I’d like to take my 46 year old self into my 15 year old body.
I’d stand in front of a full-length mirror and gaze at the wondrous beauty of my blossoming form–without the scathing inner critic of our media-raped culture.
I can’t begin to imagine what my breasts must have looked like–without the decade of pregnancy and nursing–stretching and pulling them into new shapes.
I’d marvel at my thighs, without veins or bulges, and I’d appreciate, APPRECIATE, my developing curves–instead of trying to smooth them out.
I’d throw my scale out the window and encourage my friends to do the same. I’d spend time with other women’s bodies, of all ages, and shapes–in the nude–so that I could learn, early on, to see the beauty in women’s figures, outside of magazines and movies.
The elders in this circle would model love and compassion for their own aging physique, and the mothers would do the same. We’d all celebrate the abundant flesh of the pregnant woman with honor and reverence for her task at hand. We’d be considerate and kind to those making the tender transition from girl to woman or from woman to crone.
No fathers or brothers or boyfriends would be there to say, “Hold in your stomach,” or “You need to loose some weight.”
Instead, we would be steeped in love for the gift of our bodies; and thus, we’d love on the bodies of our sisters and mothers and aunts and classmates too.
No one would be rejected or “less than” because of her size or shape.
Yes, I would like to bring this kinder middle-aged me into my 15 year old body. I would like to see myself through these softer, more accepting eyes. And I would like to feel what my body felt like, from the inside, in the moment before I rejected her as not good enough.
Then I’d bring that lightness of being into my body now, as a blessing for us all.
Two Owls Calling 