22nd July 2010 – Naked in the Moonlight

I would never have called myself prudish per se. Amongst my friends I had always been open enough about the more squirm-inducing subjects. Fontsoleil took me down a few notches further on the prude-scale, to a point which I wouldn’t have believed of myself a month earlier. The evolution began with some magazines and a pack of cards.

The magazines in question were part of a series called Rêve de Femmes – Women’s Dream. They covered all aspects of being a woman from a spiritual point of view, everything from being a child to being a mother to growing old, menstruation to menopause, sexuality to sensuality, emotion to intelligence. Despite slight leanings towards all things hippy, I would probably have overlooked these magazines were it not for the illustrations on the covers. Some were recognisably of women, united by their radiance, some were figurative, and some so symbolic that at first glance they had little to do with the contents of the edition. They were all paintings, and they were all beautiful. The colours were deep and rich and sumptuous, the images swirling and soft in composition. 

I looked inside in search of more art. I found it, but I also found some articles which drew me in: Does your appearance reflect your interior, and should it?; Growing old with grace and wise with humility; Celebrating periods rather than cursing them; Embracing the emotional side of being a woman. I didn’t agree with many things the authors had written; the articles seemed too contrived to me, almost artificially tree-hugger-esque. But they were thought-provoking nonetheless. Did my appearance reflect my interior? Probably not. But then it was inevitable that I should choose to dress in a way which was uniquely me, was it not, given as I was the one who wanted to wear the clothes? Or did I only think my style was unique? To some extent I knew that it was prescribed by society: by the fashion industry, by the media and by expectations. And did it matter? I supposed that, if I was going to be judged for my appearance as inevitably I would be, then it did bear some importance. I wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impressions. And I wanted to grow old and wise – no, grow up – with grace and humility. And I saw the sense in choosing to celebrate the emotions and the blood rather than regretting them; I was a woman sans règles, which could be translated equally as without rules or without periods. Having lived in this lawless state for the best part of a year, I had some understanding of how integral they were to my own sense of identity as a woman. 

Seeing that I was enjoying the magazines, Michelle came to find me one afternoon-nap-time. In her hands was a small cardboard box which displayed the name Feminitude. It was a set of tarot cards especially for women. Michelle told me that she liked to use them when she was feeling unsure, and asked if I would like to look at them. Although unplagued by pressing uncertainty, I had nothing else to be doing in those hours of quiet, and besides, I was curious. Leafing though them I found yet more art, and more ideas that I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe in fully. I played, and pulled out two cards: mystery and the tree of life. I put them back and flicked through the pack again. One of the pictures caught my eye; it was the moon card, and the picture was of a beautiful woman, naked in the moonlight. I thought how wonderfully liberating it would be to be like that, just once. I wondered if I was comfortable enough with the shape of my body to share it with nobody but the moon. I wondered at the coincidence that it would be a full moon that night. I hatched a plan.

By 22:30 the sky was black as pitch. By 23:00 the house was silent and dead with sleep. Wearing just my dressing gown and blushing despite my secretive solitude, I slipped out of the door of my bedroom, across the landing and out of the upstairs door to the outside, which was possible because of the gradient of the hill that the house was built into. I padded up through the jungle of weeds, past the toilet and up onto a higher path, waiting for a spot where the trees overhead cleared, leaving a wide moonlit vista of the valley and the sky. The greens and golds and yellows and browns of the gay had been replaced by silvers, greys, blues and purples. Feeling absurd, and hoping fervently that nobody in the house had woken at my footsteps, I let my gown glide down to rest at my feet. 

Thankfully it wasn’t a cold night, and so I stood there for a while, letting the moonlight shine balmily over me. My skin, by day bronzed with Indian heritage, by night was as pale as edelweiss and almost iridescent. I felt like I ought to do something. As absurd as I had felt before I was naked, the feeling was now tenfold. And so I turned on the spot and began to spin around, faster and faster. My hair caught in the lightest of breezes and flew out around my face like black silk, my arms outstretched, and I felt ludicrously and joyfully free. I was caught in a cliché of liberation - even in the midst of it I was well aware of the fact – and yet the cliché held true. I did feel liberated. 

The moment passed. Shivering slightly, I dressed myself once more. I was a ridiculous specimen of humanity; there was no doubt about it. And yet how perfect to feel at ease enough to be so ridiculous.