I'm trying to figure out how best to honor my pregnancies -- all three -- and the body that housed them. They don't necessarily need to be emboldened in my postpartum size and I guess stretch marks of the soul are the stretch marks that aren't readily visible to anyone other than me.
I'd take that old snapshot out from the back of my mind and dust it off a little before peering closer. You were beautiful. You were behind the wheel I'd say to the photograph, before putting it back with a few others I'd saved.
Life is a series of deaths and rebirths. Death happens to our bodies every minute of every day yet; this process goes unnoticed because we are busy living life. Cells die. Skin dies. But the thought of the ultimate death stops us dead in our tracks.
I also believe there is a time and place for everything, including where and when to bare your body in social situations. Do it because your are comfortable with your body. Don't do it if may makes those around you uncomfortable or someone is pressuring you.
My armpit does its job just fine and my appreciation for what it does is not contingent upon how it looks, how it looks to others or even how lovely it smells. My armpit is, happily, the last place on my body that gets my attention.
Bras in my size are cheerfully doodled over with hearts, flowers and little cupcakes that would inspire Katy Perry to write a hit song right there in the dressing room. My breasts are offended. They know what they are and they are not part of a Fisher Price play set.
Part of what sets these dancers in high relief is their unbelievable control and flexibility, but the other, major portion of their grace is how much they so obviously love their womanly bodies and, by extension, their female selves.