When did we disown our tears?

“The energy that moves life is the force of the Feminine.

She is unstoppable . . .” David Deida

There is something very feminine about tears. We rarely admit it, but there is something very feminine about tantrums. It is equally feminine to stand chin out, defiant, protecting ourself or someone we love. It is feminine to want to sparkle and feminine to fold into ourselves and shy away from the world for a time.

The feminine wants to connect and she pines and yearns for that connection. When the connection is lacking she naturally goes within. She withdraws, ponders, searches. Or she lashes out; resentment, anger, fury, rage, payback. We disown all these reactions, constructive and destructive alike. We play nice, we eat, shop, drink, run… we do whatever we have to. (Another blog for another day the need to ‘do’ when ‘being’ would suffice.)

How much of ourselves do we lose, do you think, every time we resist our nature? How much energy do we waste trying to make the ebb and flow of our selves fit into a PC box?

At what point did we disown our tears? What is it that we have prioritised higher than honouring ourselves? What do we fear our tears, our vulnerability, our wildness will threaten? This is such a revealing question for me. I don’t risk losing love by surrendering to my nature – my friends borderline expect it from me and my husband rises to meet it, as opposed to shying away from it. Rationally I know this. Breathing it in and letting it permeate my cells… such a transformation is, well, fucking scary.

I think for me, my tears and wildness risk losing me the labels ‘nice’ and ‘together’. That my inner chicken shit prefers me to play at half throttle and remain in the box that says ‘strong women don’t cry’, ‘you are responsible for how others feel about you’ and ‘emotions are to be controlled or leveraged in the form of EI‘. I think I am afraid of constantly justifying my desires and explaining my moods. Terrified that my intuition is fearless. Anxious because I am sure my feminine nature is a hard task master that will lead me down unconventional paths. She has in the past.

At some point the fear of vilification mutes the bright colours that streak our world. I want to be living in full colour. Hell fire-engine red is my colour! My inner feminine is ready to be juicy, open, sassy, fearless, exuberant, vivacious, unapologetic, radiant, magnetic, wild and free.

I am claiming my tears, my funk, my tantrums, my seething rage, my desire, my lust, my vulnerability. Lets see what happens when I abandon myself to the flux of the feminine force – I’ll keep you posted

What is dying to be born?

At first look this question is lightweight. It isn’t the transformative powerhouse that, has effectively had me floundering, meditating, pondering and writing for over a week. Danielle LaPorte is sheer dynamite. At a time where I am floundering to figure out who I am, again, she was the perfect find online; a default, distant, online mentor of sorts. Bless her. (Her answer to this question was so much clearer than mine, for now)

A few weeks ago she addressed the following question on her blog: What is dying to be born? Wow! Fuck! Ummm…. There are so many questions and assumptions inherent in those 6 words.

It suggests that there is something dormant that simply must become manifest. It suggests urgency – that unless it is born this potential will wither and die. It assumes every act of creation is also an act of destruction. It assumes chaos and balance. It suggests we are all vessels carrying something, all midwives to something unique.

In my experience birthing is natural and blissful with support and a just right environment. What needs to die to create that environment are my fears, my feelings of inadequacy, my playing small. What in me is dying to be  born? ‘My potential’, ‘my inner goddess’ and my ‘higher self’ are all true but too cliché to be meaningful. What is dying to be born of me is my true voice; in my actions, lifestyle, my writing. A voice I wont apologise for.

In the broader sense, what is dying to be born? Reverence for femininity to rival our worship of masculinity. Understanding of the power of sexuality. Respect for the art and science of conception, birthing and nurturing our children, our selves and our dreams. These are dying to born of us collectively and I hope to play midwife in my own small way.

What is dying to be born?

The darkest hour

5If you tell me you haven’t had your fair few dark hours, then you are one of two things; 1) a liar, 2) someone who has never lived. This post is for the rest of us.

We know that the darkest hour is just before the dawn. Crazy but true. If you are anything like me, you underestimate how dark it can get. You are craving the light like a fashion junky craves new Jimmy Choo’s because you are certain that it can’t possibly get any darker than this moment. You are wrong. Invariably we are wrong. We underestimate how much darkness we can withstand. We cannot quantify how much darkness we can swallow whole. You know it really is the darkest hour when you stop expecting the light.

