Self-Image: Finding the Pretty Woman Inside Us All: Sept. 22, 2008

Flickr photographer: Ms. Pants

What’s A Tiny Fracture? 

Anne was born a few years ago, on Sept. 19, 2003. I remember the night well, the profound moment that I became a whirling dervish in a NIA dance class.  

Through NIA (a body-mind-spirit fitness and lifestyle practice), I made friends with the woman in the mirror, the tough critic, who faced me every morning as I rolled out of bed at some inhuman hour.

One of the most beautiful aspects of NIA is that you combine martial arts movements with more stretching, lyrical movements, ones that express emotion and encourage self-intimacy.

Flickr Photographer: Janet Leadbeater
Bonfire of the Vanities

This woman watching me was my body, my self, and I was claiming her, once and for all.  This NIA moment is one of many reflections — truly mobilizing moments in my life — that I want to share with you. The picture isn’t always pretty, but neither is life. We agree, right?

Flickr photographer: mwashin

Opening my unpublished manuscript an hour ago, I looked for the NIA passage … the words of my own breakthrough moment.  
NIA Class, Sept. 19, 2003

“Having just connected with my own beauty in the mirror, I also stood face-to-face with my own personal power.

I saw a shapely, sexy woman with muscles. She is strong, decisive, disciplined in some respects, and formidable. You want her in your foxhole, watching your back in life battles. You can give her the tough projects, and she will deliver results.

Yes, this was me — an imperfect version of who I wanted to become — but impressive, nevertheless. Most important, to the breakthrough moment … I was worthy of love, and I was beautiful.

I was not the summation of those awful words, the shockingly putrid ones, that I heard almost daily until I left the insanity, holding dreams but no self-respect. Locked in a prison of words and bruises, I was this woman now, the whirling dervish thin woman dancing in NIA class, bathed in a hurricane of tears.

Anne had arrived, and I agreed to never look back. The horror of myself was over, and I was free of that L-woman. 

A Stiff Upper Lip

This woman writing for you — the woman who is me — has no intention of becoming one of those tell-all journalists. In this respect I’m more British than American. However, I know the content of your emails and our private discussions. You probably have some Anne-issues of your own.

Sensing your need, we set off today in a different direction, a new journey at Anne of Carversville. In my unpublished book, we are headed for Portofino, the land of “la dolce vita”.

Perhaps I began writing A of C, to move this stalled vehicle out of the road. Anne of Carversville is the tow truck.

Anne: Summer 2003

Blast Off

Come along now, and hop in my roadster. The view ahead is an exciting one, with many twisty curves along the way. Please do fasten your seat belt, dear friends. Even though I’ve learned to slow down, I still enjoy stirring up dust. Anne