Sing the body electric

What does it mean to embody the earth and awaken to our own springtime? In part 3 of our dance with DORMANCY, a series of love poems to my body uncovers the growth that has been there all along.

These days I am looking at my body not before a mirror but through a poet’s soul. That this poet is me comes as a huge surprise. Yet thanks to the gentle, wise and welcoming invitation of poet Corie Feiner and her six-week Bodylove Poetry Writing Workshop, I’ve written a series of love poems to my hands, skin, belly, thighs and hips. This close examination of the body has brought up all kinds of complicated feelings. How easily we slip into shame and denigration of our bodies! Poetry has been a kind container in which to sit with these parts of myself and listen to what they have to say.

Photo by Europeana on Unsplash

In this part 3 of our dance with DORMANCY, we look at growth. What are the ways in which we continue to grow and what are the risks of stunted growth? Curiosity is one of the nutrients that keeps me growing, along with compassion, creativity, courage and community. In my first formal attempt at writing poetry, all of these ingredients are helping to water the garden of my body and spirit. And so, I make a shy offering of two poems, which are honest and intimate—seedlings, really, they need time to mature—because I want to invite us to see our bodies exactly as they are and in appreciation for all they do for us. Will you join me?

These are love songs as much as poems, and so “I Sing the Body Electric” from the musical “Fame” floated up, with its stirring refrain. How interesting it is that my biggest growth spurt has come in my 60s, and “I glory in the glow of rebirth.”

I sing the body electric
I glory in the glow of rebirth
Creating my own tomorrow
When I shall embody the Earth

My Thighs Speak

My thighs tremble
with longing.
Listen, they plead.

Some days powdered, decorous, demure.
Don’t mind us, they say.
You barely see us, right,
squeezed into these Spanx,
made small, tight, rigid
when all we want to do is
love the flesh
of our becoming.

We open wide for the lover
the birth
the gynecologist with her
hard, cold metal probe.

We are the vessel
for the blood that flows
and we hold that sacred.
And when that monthly blood
no longer needs our portal
we wait patiently
for all the sensation
we can still create.

We are the bridge
between the crescents
of half moons.
Wise and willing.

We are everywoman.
We long to dance
and twirl and sway
across a sky of stars
a muddy path
a forest floor,
fierce and fetching
feral and ferocious.

We long to be
exactly who we are.

The trunks of the tree
that hold you upright
keep you rooted
take you up and down
the mountain.

Make your lap
the softest place on earth
for your daughter to lay her head.

We only want you to love us
just as we are.

To release us from Spanx
from diets
from the torture machines at the gym
squeezing us into a form
you know we’ll resist.

Release us
from all expectation
of what we should look like
what we should feel like
how we should move
or not move.

We are the giants in your midst
majestic, mighty, malleable
calling to you.

Queen of all the land
drop your drawbridge
and let us enter
Beloved.

Photo by Álvaro Julião on Unsplash

My Belly as An Island

Belly, my belly
an island onto itself
sun’s kiss on warm flesh
turning brown as toast
slicked with sunscreen
like butter melting,
sliding into the navel.
She belongs to me.
Even as you rest your hand
upon its mound,
its miraculous mound,
laying claim,
she and I know
we are marooned here together.

Still, we let you in.
You hold your breath
and I hold mine.
And in that space
we feel her kicking.

Tiny baby feet
walking the walls
of the only home she has ever known.

Now we are three.
Your hand, mine. Her little feet, balled up fists
breathing her in.
The people on the beach recede.
The sun shines only for us.
The seagulls circle overhead
with a protective “caw-caw!”
to guard our sacred circle.

Time slips, drifts.
Sand through a bottle.
She is outside my belly.
She is two years old
rubbing her own belly,
sticking out her middle as far as she can
mimicking Mamma’s funny walk
belly full of sister number two.
”Look, Mamma! I walk like you!”
She rubs her belly with delight,
her face a portrait of mischief.

One day she will know,
this girl of mine,
the startling beat of wings
against skin,
the life of a belly
and the worlds it can contain.
Her world.
My world.

I lie on the sand,
your hand on my belly.
My skin soft and squishy
wrinkled with age.
Still rounded.
Not with what grows within
but with all that has blossomed
since that first touch.

LET’S CHAT!

1. Is it hard for you to show compassion to parts of the body such as belly, thighs, hips and if so, why?

2. What are the ways in which you continue to grow, in this particular springtime of your becoming?

3. What are the risks of stunted growth if we don’t water the garden of our minds, bodies and spirit with curiosity, compassion, creativity, courage—or whatever nutrient helps you grow?

To catch up on the previous essays in the series, see:

Is it spring yet? The gifts of stillness

When dreaming blocks the doorway to doing, you're in too deep

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