It really does not get any darker than pitch black. So black that you are sure a blackness this profound must go on, and on, and on. That is the darkest hour. That is also the switch that calls in the light. When we are immersed in darkness and instead of denying it, hating on it, rejecting it or feeling guilty for it we do something radical; We accept the darkness. Something magical happens in that moment.

The darkness doesn’t devour you are you feared it would. You devour the darkness.

Women, especially, were designed for this role. We are the life-death-life mother embodied. We take light and make it dark, only to make it light again. We are great transmuters. We inherited that gift from our mother, THE great transmuter – Mother Earth. She takes crap, I mean real crap, and uses it to nourish herself. Nature takes dung, rotten leaves and plants, carcasses and breaks them down into fertiliser. She uses fire to cleanse her skin and baby shoots and saplings sprout in the ashes.

Don’t underestimate your capacity for darkness and certainly don’t disown it. Shunned darkness turns into wickedness. Shunned darkness becomes dangerous. Darkness owned is transforming. It wasn’t until I realised that “I could never hurt my baby” was a lie, that my full capacity for mothering was born. It wasn’t until I hurt my husband in the worst possible way, that our relationship could be born. It isn’t until we swallow whole the suffering of the world that our compassion is born. (There are many examples of meditations to assist with this. This is an example that I *LOVE*)

Something I know for sure: Your lightest hour will only be as intense as your darkest. Embrace the dark.

*image credit

Lets talk about … My fine line

There is a fine line, at least in my pretty little head, between submitting to someone else’s will and choosing to find happiness in someone else’s happiness.

You might need to read that one again. It is a really, really, fine line.

This is a really complicated issue. At least for me. The concept of submitting to the will of another is abhorrent to me. It makes my blood run cold and every single cell in my body rebels against it. As a woman especially, I harks back to millennia of women without an avenue to exercise their own will. Similarly though the concept of finding happiness in someone else’s happiness reeks of the feminine mystique, of 1850′s housewives socially trapped into living only for their husband’s and children.

The key here, I guess, is choice. Choice is what we have been fighting for, isn’t it? Somehow some choices still seem to betray myself, my gender. The difference between an enlightened, empowered choice and a choice that flies in the face of my freedoms and rights? Awareness.

Conscious choice makes all the difference. Conscious choice is the only thing that makes the life of a modern wife and stay at home mother different to that of her 1950′s counterpart. I am choosing fulfillment in my role as domestic goddess. They had no other option.

I chose to marry because it was important to my husband. Not out of fear. I chose to remain at home raising my son, because it is honestly the hardest, toughest, most fulfilling thing I have ever undertaken. And I don’t back away from a challenge. What makes my choices, in my mind, revolutionary and rebellious and empowered is that I am aware of every choice I make. I put my life under the microscope and analyse who I am in the face of my freedoms and choices.

I walk a fine line. My priorities and daily tasks are essentially for my family. My self inquiry, my honesty with (and about) what goes on for me in my heart and head in response to this, that is my saving grace. Conscious choice is the difference between oppressed and living breathing empowerment.

I bet I am not the only woman steadily walking this line. What lines do you walk?

(excuse the late post, I am trying a new parenting style today and it is labor intensive.)

Lets talk about…sexiness

A few weeks back, on my hens’ night I witnessed a phenomenon I am only just beginning to grasp. Walking ahead of me (up the enormous hill that is William Street, Sydney) were 3 mid-20something happily coupled women. They were laughing, confident, natural and oozing sex appeal. While they passed scantily clad teenagers, it hit me. I think for a moment I saw what men see.

I remember watching an interview with Naomi Watts where she mentioned that she felt unattractive as a young woman. In her late 20′s her cheekbones ‘arrived’ and she came into her beauty. I think Naomi’s experience about coming into her attractiveness in her late 20′s is more typical than we like to admit. Until we, as women, accept our bodies and own our sexuality we are merely teenagers playing dress up. And it wasn’t until  saw the two extremes juxtaposed on William St that night that this truth really became evident to me.

This is a post I would not have been able to write a few years ago for fear of earning the immature label ‘Lezo’. But the things that make a woman sexy have absolutely nothing to do with the shape or size of her body. Her hair colour or style makes no difference. Her clothes have far less importance than we like to think as well. These things merely catch the eye. What makes a man stare, smile, fantasise about a woman is… ineffable.

