My body is covered in secrets.
I have stretch marks from the summer I was pregnant, and never, ever, despite the great advice of all of my friends who escaped getting stretch marks, did I once put lotion on my growing belly. I hiked around in a dress, 6 months pregnant, with my 2 year old daughter tied to my body with a maya wrap, and we would go down to Campbell's Hole and our sweat would run together down my back, and I would sing to her as she laid her head against me to feel the vibration of my voice, and just as we were, tied together and in our clothes, I would dip into the cool water, and she would laugh and squeal and hug me with her legs.
I have wrinkles from that same summer when, like so many before, I spent way too much time in the sun, loving the way my skin felt so warm. And more wrinkles from the fact that I laugh at everything, even sometimes when it is inappropriate to but I can't help it. and a few others from crying, or frowning, or looking pensive, which is sometimes extreme but always temporary, as I am wildly emotional.
My breasts were probably never genetically meant to be incredibly perky, as my skin has always been more soft than tight, but after nursing for almost 2 years, they definitely hang more than they used to.
My toes curl too much, because I completely ignored the rules and direction of my ballet teacher, because I wanted to dance en pointe NOW not next year, so I would secretly, daily, go in my room and close the door and dance and dance in my toe shoes despite the fact that my feet weren't ready.
I have extra pounds because I love ice cream so much. but beneath the curves are muscles that are strong from years spent carrying my babies, and standing rocking them long after they were asleep. Climbing, running, playing, exploring. Lending a hand where ever I could.
I have a huge scar on my knee from having surgery after I fell off a ladder when I was in junior high and was repairing houses with habitat for humanity on a mission trip. When I got out of the hospital, it was a Sunday morning, and I was in another city, away from home, and the pastor who was hosting us took me with her to her service because my youth group was working and I needed to rest. She was young and beautiful and radiant and blonde and looked like she belonged in a magazine- I was so stunned to see her sanctuary- a dilapidated small building, full of people in tattered clothes who were told that when the offering plate came around, they could give if they were able, or take if they needed. They all gave.
My hips are wide, but are perfect for carrying children, or anything really.
I think I often look older than I am, which of course I loved when I was in high school and sometimes sang jazz downtown, or when I was 17 and dating the man who would be my husband, who was 23, or when I was 18 and going out to dinner with lobbyists and negotiating and brainstorming and unbeknownst to them, secretly a child. But of course it isn't as fun now to look old.
My hair is like the rest of me- wild and tangles easily and never behaves, and my friends always say they wish they had my hair, though I know they would hate it if they really did. But I like letting my daughters play with it and give me makeovers with a hundred barrettes. I like the way that it feels feminine when my head is in my husband's lap and he strokes my hair and my forehead, or when he wraps it around his hand and holds it against our bed when he is inside me.
I thought that liking what I look like naked and loving my body were completely unrelated. In a picture, I am such a small fraction as sensual as when I make love, our bodies moving in response to one another, a wildfire of synchronicity, rocking back and forth, trembling, releasing, and in my mind those moments define my sensuality more. So often, we look at our bodies critically, negatively. To criticize and question its beauty is to ignore the story of a remarkable journey. If you embrace the truth- that it would be obscene to believe that advertisers know more about the beauty of a woman's body than nature and God, it is impossible not to feel beautiful. While love of my body and beauty in a photograph aren't quite the same, I appreciate both. As they dance together before me, I will admit that at first it felt vulnerable to share my body with a world who gazes through such a warped lens. But to fully appreciate the beauty of my body, I don't look in the mirror, though it does tell a wonderful story. To love my body, I feel it.
Our bodies are covered in secrets.
Your secrets are safe with me.