A love letter to my body...supposedly

This is supposed to be a love letter to you, body, but something is not right.  The love letters I've saved in dresser drawers, hidden and secret because of their passion and ardor, come from a lover, not a hater.  They profess unbridled devotion and eternal commitment.  They whisper truth in a language that can be interpreted only by my heart.  How can I write such an epistle to you?

I have been none of these things, nor have I ever made a habit of saying such loveliness to you.  And to start now would almost seem a sacrilege...a veiled attempt at greatness, of which I am simply not capable.  Ever.

It seems that the more appropriate thing would be to accept the love letter that you have been writing to me all these years.  The one that is carved and etched in secret (and not so secret) places and slips quietly from its onion skin envelope.

That letter speaks of the wonder of things.

Of the very moment you gasped wide and the breath of God blew through you, awakening you to the flip side of heaven and to a world that was ours for the taking.
Of attempts at mastering language and movement and...failing, only to start over again and triumph.
Of tastes and smells and touch, both delicate and disagreeable, that began to shape a palette and a personality.

That letter sings of strength and beauty and then finds it in the most unlikely places...
in the dense muscle that I inherited from my father or in the delicate shoulders gifted by my mother...
in the way that, despite the struggle or the handicap, in the end, I can't help but choose love...
in my desire to shape and shift you and, then, at the end of the day, to accept you...
and even still...
in my overly tender heart that weeps too much and too often...

In all of these things...you have been tracing tales and spinning yarns.
You have been scribbling it all down.

And I've just been too distracted to stop and read.  Or I've been too busy running away from your truths, too insecure and immature to recognize love spoken and beauty beheld.

How broken you must be.  To have penned a love story so exquisite, only to have it lay there, on the page for years, unrequited.

I am a terrible lover.
Selfish.  Abusive.  Aloof.

Why have you stayed with me all this time?  Why have you not quit me?  I would have quit me.

I quit you.

Perhaps it is because you still have more to write.
Perhaps this not all that there is.
That is why you still hang on.

You are stronger than I could have ever imagined.  And on this day, in the week that I turn the corner and find myself at a turning point in time, I feel compelled to make a decision.

I need to mend this relationship.  I need to read these life letters that are, at their heart, love letters.
I need to read them, meditate upon them, memorize them, and accept them.

You, my dear body, are a marvel and I am in awe of you.

Thank you for believing in me...even when I was an infidel.
Thank you for not giving up on me.
Thank you for your faithfulness.

And thank you for loving me.

This is my contribution to the 

SheLoves Magazine

Synchroblog: A Love Letter to my Body