How many women in their bearing years or their just-past-bearing years have put their hands on their own bellies or touched their breasts and thought about the immense power of the woman’s body that they bear?
It has come to me lately that, as we attempt to squeeze our bodies into a mold, we end up making ourselves less than we could be, by denying and renouncing the power we were born to hold. And this model of perfection we attempt to reach, this was decreed by . . . whom? By fashion, or media, or men? Ahhh, men. Some men may ask us to stand in the body they envision, which may bear some resemblance to that of a young girl. And young girls, as we all know, are not yet come into the full knowledge of their wisdom and power as female. And so they challenge little of the status quo, being primarily concerned with status closer to home. And this is not a criticism, but just an observation.
Who teaches young girls that their bellies hold power? The power of fertility, and feeding, and creativity. That their breasts may nurse babies, or men, or yet the muse. If we knew, if they knew, perhaps we would all stop trying to squeeze ourselves down to a less-than shape, to a female self that has forgotten the power of fertility rites in fields under the full summer moon. It was not the androgens who were chosen for those rites!
And so I sit in meditation, and sometimes, I put a hand on the swell of my womb, full these days of nothing more than my own power to become myself. Or I place a hand over my own nipple, and consider how and what it feeds. And I know this: if I have enough courage, I may yet stand up before a stadium of sweet young things and tell them to love the curves and billows they were blessed with. True power is not a carving away, but an embrace. Our bodies have their own abundance. Who are we to deny it?