What makes a woman sexy cannot be bought. No cream, wonder bra, shaping underwear, surgery, stiletto, hair style or dress has the capacity to make a woman sexy. Sexy is certainly paid for. Sexy is the result of living with gusto. Of putting yourself out  there. Of trying new things. Of a life well lived and a self actualised. Experience is sexy. Experience comes at a price – tears, pain, failure, change, growth.

What makes a woman sexy is behind her eyes. It is the promise of a woman who can stand toe to toe with a man and make him moan without lifting a finger. You must know pain to understand that kind of pleasure. You must know longing to conjure that depth of desire. You must be capable of ugliness to be that beautiful. You must have lost yourself somewhere along the way to own your self that completely.

That night, a few weeks back we were goddesses in motion. Men were magnetised to our sides. Flocked to our table. Fought for a glance. We were playful and open and owned our selves. We bought and paid for our own drinks. Oh and handed out little red heart lollipops. (The tackiness of this gesture offset by the dept of character of the women dolling out the sweets, perfectly aware of the irony.)

I found it life affirming to see that men evidentially agreed with my mantra for the year (maybe longer):

Healthy is Beautiful ~ Happiness is Sexy ~ Soulful is Irresistable

*photo credit

I used to love like a man

About 10 years ago I was falling asleep to Bryan Adams ‘All for love’ and ‘Everything I do I do it for you’. On the other side of my double bed (fully clothed) was my mate and at the foot of my bed on a futon was my now husband and our other best mate. We had had a night of dressing up, drinking and dancing for my mother in law’s 50th. I think.

The songs playing was so very poignant to me at the time. You remember what it is like being a teenager who has just discovered her family of choice. It’s special. It’s adult. Thank heavens I chose well. All of those men are still in my life. All are as good, genuine and strong as they were then. I was as strong as they were then. Not physically, of course (two of them are over 6 feet) but I was as uncompromising, as full-on, and stuck to my guns just as well as they did. If not better. I was seen, excluding the tits, as one of the guys.

Things change. We change. I changed. Where I fit in changed. I am no longer one of the guys. I haven’t been for 5 years. Not since I became a girlfriend.

In retrospect more changed when I became a girlfriend than just the status of my relationship with some close male friends. It was the beginning of the taming of the shrew. I began keeping house, learned to bake, channeled my inner Stepford wife, began to compromise. The way I made decisions changed. The way I loved changed.

As one of the guys my love was direct, action orientated and on my terms. It was almost as though it could be turned on and off. But when it was on intense was the only way to describe it. As Bryan Adams puts it “I’d fight for you, I’d lie for you, walk the wire for you, yeah I’d die for you.”

These days I love like a woman. Feminine love is different. Yes we may take actions out of love and offer umpteen gifts of service, but it is in the spirit of constant love, acceptance and support. It is a borderline compulsion. Where the hell is the off switch? I am yet to find one. Feminine love packs lunches and changes nappies. A woman’s love can be wild and fierce, but in my experience feminine love sounds less like a power ballad and more like a lullaby. Sung quietly in the dead of the night.

Lets talk about… body modification

This is such a wide and diverse topic. Controversial. Like boiling a frog we are comfortable with the gentle cooler manifestations of the practice, but are we in danger of boiling alive as the accepted mutilations become more extreme?

Body modification is defined as the deliberate altering of the human body for non-medical reasons, such as sexual enhancement, a rite of passage, aesthetic reasons or self-expression.

Most of us think of female genital mutilation or facial piercing when we think of body modification. But these are only the more extreme manifestations of a sliding scale. Cutting our hair and piercing our ears don’t really register as body modification, but indeed they are. The list of body modifications the ‘regular’ western woman may willfully undergo, many on a regular basis, is huge:

1. Hair cut
2. Hair perm
3. Hair straightening
4. Hair colouring
5. Eyebrow shape
6. Underarm hair removal
7. Leg hair removal
8. Pubic hair removal
9. Arm/face hair removal
10. Manicure
11. Pedicure
12. Tanning/ Melanin pills
13. Ear piercing
14. Belly piercing
15. Tattooing
16. Breast implants/Breast lift
17. Tummy tuck
18. Liposuction
19. Botox
20. Tattooed makeup

I know I am ‘guilty’ of a number of the above. I don’t know a woman who isn’t. Even my grandma vainly perms her hair and during the second world war stained her legs to mimic the appearance of her absent stockings. We do these things of our own volition - willingly following the conventions of our culture. Endlessly making ourselves more attractive to our desired mates. Continually pandering to, for the most part, the male gaze.

