@dhamma_dana_net: #သေခြင်းကိုစဥ်းစားခြင်းဟာ_ပညာဖြစ်သလား #တရားတော်များ #dhamma_dana #သစ္စာရွှေစည်ဆရာတော်အရှင်ဥတ္တမ၏တရားတော်

Dhamma Dāna
Dhamma Dāna
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An excerpt from the beginning of a recent personal essay: In seventh grade, I looked down at my legs on a chair, the way all girls do, and saw my thighs spread out and realized I had a body. There is a term for coming to an understanding that you have a mind and can think, this idea of “gaining sentience,” but I cannot come up with the word for learning that you have a body. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it’s just puberty, which some adults refer to as “blossoming.” I was not a blossomer. Of this I was sure. I did not blossom. But I did look at my thighs splayed out below me, and I hated them. That is how girls realize. The moment they realize their bodies they begin to hate. ​​ My younger sister realized before me and always talked about outlining rolls of fat on her stomach with Sharpie and taking scissors to cut them right off, and so I imagined the same. I would hunch over to make and find a roll and then grab it and picture the scissors and the gushing of the blood and the strip of skin in my other hand. And then I couldn’t stop imagining, so I imagined cutting my fingers off too, and then my ears, and then my chest, even though I didn’t hate them. Maybe because I didn’t hate them. I did like my calves, which were always strong but which grew stronger and larger when I started Irish dancing halfway through middle school. I never imagined cutting my calves off. Instead, I flexed them in social studies, noticing as they grew in size and hardness over time, and tracing the muscle with my finger. They were what I liked about my legs. It was a relief to get over the exhausting exercise of hatred. No one is born to hate. #corecore #nichetok #oldfriendsbookends #mrose
An excerpt from the beginning of a recent personal essay: In seventh grade, I looked down at my legs on a chair, the way all girls do, and saw my thighs spread out and realized I had a body. There is a term for coming to an understanding that you have a mind and can think, this idea of “gaining sentience,” but I cannot come up with the word for learning that you have a body. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it’s just puberty, which some adults refer to as “blossoming.” I was not a blossomer. Of this I was sure. I did not blossom. But I did look at my thighs splayed out below me, and I hated them. That is how girls realize. The moment they realize their bodies they begin to hate. ​​ My younger sister realized before me and always talked about outlining rolls of fat on her stomach with Sharpie and taking scissors to cut them right off, and so I imagined the same. I would hunch over to make and find a roll and then grab it and picture the scissors and the gushing of the blood and the strip of skin in my other hand. And then I couldn’t stop imagining, so I imagined cutting my fingers off too, and then my ears, and then my chest, even though I didn’t hate them. Maybe because I didn’t hate them. I did like my calves, which were always strong but which grew stronger and larger when I started Irish dancing halfway through middle school. I never imagined cutting my calves off. Instead, I flexed them in social studies, noticing as they grew in size and hardness over time, and tracing the muscle with my finger. They were what I liked about my legs. It was a relief to get over the exhausting exercise of hatred. No one is born to hate. #corecore #nichetok #oldfriendsbookends #mrose

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