If you're busy today, feeling rushed and hurried and un-enough, let me read you this love letter. And maybe after this, you'll carve out a little time and write one to yourself. (Let me tell you: it's not easy. I'm slightly weirded out to even post this, but yes indeed it will be worth it.) Email subscribers, you might need to click over to listen.
[audio m4a="http://alizanaomi.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/A-Letter-To-My-Body-1.m4a"][/audio]
Dear Body,
I have spent a good portion of my twenty years disliking you.
I admit: I've been cruel. I've yelled at you, yanked at you, cursed you and wished you were irrevocably different. I've looked longingly at other bodies and then peered down distastefully at you.
But that's changing now. And here, right now, perhaps this is where it begins. Let me whisper what I like about you, soft and quiet, and maybe my heart and head will catch up with one another and finally believe it. So, hello my body. Hello. I like you.
Do you hear me? I like you.
I like you toes, painted dark black and you look so good showing yourselves off in sandals. And I like you feet. You carried me to Africa and back. I liked the red dust that covered every speck of you, and the dull ache in my heel that reminded me of how long it took the children to gather their water. I like you for the feeling of early morning grass and soft sand and bare toes on a hardwood floor.
Hello to my knees, you crooked achy things, but you got me excused from grade nine gym class a few times, and that was never a bad thing. And to my legs and thigh gap-less thighs, I like you. I'm not scared to wear shorts or dresses or swimsuit bottoms.
I like how you hips hold a dime-sized brown mole on the left side, adjacent to the belly button, right square on the bone.
You stomach and you chest -- thank you for filling with deep intoxicating breath. You tell me that I am alive, you tell me that I am living. I like you, lungs. You remind me that I have purpose.
Do you remember when you broke, collarbone? I was ten and you broke clean. You're healthy and mended now, and you and my neck do a fine job with displaying my favourite jewelry.
You eyebrows lift high in scepticism, but I love your shape. You small nose, the same as my father and my grandmother, you remind me of who I come from. Remind me of who I love. You full rounded lips, you can wear red lip stick and seem sassy and spirited. You can speak things quickly without realization, but you're learning to be slower, more thoughtful. You curve gently over a steaming mug of coffee, and you smile large, so large, so very, very large.
And to you, cat-shaped eyes never sure of if you're green or blue, you allow me so many opportunities to see the most beautiful kinds of things. You eyelashes curl while overlooking the Rwandan hills, the never ending ocean, the majestic star encapsulated sky.
You brain, you mind, you thoughts that run rampant sometimes what feels like all night long, you allow me opinions and ideas and fathomless possibilities.
And you hands, you lovely hands. You're my favourite thing if I had to choose. You feel the nib of a pen, the stroke of a brush, and you can create words and phrases and letters and art. You grasp, you hold, you touch. You have the entire world right there at those fingertips.
No matter what I whisper, Body, know this: you are enough, here, right as you are. No matter how I feel or what I think, you are enough.
And, I like you.
May we dance and laugh and twirl and sing, wearing a wild and dazzling kind of joy, our heart pumping courage, our lungs exhaling strength, and may our enoughness be as distinct and as bold as we ourselves long to someday be.
Love forever, me
This post was inspired by Sarah Bessey, whom originally was inspired by SheLovesMagazine.
This is a challenge for you. I hope you'll take part in it. If you do and you want to share it, feel free to email me or comment your link on this blog. I hope you write love letters to yourself. You are enough, you are enough, you are enough.
This is day fourteen. You can find the rest of this series right here.
If you like this post, consider getting the rest of this series dropped right into your inbox. You can sign up here. And don't worry, I'll never give your email out to anyone. Ever. [madmimi id=2]
I thought maybe if I painted the word "enough" as many times as possible, I might remember. And maybe you might, too.
You. are. enough.
