embracing willendorf, chapter eight:
The Emergence of the Bone Woman—I can see my bones: How weird is that?
by byron ballard

As you might imagine, adjusting to a new body is a challenge and a delight. There’s the obvious change as your clothes get looser and looser, and your friends start complaining about that big ugly shirt—thanks, Lu. I’ve never been a clothes horse, though I was a theatrical costume designer for most of my adult life. I can tell you who wore a farthingale and why, and know how to drape a toga, but my personal idea of high fashion is comfortable black clothes, lots of silver jewelry, and flat shoes. I even bought a copy of Vogue a few weeks ago but have yet to have the courage to open it. Sad, isn’t it?

There came a day—and this will happen to you sooner than you know—when I gave away (or threw away, in the case of tattered size 11 cotton underwear) all my clothes. Okay, well, most of my clothes. I kept some big ugly shirts just to spite my friends, and a pair of size 26 jeans. But most of my wardrobe went into black garbage bags which were dumped with ceremony at my favorite Goodwill store. I was left with lots of exercise clothes, a couple pairs of black pants for work and a few work shirts.
For months, I wore the same outfits over and over until I was sick of seeing them. And since I am continuing to lose weight and get fit, it seemed silly to buy clothes that I wouldn’t be able to wear in two months. In fact, at Thanksgiving, my mother-in-law took me upstairs to show me some shirts she’d brought down from New York. I wasn’t sure if she’d gotten them for me or herself but as she laid them out on the bed, I knew I wouldn’t be taking them home. Though they were much smaller than anything she’d given me before, these shirts were still too big. Not right for me because of the styles and fabrics but, more to the point, they were just too big for me. There was a time when too big was better than too small, when I’d be happy to have something that didn’t bind across the hips or that could be unbuttoned and worn over a turtleneck. But those days are past and I hugged her for thinking of me but declined the offer, I hope with some grace.

In the before time, when I lost weight for whatever reason, I noticed it first in my face, where I’d acquire some cheekbones. That happened early on in this process, so early I didn’t notice it. The next thing that happened was seeing funny dents at the top of my chest. At first I saw them in a certain light in the bathroom in the morning. These dents were the harbingers of my collarbones, a facet of the human body best viewed on those skinny little women who are soap opera stars. Their inappropriate (who wears a skin-tight black cocktail frock to a business meeting?) clothes always show a maximum of collarbone and leg.

There in my own bathroom mirror on my own shrinking frame were the same collarbone dents. I watched them with much speculation, as though they might reveal carved initials or traces of alien forebears. I’m feeling them right now—did you know they go out almost to the tops of your arms? No, I didn’t either but when I run my hands outward from the middle of my neck, they keep going.
I was standing behind the counter at the bookstore where I work when a fearsome itch started just south of my waistband in the back. Some errant polyester clothing tag was annoying my tender Irish skin. No customers being present, I slipped my hand down my back to flatten the tag.

That’s when I felt a strange lump at the base of my spine. An icy chill shot through me. Lumps, as we all know, are not good. And I was at work where I couldn’t ask my boss to check it out for me. And there was no way I could see it in the little mirror in the bathroom.

I gingerly felt the lump again. It wasn’t sore. That’s good. I felt the area around it and, due north of the first bump, I felt another. And another.
I was feeling my spine for the first time in my life. And it was pretty weird. Since then, I’ve discovered all sorts of bony bits in the former roundness of my anatomy. The sharpness of my hip bones never ceases to amaze me. After years of being padded, they are detectable with ease, just by putting my hands on my hips.
One day I was sitting in the office at work with my legs crossed and my arms wrapped around my torso. One of my colleagues saw me and commented on my body language. I looked down at myself and explained that I was crossing my legs because it was only in the last few months that I could do that with comfort. And I had my arms wrapped around because I was exploring my rib cage. My body was not revealing my inner hostility, it was adjusting to new realities.

I first discovered the archetype of the Bone Woman in the seminal work “Women Who Run With The Wolves” by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. The Bone Woman gathers scattered bones from the desert and stores them deep in her cave. When she has found all the bones, she assembles them and selects an appropriate song with which to sing muscle and flesh onto the skeletal frame. Then she begins to sing and continues her song until the wild creature is reborn and runs free into the world. This reminds me of the Creator in the Genesis story, breathing life into the red dust of the earth and bestowing freedom on living creatures.

It is up to each of us to be our own Bone Woman. As we assemble the bones—the hipbones, the cranial bones, collarbones—we must choose the appropriate song to reassemble the whole creature, wild and free.

