Body Prayer
go to minute 1:29 to listen.
In the name of the mother, the sister, and the holy priestess, Amen.
This is the body I have been given, and here are its flaws:
The space between my big toe and second toe that one boyfriend joked, "someone could park a car between," that my husband equates to a future in foot porn, that keeps me upright and un-teetering, that can pinch skin, that is beautiful.
The way my thighs rub together except for those two years I only drank coffee and smoked cigarettes for breakfast, when I weighed 103 pounds and I could see my mons pubis without craning my neck, the feathered way they touch when I walk, how muscular I've become from squats and lunges, how strong they are now and my related, perky ass.
My belly that always has now and ever shall be, except for that same Starving Time. How I will never be a skinny girl, how I only just realized that now, after so many crunches and leg lifts. How I check every reflection from the side to make sure I don't look pregnant, how the wrong clothing can accentuate my bulge, how careful I am and so ashamed. How I was in the habit of sucking it in until it disappeared briefly during the Starving Time, how it's impossible to regain that staunch awareness once you know what it feels to be free.
Back fat and the way my body sags on both sides below the line of my bra, the strong way my lats are forming after so many push-ups and pull-ups. How, ever since I went for a consultation with that plastic surgeon and he used a blue sharpie on my body for the places he would fix, I have hated so much of my torso, I've fantasized about cutting it off. How I know this confession is a sin.
My décolleté and the wrinkled way it's begun to age, how the lines there grow deeper each year, how golden it is in the sun, how freckled and shimmering it becomes, dipped in salt water. How beautiful it can be.
This is my body and these are its flaws:
My pinky fingers that hurt if the joints aren't cracked every hour, my left hand and the shooting pain when I pick up my laptop, how unsexy the Velcro braces are that help, how I fear I'll have carpel tunnel syndrome or rheumatoid arthritis, both of which my mother has. How she can't feel her hands anymore and regularly burns herself, how I have her stomach and thighs, how her balance is failing, how I stumble and lose my footing, too.
The way my hands are lined like my father's, how I have his nose and his beauty spot on my right cheek. How he's always with me that way, even though he art in heaven or somewhere like that. How I can remember him pointing at my face like pointing to home on a map. How I can remember his joy when he said it.
The hip that is tight, the knee with tendonitis, the inflexible shoulder, the imagined hole in my left lung. The aching feet and ringing ears.
How the place where my wings should grow always aches, the way the muscles pull at my neck and collarbones, like marionette strings about to snap, my related headaches, and the way lacrosse balls work wonders.
My one and only asset: tits, and how, even though that same plastic surgeon suggested a "lift" which would also require implants, I love my breasts regardless of their imperfect sag, for the lovely way they look in v-cut dresses and sweetheart necklines, the way a necklace shines a spotlight on them, how the left is larger than the right, how my quarter-sized nipples shrink when they're hard and how perfect they are, and soft. How other women sometimes ask to poke and squeeze in search of silicone. How before the days of plastic tits, mine were obviously real, and although anyone can buy breasts now, mine are still my pride and my power. How I don't have to flaunt them, how they always just are and always have been, Amen.
In this body, I spend this life. I sit at desks and tables, I do dead lifts and run miles and surf. I stand in lines and wait for bank clerks and grocery clerks. I measure myself against every other woman I see: how short I am, how fat, how she has this or doesn't have that. How destructive this is, how I have to decide each time to stop because she can't know and I can't know, forever.
In this body my soul, my ego, and my ability to transcend heartache live. My pain lives, and the warm way my skin absorbs bath water, how it feels to float. How the skinned knee burns the same way as too-cold winter.
My husband's lips anoint my flawed thighs. His hands caress my hated belly, massage my feet and the space where my wings will grow. He speaks to me like a loving gardener, encourages me and loves me, whole.
In the name of babies if I want them.
In the name of being breathed without thinking.
In the name of loving, then hating, then loving it again.
Amen.