A family trip to a place of my childhood and youth has made me realize that I am coming to terms with womanhood. I am a woman and I am worn. Being a worn woman makes me vulnerable.
Spent so much time of my life trying not to be a woman. Whatever that meant to me then it was not as cool as being a girl or a boy, a man, or perhaps a young woman. But not a woman. I'm not sure what 'woman' meant to me then, but it wasn't desirable. I know what woman means to me now.
woman: sensual sentient creature of creation capable of unconditional love, life and pleasure. daughter of nativity, mother of nurture. mujer. full of faith in life, fluid flow of freedom. woman: like the moon sometimes full, sometimes new. every month an opportunity for creation as fertil energies thrive and drive. then a purge with the possibility for renewal.
I used to feel like every full moon was a fertil egg that bore no consequence. Little did I know! Today I howl at the moon. I embrace my womanhood and the blessed energies my magical body bears. I love being a woman. Once annoyed with my breasts as they bounced around uncomfortably when I ran. If I was a warrior armed with a sword, I would not hesitate in cutting off at least one breast. Breasts get in the way of physical activity...certain physical activity. Now I love their bubbly bounce when I walk. Being a woman is a feeling. Sure, vanity and narcissism may be part of the package and I love to take care of my body and my appearance. I love pretty dresses and sprakly things. I love my mysterious curves, my delicate contours and fine lines, my volumptuous corners and gentle flacidity as it playfully flirts with Earth's gravity.
No man made me a woman. My children did, life itself: a process that has torn me apart and worn me out in many ways. A Mexican physician told me it would take years for my body to recover from childbearing and breastfeeding, from making another body from my own. Sometimes I wonder, will I ever recover? I gave of my body and my body gives at least every month again: life and the possibility for life. My body continues to give though worn. Tales told by my legs, my joints, my everywheres. The second pregnancy was like walking on sword blades daily for months. The body remembers pain. I'm worn though not worn out. When I feel vulnerable I don't like it. Coming to terms with my limitations.
Though being a woman makes me strong with a high tolerancy for pain, tenacity, regeneration and moments of sheer fearlessness amongst other things. But oh how it tears at my body, how it tears at my soul: life! Worn woman that I am.
Watch out for the temper on hard days! Coming home with two hungry and tired kids, both screaming, the dog with its high pitched piercing bark waiting by the door. Patience already stretched to the limit. The three year old refuses to walk up the stairs, I have the big baby girl on one arm, groceries in the other. I leave him and take her upstairs to go back for him after dropping her and the grocery bags off. Screams and canine screaches echo in the hallway. The downstairs neighbour comes out and starts yelling at my boy to be quiet already. Fumes!
You yellin' at my kid Sir?
You think you the only one who can yell?
Well I can yell right back at you!
Oh you can call me names?
Well I can call you names too!
Sure I am crazy, be scared!
Back away from my son
and scare him never again!
Motherhood.
Spent so much time of my life trying not to be a woman. Whatever that meant to me then it was not as cool as being a girl or a boy, a man, or perhaps a young woman. But not a woman. I'm not sure what 'woman' meant to me then, but it wasn't desirable. I know what woman means to me now.
woman: sensual sentient creature of creation capable of unconditional love, life and pleasure. daughter of nativity, mother of nurture. mujer. full of faith in life, fluid flow of freedom. woman: like the moon sometimes full, sometimes new. every month an opportunity for creation as fertil energies thrive and drive. then a purge with the possibility for renewal.
I used to feel like every full moon was a fertil egg that bore no consequence. Little did I know! Today I howl at the moon. I embrace my womanhood and the blessed energies my magical body bears. I love being a woman. Once annoyed with my breasts as they bounced around uncomfortably when I ran. If I was a warrior armed with a sword, I would not hesitate in cutting off at least one breast. Breasts get in the way of physical activity...certain physical activity. Now I love their bubbly bounce when I walk. Being a woman is a feeling. Sure, vanity and narcissism may be part of the package and I love to take care of my body and my appearance. I love pretty dresses and sprakly things. I love my mysterious curves, my delicate contours and fine lines, my volumptuous corners and gentle flacidity as it playfully flirts with Earth's gravity.
No man made me a woman. My children did, life itself: a process that has torn me apart and worn me out in many ways. A Mexican physician told me it would take years for my body to recover from childbearing and breastfeeding, from making another body from my own. Sometimes I wonder, will I ever recover? I gave of my body and my body gives at least every month again: life and the possibility for life. My body continues to give though worn. Tales told by my legs, my joints, my everywheres. The second pregnancy was like walking on sword blades daily for months. The body remembers pain. I'm worn though not worn out. When I feel vulnerable I don't like it. Coming to terms with my limitations.
Though being a woman makes me strong with a high tolerancy for pain, tenacity, regeneration and moments of sheer fearlessness amongst other things. But oh how it tears at my body, how it tears at my soul: life! Worn woman that I am.
Watch out for the temper on hard days! Coming home with two hungry and tired kids, both screaming, the dog with its high pitched piercing bark waiting by the door. Patience already stretched to the limit. The three year old refuses to walk up the stairs, I have the big baby girl on one arm, groceries in the other. I leave him and take her upstairs to go back for him after dropping her and the grocery bags off. Screams and canine screaches echo in the hallway. The downstairs neighbour comes out and starts yelling at my boy to be quiet already. Fumes!
You yellin' at my kid Sir?
You think you the only one who can yell?
Well I can yell right back at you!
Oh you can call me names?
Well I can call you names too!
Sure I am crazy, be scared!
Back away from my son
and scare him never again!
Motherhood.
