Everything You Already Knew

I was reading back today on this blog which is years and years old and full of a lot of early-to-mid-twenties angst, plenty of bad words and a smattering of motherhood. I've never really been able to decide on what direction it should go in, if any. In keeping up truths with myself, I've just decided to write as it comes, all clusterfucky and raining down like surprise confetti. Today I just want to talk about me. Again. Maybe next time we'll talk about you. I don't know.

It's funny to me the way we treat objects. Like...this is the mug that once held my coffee. It goes on this shelf. It has a collector's retail value of $67.89 providing that it stays wrapped, on that shelf. Please look carefully. I'm saving it for my grandsons perhaps one day if I have any. Please don't touch it. We cushion shot glasses from Miami and precious crystal vases in bubble wrap that stay tucked forever away in spider-filled basements but we very rarely talk about our bellies that have held children or the knuckle-nicks we have on our fingers from smashing them in tire spokes. 

We save dried flower petals but can't seem to preserve our self worth. I wish sometimes we looked at our bodies like stories, full of great adventure.

This isn't a new topic. I've spoken before on body image because I think it's important and while I'm not a radical about it, our bodies speak volumes without ever saying a word. As a photographer, I meet so many people weekly. Often times, they are asked to be at their most vulnerable not only in front of me, a stranger, but a camera that will forever pause that time. They try to tuck away chins and laugh nervously, making self-loathing jokes that just break my heart.

(And seriously guys, why are we always comparing ourselves to poultry with chicken skin and gobble necks cause bruh, fuck turkeys).

I love that you have freckles and quite frankly, I want to cup your face in my hands and run my thumbs gently over your cheeks and admire you. I love your soft belly and the way your natural hair falls into waves when it's wet and your full lips and your legs. You see twigs, I see dancer. Farmer's tan? I see hard work. I don't see scars I see tales and I want to know them all. Mostly, I love your wit and charm and that you read. You're strong and you stay up late to get shit done, you hold two jobs, you run marathons, you are an expert seamstress with nimble fingers.  Your palms bring babies into this world and build walls to houses and sift flour to bake cookies for tiny hands. You stand up for the bullied an comfort the lost. You make the bed every day, even when you don't feel like getting out of it.

You are so much more than just a body. I am so much more.

I can't lie, I have a small goal of someday being able to fix my hair so flawlessly that people literally fall down in the grocery store in awe. But before they see me,  I want them to hear me talking to my son, full of heart in every whispering word and silly giggle.

I'm not a plastic wrapped couch meant to sit in the living room. I'm a couch that wants to go and explore the world (sometimes these analogies go wrong, try to keep up).

My body is just a vehicle for my soul. I'd like to think I'm a pretty good driver.

I love you all.