What if we used our sense of smell to smell our bodies? All of its grotesque and sweet smells representing a long, stressful day or a kind and caring day.
What if we used our sense of sight for our thighs, and rather than harshly accessing them, saw the cellulite and imperfections as artifacts of our beautiful and broken genetics, of our impoverished relationship to food, of our need for community to remind us of the strangeness of beauty that it is not only smooth and perfect, but rippled and dimensional? A beauty that is not only feminine and supple, but also masculine and robust.
What if we used our sense of taste to enjoy a deliberately good meal; to experience each bite on our tongue as we slowly chew and notice the herbs, spices, moisture, and subtleties of what was created?
What if we used our sense of hearing as we take pleasure or delight in something? How might we gasp or coo or ache over the beauty of an onion, a tree, or your lover giving to you? How might we listen for those moments?
What if we used our sense of touch to feel our curves, from the top of our head down to our toes: running our fingers through our hair, cupping our faces, holding our warm tummy, massaging our hips, and feeling the hair on our legs as we linger down farther to caress each foot?
May we revere the body, take time to acknowledge its members and parts and all the work it has done for us to remain alive and voluptuous and open to God. The voluptuous God who is willing to abandon all power when the bold, crawling woman demands healing from her endlessly bleeding body?
We are given this languaged body to listen to and help us understand the world around and in us. We are given this languaged body to thwart evil from dividing our bodies from our minds in order to live full, embodied, and present lives.