We do it to feel beautiful, often without thought as to why these arbitrary characteristics are deemed beautiful. Why is it that perky breasts, shaven armpits and pubic mounds are beautiful when they effectively rob a woman of her womanhood and visually return her to the realm of a child. Are women more attractive when they appear less fertile, less powerful?

We do it because it is what women do, unaware of the point when we made the decision that these standards are sufficiently important they are worth painfully or permanently altering our bodies to achieve them. How is this forgotten decision any different from mothers in Cameroon who Iron their pubescent daughters’ breasts with hot stones? Or the 2 million mothers world-wide who help hold down their daughters as their clitoris is removed, by way of an initiation into womanhood and to curb their sexual desires (often with no anesthetic).

Yes these are extreme, but the recent internal bra (soon to become a part of a breast lift) is equally as painful and unnecessary. It is only more palatable to our delicate sensibilities because it is performed by doctors in hospitals on consenting adults.

My question is this: If clitorises were removed, in the pristine theater of a renown plastic surgeon, would we find it any less offensive?

Lets talk about…Hair

Hair is such a trivial issue in some people eyes. Yet ask any woman the easiest way to make her feel sexy and I guarantee a fabulous new haircut is high on her list. In fact I know a couple who consistently have ‘haircut sex’ when she comes home with a new do. I have spoken to women undergoing treatment for cancer, they cope with the fact that they lose their hair as it is preferable to losing their lives. But they find it much more difficult to get in touch with their inner sex goddess.

Indeed hair is so integral to the visual concept of femininity that the icon for woman is distinguished from a man by one of two things – a dress, or long hair. Unconsciously we make assumption about women, especially, by their hair. On a side note we do the same about men, salt and pepper is distinguished, bald is less virile, long and curly like my partner is seen as less conventional. And there is a reason why so many male fantasies about women involve healthy, shiny flowing hair. It is iconically feminine. (Not to say women with shaved heads or pixie cuts are somehow less of a sexy woman.)

What isn’t factored into our identities is that our hair is linked to our hormones. As our hormones change so does our hair. You remember how greasy your hair got during puberty don’t you? And the exciting or terrifying advent of pubic hair that puberty bought with it. The same is true as you get older. Your skin, hair and nails look amazing when pregnant due, in part, to the different hormones your body is producing. And also because you don’t lose much hair when pregnant, so your mane becomes thicker and glossier.

Then during menopause everything goes to hell in a handbag. Not only are you more likely to cut your hair, if not from the social pressure not to appear mutton dressed up as lamb, out of necessity as hot flushes and night sweats make your locks a giant sweat trap. Worse than this your hair may thin or grey or both – seen as the ultimate sin for women. The hair from your head may reappear in blemishes or moles or on your chin, as the archetype of crone becomes manifest in your body. A process that should be revered for its significance, is instead demonised as we unfairly expect crones to appear maidens. Because we are uncomfortable with female wisdom perhaps??

I discovered today that even your eyebrow hairs grow at strange and wonderful angles as you age. I would like to be able to look forward to my gracefully aging body as opposed to lamenting the direction my eyebrow hair grows. How about you?

Lets talk about masturbation

The formative teenage years for an average girl involves slumber parties. Lots of slumber parties. Slumber parties consist of junk food, secret-girls-business and truth and dare.

I never performed a dare in truth and dare. Ever. There was no need and no point. My face is incapable of hiding strong emotion, and I always considered myself an open book. I chose ‘truth’ every time, and I told to truth too. I answered every question faithfully bar one, which was invariably delivered with an embarrassed blush and giggle; “Have you ever masturbated?”

‘No. Unequivocally, absolutely not!’ Would be my response, except in teenage language, which would probably sound more like ‘Yeah sure! Like I would do that – it’s gross!’ Because it was acceptable to steal alcohol from your parents, spread rumours at school, have sex, smoke pot or have a crush on your friends brother, but definitely not ok to touch yourself.

We had all suffered through ‘the talk’ with our mothers and sex education at school. ‘Sex education’ would probably best be re-named harm-minimisation for sexual trauma and dysfunction for all of the warnings and fear-mongering that goes on. We learned exclusively of the risks and negative outcomes/aspects of sex; teenage pregnancy, STIs, rape, regret. Dolly doctor clearly explained things like discomfort during first time sex and feelings of inadequacy during intercourse. So all in all sex in our minds was devoid of pleasure though we were convinced that it would get better.

