I’m starting to like my grays and honor my body as it is.
My gray hair is evidence of earned wisdom.
My body is very forgiving.
She has protected me and absorbed trauma to shield my psyche.
All she asked of me is to move her regularly, eat mindfully, and drink water.
It’s so little to ask to keep me alive.
If I tell the truth about it, I have been resisting aging. I have. I’ve been comparing my body to when I was younger.
Before stiff joints and achy knees.
Before lower back pain and antacids.
Before muffin tops and knee fat.
Instead of accepting my body, I kept trying to fix it.
Pushing myself to burn out.
It might sound strange, but one of the most effective forms of socially acceptable acts of self-hate is working hard.
When you or I work hard, we give ourselves permission to not eat.
Or binge eat.
Or over eat.
Or emotionally eat.
“Working hard” becomes the excuse for not working out. It’s noble to grind, especially as an entrepreneur, at the cost of your waistline.
Self-neglect becomes a badge of honor for self-sacrifice—be it for your business, your babies, or your bae.
At least it was that way for me.
I resented my body for getting in the way of me hitting my marks! How dare I need rest! Food? Sleep? Come on!
It’s silly when I think about it.
But as I mature I am starting to appreciate the beauty and power of being a grow woman.
There is a poetry to a woman’s body that can only be utter with age.
I’m beginning to enjoy the curve of my hip when I wear a pair of booty shorts.
I’m starting to delight in the petal softness of my thighs warm and damp after a long shower.
I’m enjoying scenting myself for my own pleasure.
I’m starting to realize the more I accept my body the more I fall in love with myself.
My body has been good to me.
Yes she requires care. But doesn’t everything precious require care? It’s silly of me to think I would age without requiring SOME SORT of real maintenance. It’s arrogant, actually.
So as I mature, I am learning to respect my body as well as the process of being alive.
Taking care of my body, meeting her exactly where she is, is just as valuable as tending to my PTSD. In fact, it helps it. I feel better after some sort of physical exertion. Running down the hall with Happy is just as empowering as do sweating on the eliptical.
I choose this body.
I accept my body.
I love my body.
I appreciate my body.
I honor my body.
My body is a temple.
It is sacred.
It is holy.
In my body, Spirit dwells.
If I committed to respecting my body, God could have a beautiful home in me.
My body has been the house of various guests.
We talk about being the body of Christ.
But what if my body was a gift to God?
What if I honored my God with my body?
My flesh, unclean I give it back to you.
I wonder what it would take to relate to my body as God’s temple…
As I mature, I evolve.
I evolve into who God has called me to be.
My body because the vehicle by which to fulfill the Call.
Moses was in his 80s when he was Called. I’m only 51! I’m still a youngin’ by some standards.
There is a beauty in aging.
There is an art to aging.
I’m starting to look forward to its poetry articulated in, through, and with my body.