a love letter: dear body of mine

linking in to the synchroblog:  A Love Letter to my Body
(you should write a love letter to your body and link in too!)

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in a world that hates women's real bodies and implores us to do the same, this is a confession of my admiration and love, dear body of mine:

you have been so good to me, these thirty years and a few months of non-stop demands and little thanks, you've proved yourself so faithful and capable again and again.

your arms are strong:  you've pumped water, welcomed babies, hugged strangers, strummed melodies, cuddled children (but rarely animals), carried your home in a bag on your back for too many months.  i think you have big muscles even if no one else agrees.

you've walked the dusty red roads of Africa, crowded and colourful back alleys in India, sat happy in taxis and trains and subway cars full of covered women smiling at you.  you ate spicy curries with your hands three times a day  and your tummy loved it even the next time, you go with the place you're in, you are satisfied easy.

airport floors?  no big deal you sleep there just fine, you always make yourself comfortable
even on the hard and cold of foreign places at 2am
and the flight's delayed again, again -
that's why nursing the babies back to sleep is no
big deal (most of the time), when
i think you're empty you let more down, you always surprise me with your resourcefulness.

you've healed:  from colds and car accidents, typhoid and stomach bugs.  you remember some of it, you've forgotten most, your scars remind me to be thankful as I fall asleep.

and that voice - my husband is always amazed at how loud you are, at how you always create your own path through and can be heard in between the rest.  when he's embarrassed you sing louder, and i can hardly stop you.

three surprise pregnancies and i barely trust you for it but
i love you for it, and for them.  the two that are with us now
look like you, people always say.  i think they are beautiful and you care for them the best you can.
now the spinning never stops, they work you so hard but you laugh loud and often enough that i think you're okay.

i'm sorry i shaved your legs so early.

i'm sorry that i've said words ungrateful and untrue.

i'm sorry i've compared you to anyone, ever.

you are my earthen vessel, from way back then, right here now and into the new heavens and the new earth.

go ahead and have grey hair already.  you deserve it.

and i love that gap between your front teeth, too.