a letter to my body.

to you :: i realize i haven't been kind to you. i see that now. but i need you to know - you are not the hands that touched me so long ago. those memories? i don't hold you responsible. there was nothing you could do as a little girl and i celebrate your creative ways of finding peace and sanctuary. it's because of those moments i am who i am today.

i want to be free from this disgust. i do. someone once told me to write you a letter - that understanding may come as i pen thoughts to you, the one i've held the most contempt for in my life. i know you know i hated you. i don't anymore. i'm trying to find the lovely pieces - trying to reverse those years of self-proclaimed curses.

and so i begin, gingerly. it's the only way i've ever known to come to you.

watch your fingers. really - look at them. they form words on paper. holding a pen or using a keyboard is no problem - they bend, they slap the keys, they hold tight the ink. your fingers have always worked in tandem with your mind. in middle school, do you remember? those fingers would form words without even thinking - spelling out phrases and dialogue in sign language. others laughed, but the fingers kept moving. i think they knew storytelling was in my veins before i did.

your arms? they're ready for a baby. the ache you feel in the center of your chest is the place filled by your daughter - the one you'll love unconditionally. the one you'll wrap those arms around and protect. she'll snuggle close, enveloped by love, and wrinkles and folds of skin won't keep her away.

your embrace was meant for loving.

more than anyone i know, you can wrap yourself around someone and breathe life into their weary soul. i've seen it. your stomach has experienced a lot of ridicule lately, and for that i'm sorry - let me be the first to say your curves are beautiful. and think of what it holds! your diaphragm - belting out powerful songs of mercy and love - remember when someone told you the singing you produced was powerful? do not hide your gifts, beautiful. 

so many nights i spent praying for thinner thighs. i'm sure you remember this, too. i hated the thundering way i walked into a room, the way they touched each other despite others insisting they weren't supposed to touch. i'd cry every morning, devastated that the night didn't bring me thin legs. but you - you carried me still. and those thighs are strong and continue to carry me through life. others may disown my genes, passing them along to someone else in hopes they don't see themselves in the large bone structure. i know the truth, though. 

and those thighs? they can move. and when music starts playing, it's difficult for you to sit still. don't be afraid to dance anymore. i may hesitate - years of hiding do that to a person. but dancing brings you joy and you know this.

your feet lead you to walk like a giant - bold in love and justice. they know where to go. trust them. let them lead you. if they want to run - let them run. if they want to curl under russ' embrace let them do that as well. and don't ever apologize for a good pedicure. spoil yourself. even feet deserve the touch of love.

and finally, your eyes. oh - your eyes. your eyes tell the story to anyone who will take a second's glance. you've never been able to hide your emotions from your eyes, and this is a good thing. know this :: your eyes are perfect - even in the blurriness of diseased genes. blindness, however severe, can't hide the love and grace and hope and strength one sees when they truly pay attention. this is what you are, you know. lovely. graceful. strong.

i know this because He told me - the One who held us so long ago when we had no where else to turn is the same One who holds us now, restoring, redeeming, healing.

taking the old - the hurt and pain, the words spoken and the anger held - and making it new. beauty out of dust. flesh out of stone.

Posted on March 16, 2012 and filed under the {true} and the questions.