Pleasure or no, sex was still high on the ‘to-do’ list. It was a mark or maturity, status, fearlessness. We wanted to ‘get it over with’ since we all agreed it was ‘backwards’ to wait until we were married to lose our virginities.

In the end our initial sexual experiences were everything Dolly doctor and out sex-ed teachers had attempted to prevent. A number of studies have shown why; We were never taught about pleasure, sexual curiosity, foreplay, erotica. No body encouraged us to masturbate it was seen as dirty and slutty, where as male masturbation was seen as normal. The tiny proportion of girls who were initiated into the positive aspects of their sexuality are more likely to have safe sex and enjoy the experience, as opposed to the other 75% who felt pressured or rushed into physical intimacy.

As we matured into adult women with healthy sex lives masturbation is more acceptable, as is erotica. Yet is it still more widely acceptable for men to masturbate than women. And certainly it is still taboo for young women to touch themselves.

With further studies showing that for the most part teenagers use contraception as faithfully as adults and have sex most often in loving relationships, why are we still teaching our young women about the dangers to the exclusion of the pleasures. Wouldn’t we as women (mothers, mentors, aunties, big sisters, friends) do well to teach our teenage sisters the power of their bodies, its capacity for pleasure and that their desire is healthy? It certainly would have changed my life.

The price of motherhood

I didn’t realise how many erroneous beliefs I had absorbed about motherhood until I had my son. Then suddenly all I felt was guilty for all the things I assumed I was doing ‘wrong’. I felt horribly sub par as a mother every time the baby cried. Every time I winced audibly when he attached to my breast, I felt a failure, despite the fact that my nipples were irritated by a cotton bra only days earlier. Somehow, despite knowing better, I was  convinced being hurt my feeding my child was wrong.

Shorty after a baby is delivered (which is a misnomer too, by the way) the hoards of guests arrived. The good ones made the visit short and sweet, offering assistance, but I felt obliged to politely decline any help feeling I ‘should’ be able to breastfeed around the clock and and keep the house in order. Then came the questions of whether he was a ‘good sleeper’ and the implication that if he was I was, by extension, a good mother. Unfortunately, for the first 8 weeks before I began co-sleeping, my baby was a terrible sleeper.

As he settled and I felt like I had moved on from drowning in nappies, breast-pads and sleep that came in 40 minute stretches, the ‘wrongs’ increased. I was wrong to co-sleep, wrong to feed on demand, wrong to rock my baby to sleep, wrong to respond to his cries immediately, wrong to fall asleep mid breastfeed despite not physically being able to keep my eyes open and wrong to drink coffee. And all this in the first 3 months.

I felt I should instantly know what the baby needed, immediately respond putting his needs first without a second thought. Bliss, happy cuddles, contentment and ease where the fantasy I had come to expect when the reality was was filled more with resentment, frustration, guilt and exhaustion. And that was a good day. There were times when I put the baby on the floor for his requisite ‘tummy time’ and rushed quickly from the room to slam doors, punch pillows and cry burning tears of furious frustration. Others where I thrust the baby into his father’s arms and balled myself up sobbing from failure. The days were many where I barely hugged my partner because the idea of touching another person for another minute drove me beyond breaking point. Who knew one could be ‘touched out’?

I relish motherhood. Genuinely so. But I also ball my hands into fists and screech at my toddler when, after a sleepless night he will do nothing but grizzle ‘mummy’. (When you child says ‘mama’ for the first time you never expect to cringe at the word a year later). Just 5 minutes to myself will make all the difference, I tell myself while he clings to my leg as a try to make a cup of tea. And the times you awake without a child beside you and, for the most fleeting moment, forget that you are a parent – only to remember a moment later; it hurts to feel a twinge of sadness with the happiness.

I love my son more than words can say. I love watching him grow and learn. I feel privileged when he brings his bumped knee to me to kiss better and every time he cries it is a dagger through my heart. But without the darker side of motherhood these moments wouldn’t be as meaningful. The potential our children have to stretch us to breaking point is born out of our pure love for them. Our total dedication. Dedication that comes at a price. Unless we openly discuss the price of motherhood in the same breath as the rewards of motherhood, I feel, we devalue ourselves as women and as mothers.

