Lost and found and lost and...

This is me, fourish years ago, during my first year of seminary:

I'm at the Albatross--our walkable bar--with my friend and classmate Sara. I weighed 233 pounds the week this photograph was taken. Look at that face. If you can tear yourself away from the fact that my tank top will not contain that torso (those boobs). Did I say that out loud? Technically I typed it.

This is me, a yearish ago, about to start my fourth year of seminary:

We're at the wedding of our dear friends Gretchen and Jill. I weighed 171 pounds the week this photograph was taken. We're looking at adorable baby Gabe, but you're looking at my surprisingly small waist and great shoulders, am I right? 

This is me, a few months ago, just before graduating from seminary:

We're celebrating/lamenting everything that comes with graduating and moving and getting jobs (or not). I've weighed between 176 and 184 pounds in the weeks since this photograph was taken. A couple of weeks ago it was 177, this week it was 181. Most weeks I don't weigh in. The weight is going to go and come and go and come. That's life.

Why am I posting about this now? I hit the 50lb loss mark almost 18 months ago, and I've been hovering in the vicinity of that pretty much since then. Some weeks, I go to the gym every other day and I kick ass and take names and love myself and everyone else. Other weeks, I drink a lot of wine and bake more than one batch of cookies and think more about the blob (that's what I call my fat, because I'm hilarious and terrible). My mom made her world-famous (people who moved to other nations have eaten it, so, technically!) macaroni and cheese a few nights ago, at my request, because it is so freaking delicious. In the leftovers that I've had each day since then (that's what's up) I've cut up some kale and thrown it in there, so I can feel better about consuming it. 

It was tonight, as I was pouring a glass of wine and looking at the cookie jar, that I thought UGH Kloehn you haven't been to the gym enough this week what are you doing? Do you really think throwing some kale in that mac and cheese makes it okay? 

But then I though about Kelsey and Jocelyn. Kelsey and Jocelyn are two (out of three) women I'd identify as my best friends on the planet. When it comes to health and happiness, these two are bursting with both. They run marathons, bike centuries, verb triathlons, mix margaritas, bake cookies, inhale avocados, and love me to death. Their moral support was unmatched during my "I JUST WANT TO EAT ALL THE OREOS" phase(s). They also helped me tremendously when I needed stretches for my newly sore muscles and opinions on the new dresses I could fit in. They're the best.

Before them, before this whole adventure, I would have believed that you could lose weight by eating one salad, and gain weight by eating one cupcake. I would never have considered throwing a handful of kale into my mac and cheese--although living in Berkeley may have as much to do with that as being friends with Kels and Joce. I would have believed that it wasn't possible to feel beautiful and fun and full and healthy and energetic and thin and awesome all in one moment! There are many moments where I don't feel great. I'm writing this post because right now is one of those days, and I need this reminder. I need to look at those photographs to see where I've been and know where I am and see where I can still go. 

I have love and support from Kelsey and Jocelyn and all the other loves of my life. I have parents who schedule dinners around Zumba classes; and a boyfriend who loves to eat cookies for breakfast before a hike; and a brother who's a dietitian; and friends who walk to the gym with me, then meet up for a pitcher of beer after dinner; and you, all of you, who love me all the while. Thank you, for who you've been. Thank you, for who you've made me. 

#YesAllWomen

I've been a little busy (you know, graduating from seminary) and so I haven't been here, addressing all the things that have caught my attention in the last few months. My newfound freedom (this week has already been sprinkled with "what now?" and "I think I'm bored" more than once) allows for some words on #YesAllWomen, and what that has to do with me.

I've been mulling over just how I want to talk about it, and a lot of that has to do with how everyone else has chosen to talk about it. If you've been on the internet in the last week, you've seen a lot more think pieces about misogyny than you're used to (unless you're me and you follow feminist writers who rarely put down the subject). You've seen the responses from men and women in support and in opposition. I don't really want to give you the scoop on who thought it was great and who thought it was stupid--you have the rest of the internet for that information. What I want to tell you is how I experienced it. Because this is my blog and that's what I do here.

On Saturday night (5/24) I crawled into bed after a wonderfully busy day of graduating and celebrating. I checked Facebook and Instagram to like some more of my classmates' pictures, and then perused twitter to see what had gone on that day, since I'd been largely absent. My feed was full of tweets and retweets tagged #YesAllWomen, sharing stories of harassment and trauma and the added terror of never being heard.

Women empowered each other to tell the world just what it is that we suffer day in and day out. We talked about everyday street harassment: catcalls, demands for smiles, lewd gestures, being followed, additional harassment for refusing advances. We talked about bars: unwanted chatter, drinks that demand something in return, being anonymously groped, additional harassment for refusing advances. We talked about dates: fear of the semi-stranger we'd agreed to meet, escape plans, "got home safe" text messages.

We talked about things like the number of men who hadn't called us for a third date after we'd said "no" to sex on the second. We talked about male friends who regularly use "rape" in sentences that are not about rape. We talked about male friends who think catcalls are compliments. We talked about talking to our friends and partners about our experiences, and about their less-than-thoughtful responses. We talked about how we hadn't necessarily thought about all of these things as misogyny before, but recognized the implications that our bodies were something to which those men felt entitled, and their ability to brush off our worst fears.

In addition, of course, to talking about all of our fears, we talked about why we have these fears in the first place. We talked about stranger rape, and date rape, and partner rape. We talked about intimate partner violence of all kinds. We talked about being attacked on the street and having onlookers literally look on. We talked about stalkers and about police departments who couldn't help until there was a crime committed.

The point is that we talked. We learned more about each other, we learned more about our common lives, we learned more about how to talk to children and adults about the realities of violence. I learned about how common my experiences (and the experiences of my friends) have been. It's hard to explain how gross it feels to feel lucky that I have never been raped. It's a little bit grosser to debate with myself about putting a "yet" in that sentence.

If you're male, think about the ways in which your behavior could be perceived as scary to women. If you can't think of any examples, ask a female friend or your female partner, if you have one. She may love you, but she can probably think of one. And when she next tells you about the harassment she received on her way to your house, worry about that. And when you're next with your male friends and one of them says or does something you think even borders on sexism or misogyny or harassment, say so. That's what it takes.

If you haven't spent time in the #YesAllWomen hashtag, mosey on over and read for yourself what's up. Think about the ways in which you interact with your fellow humans. I know, right? That's really all I'm asking.

This is my body, this is my blood.

I have been known to write about women in ministry. This poem, the epigraph of a piece I'm citing in a paper and hadn't noticed before, just brought me to my knees. I am blessed to be just weeks away from my church officially claiming me as one among its eligible for ordination. For my Roman Catholic and Orthodox sisters, I weep.

Did the woman say,
When she held him for the first time in the dark of a stable,
After the pain and the bleeding and the crying,
"This is my body, this is my blood"?

Did the woman say,
When she held him for the last time in the dark rain on a hilltop,
After the pain and the bleeding and the dying,
"This is my body, this is my blood"?

Well that she said it to him then,
For dry old men,
brocaded robes belying barrenness,
Ordain that she not say it for him now.

-- Frances Croake Frank