She was washing her contacts, standing bare chest in the bathroom. Her white underwear contrasting with the soft pink of her skin, slightly enlightened by the sun of July. Focused, her little finger makes gentle rounds in her palm, massaging the contact with liquid.
I am sitting on the table, swinging my legs in space. My eyes come from her open hand to her breasts.
My hunger for life
They are discrete but not shy. They point a little bit downward, especially with her bended above the sink. A bouquet of beauty spots blossoms on the slope of the left breast, smaller than the right. Her nipples are round, plain, generous. The thin skin, slightly darker, is swollen. No fierce pointy boob, when she is relaxed the lines of her breast suffer no rupture. They are like two warm fruits, ripe and ready to be picked.
I am fascinated by those spontaneous expression of her femininity. The union between her chest and them, the harmony between her movements and their dance. Patient and docile, they follow, with a touching confidence. As if they knew she’d support them whenever it would be required, taking care of their vulnerability.
This is the first time I see my mother’s breasts with that look of little girl, growing up. What used to be a comforting source of food becomes something else.
Slowly, I understand that one day I will have boobs myself and can’t help thinking of how feminine I will be. How proud, how big, how happy I will be! I play with friends, putting all kind of clothes in bras my bigger cousins gave to me. At 7, I imagine nurturing my child, bringing the muzzle of my old cuddly toy (a flat hedgehog) against my very little nipple. At 9, I embody different stories, playing the seductress in my mother’s dresses, the lover, undressing my friends, the victim, understanding already the violence that can rise from desire. I was impatient and curious, passionate about life and my body.
The poisonous apples
Then I turned 10. My friends start to have « real » breasts. We spend time at their places, we watch TV and read teenage magazines. We go shopping, trying to find bras for a paradoxical use: setting them off while not showing their shape at the same time. My world is shaking. I see other breasts in medias, I hear friends commenting on and on the shape, the size and the sexyness of every curve, every nipple of stars and perfect models. But something is wrong, something is bothering me. The images I meet show round and pointy breast. Equal, with medium nipple, looking upwards, and almost always hidden by bras. Far from the free, docile and pear-shaped breasts of my mother. Far from mine.
Going through high-school, college and workplaces, I encountered hundreds of girls and women disconnected from their body. Denying their breasts by not considering them, concealing those beautiful attribute of their gender. Sometimes rejecting them because they wouldn’t look like two perfect apples. I had very disturbing discussion with friends, about how low, how ungraceful, how ugly nipples could be. They always found that perfection was somewhere else and kept commenting our bodies as if that was our duty to fix them by wearing the right clothes and making it up.
I became insecure, with a strong sense of modesty, and went on thinking that if I hadn’t been given a beautiful body, I could still be smart. Since I was good at school, and society loves to put labels on you, I contributed to reinforce the clichés. I didn’t dare to dance, to expose my body in public, blushing strongly if anyone had a word about my feminine attributes that I thought were nonexistent. The rare initiatives I took to free myself were failures. I had to suffer my friends comments (even if they didn’t meant to be mean! Most of them were struggling with their own complexes) or other people’s judgement, including that breast assault in the tramway. I thought that I was probably not strong enough, or that I better had to be like everyone else and hide my body.
In my mind, I was integrating the deconnexion society encourages us to do, between the body and the mind.
When what was dual became One
In the life I had chosen, everything appeared partitioned. There were the successful ones and the losers. Paris, and the rest of the world. The programmers versus the marketing staff. Those who wore bras, and the weirdos. Feeling that made absolutely no sense, and I was cut from many parts of me, I decided that I would question this dichotomy and I left for almost 3 years of exploration. This identity/spiritual quest was in fact a deep aspiration for reunion, for reconnexion with every facet of Life.
Yoga was definitely a big step in that quest of re-union. I won’t elaborate anymore on the amazing effects and incredible spiritual awakening that occurred in Thailand when I started my training in Yoga. The fact is Yoga itself means Union. To yoke. It is the main reason why I teach Yoga today. But it stays a tool and there are lots of other fields to approach to heal the entire being. As months passed by, I gave myself hundreds of hours of trainings and workshops to re-open the channels of perception, awareness and love. Slowly, I was bringing back together what had been separated, feeling more true, more free, more myself than ever.
Reconnexion from sisterboob
On the path, I didn’t walk alone. Despite my stubborn driver of being strong, to get things done by myself, I put myself in situations where I had to rely on others and be vulnerable in front of figures I admired, especially feminine.
I found women ready to overcome that competition spirit poisoning interactions between us. I found circles where we would support each other, celebrating the divine Feminine, the sacredness of our existence, our bodies, our creative power. Instead of interacting as if our only goal in life was to seduce and obtain a male consideration, we were free and could express how grateful, impressed, attracted we were to each other, just because of our own Beauty. Regardless our status, our sexual orientation, our size, shape, weight, we could compliment sincerely each other with no stake.
My first important reconnexion came from women. Beautiful, fierce, and deeply loving women, who allowed me to see in the mirror they represented the humble perfection of every body. We danced, we sang, we swam, we nurtured our bodies. Laughing, we have been sharing the special features of our breasts, always taking care of recognizing the sacredness of every square centimeter of skin. I started to feel that pure and childlike interest for my own body back. How good!
Love resonates with Love
When men are not hunters anymore, we can stop playing the pray. When there is no more rival, there is no need to fight anymore. We are not finding validation in the look of our lover, we are validating ourselves anyway. We are not to be fixed by any clothes or anyone. Harmony can rise, true Love can blossom.
Transformation takes time, and ups and downs challenged me a lot. But I had been so deeply touched by these adventures that I kept a raw and wild passion for every naked body. For every kind of breast. My closest friends were animated by the same aspiration and understood very well the importance of changing our view, our words on this perfect manifestation of the Divine. We discussed about tantric massages, creating sometimes skeptical reactions out of lack of understanding around us. In my chest, I was vibrating with the intuition that this was going in the right direction. The more I would open up and talk about my concerns, the more I found myself authentic. Accepting fully every single aspect of my femininity. Proud of its tastes, its textures, colors and shapes.
With Love comes Love. An ultimate consecration had been the unconditional admiration and tenderness that I received from the Man. Suddenly, by offering his most beautiful reflection on my body, He inspired this article. If we still have some doubts, remember that there are plenty of beautiful mirrors around you. See how perfect, rich, fantastic they are. Let them reflect you, allow them to see you, to tell you The Beauty of the Breasts.