Such a slow process, this learning to be embodied.  After what seems like a lifetime of being told to separate, control, pinch, deprive, loathe.  Even still I find myself reveling in the ways I fit their image, even still.

Rather than loving my body as the most precious heirloom my mother could have given me.  These days I look at my hands and see hers’, agile sinews under papery skin.  I remember those hands holding mine when I was young.  My mother grew up chugging raw eggs, feeling ugly for her scrawniness.  I grew up feeling ugly for the skin hanging over the elastic of my underwear.

The spread of my hips was the first thing I truly loathed about my pubescent body.  I loathed my body becoming goddess, I didn’t know that’s what it was.  They have scared the power out of me, scared as they are of what these hips could have meant if I had loved them all along.