As my feet lose the burden of hauling around all those extra pounds, I am noticing my ankles and long toes. I have thick peasant ankles and always have. But I find myself loving the sturdy elegance of these bones, as they emerge above the sides of my feet. I wiggle my long toes and appreciate the curve of my instep and my arch. I embrace this Bone Woman aspect of Willendorf as I choose the song that will breathe life and wildness into my bones again.

Being a creature of my time, I have decided to celebrate these incredible ankle bones with a tribal marking—a snake and some shamrocks for my Irish forebears. I talked it over with my friend Rebecca on the phone one cool Sunday morning. We spoke about our lives and hopes and loves, as women tend to do when having coffee on an autumn morning in leaf-peeping season. I told her about my plans for the ankle snake and as I talked, I stroked this thick powerful ankle of mine, my fingers tracing the shape of the snake, my fingers tapping the places where shamrocks might be. When she asked which ankle, I laughed and said, “I guess the left one. That’s the one I’m drawing on with my fingers while we’re talking.”

You see, I’m still working the Willendorf process each day. I kept glancing at my ankles, wondering if they’d ever “shape up”, wondering if there’s anything I could do to make them slim and better defined, what I described to Rebecca that morning as “Cinderella ankles”. And it’s not moving fast enough—though I walk and bike and massage, these thick ankles don’t change much. Nor will they.

So I’ve decided to love and honor their glory, their power. To be enchanted by the way they work, their simple design and elegant function. Not Cinderella ankles, because these ankles would not have put up with all that crap from three people they didn’t know and didn’t like. These strong peasant ankles scream—get your own damn breakfast! Wash your own stinking laundry!

I’ve got hills to climb and rivers to swim and snakes to charm. And with my fair skin, maybe I should talk to my snake-loving biologist friend Tim and ask him to help me pick the perfect snake for these wonderful ankles. Something sinuous and colorful and symbolic of the change I’ve undergone through the Willendorf process. He’ll probably suggest a bright viper. I’ll let you know how that works out.

It’s autumn in the hills and I’m cold in a way that doesn’t happen to me until January. I’m sleeping alone on a couch/futon in a warm room and I find sometimes that I can’t get warm at night.

My winter coat is impossible, of course. I bought it years ago and it was big on me even then. I haven’t had the guts to try it yet this year but I know it’ll be far too big and far too heavy. I had decided to do without a coat this year, to dress in layers and throw my wool cloak over the top. But these last few evenings are making me rethink that decision. I may have to check out the coats at the mall soon and see if something sings to me.

Fat people are warmer, which is a curse in the halcyon days of August but a blessing in the raw winds of February in the Appalachian mountains. We may sweat and curse in the summer but we make warm bed companions when the frost is on the pumpkin, as we say around here.

But now the fire in my inner furnace is dimmed. My circulation seems fine, it’s the insulation that’s at fault. I have an enormous pink flannel night gown that I didn’t often wear, even in winter. Now that I need its extra warmth, it is far too large, like getting into a thin sleeping bag and wrapping it around my frame.

What’s to be done but buy something warmer? How can I dream of far-away lands and flying by night if I can’t get to sleep in the cold? It’s a good time to think about my ancestors in houses without central heat in a world without polar fleece. Or my long-ago Ancestors living in round houses in the British Isles. They at least brought all the animals in with them, creating some creature comfort. Maybe I should get a great hairy hound to sleep on my futon and share her warmth. What would Willendorf do? An animal pelt? A thick woven robe, decorated with shells and gold? Her beautiful abundance is difficult to imagine enrobed, isn’t it? And given her roundness, she may have been the ideal companion for her loving mate, warm as toast beneath the pelts.
We’ll explore the notion of singing for a moment. You may be one of those blessed folks who opens your mouth and creates a beautiful sound with beautiful words to match. That, alas, cannot be said for me. So if you are, as I am, lyrically challenged, you may want to take your journal and scribble down a few verses. You may borrow verses from a poet or create your own. When you have found the right words, words that make your soul as well as your mouth sing, spend time with them, repeating them as little chants and marches as you walk or bike. Write them on a slip on paper and put them on your peaceful altar-space. Then use them in your meditations, spinning a tune with them if you so desire. Use them to remember that the bones are all connected, that they are covered with muscle and flesh and skin, that they house the workings of your organs. Rejoice in this framework for your sturdy earth-self. Pound your heels into the dirt, wrap your arms around your frame and feel the contours of rib and hip and pelvis. Place your cupped hands on your knees. Trace the circle of your ankles. The Bone Woman sings within each of us as we honor the song.