Youthful mis-perceptions

A dear friend posted a blog asking us what out 16-year-old self would think about our lives now. My 16-year-old self wouldn’t think anything about my life now. She would be seeing red, steam pouring form here ears busily hating on and writing off my life. No, I am not kidding.

My 16 year old self was a feminist & punk. I happily sported a leather dog collar, totally clueless as to its BDSM symbolism of submission (something in my naivety I would have considered anti-feminist). I was a card-carrying member of a radical political organisation, who believed that ‘awareness’, achieved via protests and the liberal use of soap boxes, was the answer to all life’s ills. I despised the suburban life and the ‘white picket fence’. I flatly refused to cook believing that is was a shackle that kept modern women attached to the feminine mystique and preferred to be addressed as ‘Conrad’ because it was genderless, and as such freed me from gender stereotyping.

I was convinced that I would never marry. Not only because I thought of the institution of marriage as unnecessary (we at least some things never change), but because I aspired to running my relationships the way ‘men did’ – all satisfaction and no commitment. After all the feminist way is to live my life the way a man would, only better. Right? I intended on adopting one child later in my career orientated life. Adoption, because there are plenty of orphans that require love and care, and also because I believed the pain of labour and the inconvenience of pregnancy to be an unfair burden on women.

In short my 16-year-old self was wrong in so many ways. She simply didn’t have the references or framework to apply her feminist views to the real world. She thought feminist was to be devoid of femininity and to shun inherently feminine experiences.

She would disown me now. She, like many a young woman, wanted true equality in life but had no role-models to show her how. She would judge my choice to marry, to have a baby, to exit the work force to raise my son, to live in the suburbs, to cook daily and whole heartedly support my family. She would say my choices are not my own, that I have allowed society to dictate my role and thus devalue my true worth. And she would be wrong. But she earned me my freedom. Her investigations into the power dynamics of society bestowed me the room to make my choices consciously – the real gift of feminism.

Lets talk about…Breasts (boobs, knockers, tits, jugs, fun-bags, globes)

I have never much been ashamed of breasts. I come from a long line of well endowed women, so I have been comfortable with the idea of cleavage for as long as I can remember. Breast were normal.

In my final year of primary school I had the largest breasts in class. By far. I found them awkward, over sized and embarrassing. I didn’t know quite what to do with them, and felt uncomfortable in my bras. Breasts were mortifying.

In my teenage years I was known for my outrageously plunging necklines and I quite liked provoking reactions from boys my age, and relished the opportunity to lecture them on their sexist behavior should they look for too long or make a comment. Then, breasts were powerful.

When I settled into my relationship and began rediscovering sex as tender and romantic, my breasts had yet another role. They became lovely, sensitive, adored and an important part of our sex life. My breasts became feminine.

A few years later I fell pregnant. Other than the constant vomiting, one of my first signs of pregnancy was breasts so tender even my bra hurt. Throughout the pregnancy they grew and changed in shape, colour and even function. Before too long my breasts had become mammary glands.

When the beautiful baby boy finally arrived he almost instantly began rooting for a nipple. He came close to finding his father’s before he was placed in my arms. I was flabbergasted at the force with which he began to suckle and bemused by the process of organising the breast and baby correctly (yes there is such a thing, and it is tricky to achieve in the beginning). My breasts became a learning experience.

Five weeks later on my second trip to the early childcare nurse with my happy and settled newborn I was faced with a different prospect. “It isn’t a personal failing dear” she said, “it is just that god didn’t give you enough milk.” With instructions to buy formula as soon as possible, my breasts became a failure.

It turns out the nurse was wrong. My breasts became their ultimate purpose, nurturers.

18 months later my toddler still feeds a few times a day. Now he feeds for his immune system, to top up his nutrients, for comfort, for bonding and to soothe the busy toddler to sleep. Like the proverbial Swiss Army knife, the one tool has millions of uses. My breasts became utilitarian.

I would like to point out that as varied as my experience of my breasts has been my breasts have never been any of the following: lewd, inappropriate, dirty, obscene, pornographic, offensive, a problem or anybody else’s business.

I think it is time we reclaimed our breasts. Inherent to our femininity, as they are, they should be revered and respected. A woman accentuating the feminine curves of her body or feeding her child is as natural and normal as can be. If you disagree then the problem resides with YOU not breasts or the woman they belong to.