we move I can feel my breasts and belly shaking, quite literally, like a bowl full of jelly.
I am quite certain this jiggle I feel is not what female bodies are supposed to do when they are having sex. If I can’t speak up about the lights, I certainly can’t speak up about how I’m feeling, so I cover my torso with my hands and arms. I look away, and I let my body speak for me.
It is 2005. I am standing under a hot spotlight at The Slipper Room in New York City, and my heart is beating out of my chest. Hundreds of eyes are on only me. As a trumpet wails, I slyly remove my bra underneath the cover of a big white feather fan. The music climbs, and when it reaches it’s peak I give a sly look to the audience. I drop the fan. Underneath I am wearing tasseled nipple covers that sparkle like a starry night. I shimmy my shoulders, and the tassels spin in opposite directions. The audience goes NUTS, and I feel like a human version of the New Year’s Eve crystal ball; shining and unapologetic, a sacred symbol of celebration, and proud of all that I am.
It is 2017. I am sitting on the floor of a 17th century Tuscan villa. A fire blazes in the fireplace, and the light of a full moon streams in through floor to ceiling windows. Around me, ten women are gathered on plush couches in the drawing room. I am seated on a luxurious blanket with a large mirror before me, about to demonstrate the ritual that has become my church. Warm, comforting candles flicker around the room like guardian angels, and the song Ave Maria bounces off the ancient stone walls.
I allow my robe to drop from my shoulders, and my naked body is revealed. I look deeply into my own eyes until I can see eternity inside of them. I pour warm oil into my cupped hands, and they become both pilgrim and priestess as they glide over my skin. There is no place my hands or eyes are afraid to go. This body is my home, after all.
The path of my spiritual life has not been the straight line my 7-year old self expected it to be. It has been circuitous and labyrinthine. I have climbed literal mountains and traveled thousands of miles looking for God, chasing that lighting bolt moment of spiritual awakening.
It is only when I have stopped searching, and summoned the courage to see God in my very own eyes and flesh, that I feel not only the lighting bolt, but the thunder, the sunshine and the rain along with it.
My greatest hope is that every woman in the world can feel this sense of rapture upon the sight of her own flesh. But how can we, when the only lessons we are given about the female body are how to criticize it, minimize it, deodorize it, and sterilize it of the most holy thing it contains: our humanity?
That is exactly why I created the program Body Church.
In Body Church we go deeper than just changing the beliefs in your mind, because in order to change the way you feel in your body, you have to involve your body in the process.
You receive 16 interactive mini-lessons, a 40 page full color workbook, and thriving online community. When you sign up today, you will receive the additional bonuses of a free copy of my book, a live kick-off call with me and the group, and $100 off the tuition.
There are payment plans available, and the course comes with a 100% satisfaction guarantee.
What we regard as sacred we intuitively respect.
What we respect, we instinctively protect.