it is my practice to write a blessing for my body on the eve of a marathon. my next race is in two weeks, but my birthday is tomorrow. And so, I want to honor this body I get to live in and the years its given me.
dear scar on my lip from when I was a toddler and put a pillowcase over my head and ran around the house while my grandmother was babysitting and I ran into a door and cut open my mouth: i don't remember the tears I must have cried or the blood I must have shed. I catch glimpses of your white line and give thanks for the woman who let me play with abandon, and who trusted that my body would be resilient.
dear right knee: remember when there was a scar on you that was in the shape of a bird and when you bent, she would flap her wings? she flew away finally when I scraped you open in another fall, but sometimes I see the shadows of her feathers, and I wonder what new skies will open up before me.
dear left hand with your scar from the turpentine in high school from that first great big mural I painted: I remember when you split open, and the chemicals and yellow paint and blood mixed together. the stinging sensation. the smell. the flecks of paper towels that clung to my skin as I stopped the bleeding, and then I couldn't decide just exactly how to clean the cut.
dear right shoulder with a scar where there used to be a mole in the shape of a flower: I used to tap the petals of the flower when i was thinking, and I still sometimes finger the scar, touching the bumpy tissue when I need to recall forgotten information. I still sometimes wonder if the flower will bloom again, and I still sometimes wonder why I didn't trust it's bizarre but steadfast shape.
dear nose, with your crooked nostrils that only I notice because I spent too many pre-adolescent hours staring at you: I love your ring and the way you squish down into my lips and the way you wiggle when I remember my sense of humor,
oh dear feet, great love of my body with your scars and bumps and bruises and the extra toe bone and words of love etched into them: you keep carrying me into this fiery and fierce life, one footprint in front of the other. you have carried me through sprawling adventures and rested with me in moments of Sabbath. carry me still, my beloved.
thank you, sweet body, for holding my sinew and bone, muscle and fat, tissue and nail. thank you for the stretch and strength of you. thank you for too-long eyelashes and too-small ears and big eyes and solid ankles. you are enough.
dear scar on my lip from when I was a toddler and put a pillowcase over my head and ran around the house while my grandmother was babysitting and I ran into a door and cut open my mouth: i don't remember the tears I must have cried or the blood I must have shed. I catch glimpses of your white line and give thanks for the woman who let me play with abandon, and who trusted that my body would be resilient.
dear right knee: remember when there was a scar on you that was in the shape of a bird and when you bent, she would flap her wings? she flew away finally when I scraped you open in another fall, but sometimes I see the shadows of her feathers, and I wonder what new skies will open up before me.
dear left hand with your scar from the turpentine in high school from that first great big mural I painted: I remember when you split open, and the chemicals and yellow paint and blood mixed together. the stinging sensation. the smell. the flecks of paper towels that clung to my skin as I stopped the bleeding, and then I couldn't decide just exactly how to clean the cut.
dear right shoulder with a scar where there used to be a mole in the shape of a flower: I used to tap the petals of the flower when i was thinking, and I still sometimes finger the scar, touching the bumpy tissue when I need to recall forgotten information. I still sometimes wonder if the flower will bloom again, and I still sometimes wonder why I didn't trust it's bizarre but steadfast shape.
dear nose, with your crooked nostrils that only I notice because I spent too many pre-adolescent hours staring at you: I love your ring and the way you squish down into my lips and the way you wiggle when I remember my sense of humor,
oh dear feet, great love of my body with your scars and bumps and bruises and the extra toe bone and words of love etched into them: you keep carrying me into this fiery and fierce life, one footprint in front of the other. you have carried me through sprawling adventures and rested with me in moments of Sabbath. carry me still, my beloved.
thank you, sweet body, for holding my sinew and bone, muscle and fat, tissue and nail. thank you for the stretch and strength of you. thank you for too-long eyelashes and too-small ears and big eyes and solid ankles. you are enough.
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