Bodies always get me y'all.
I'm a sucker for the lines of humans--our figures, shapes, the way all our pieces fit together.
We are complex and simple and fleshy and lovely.
Often I find myself lost in a wave of awe at the ways our veins and tissue wind together, connecting, giving us life...I'm in love with hips and thighs and stomachs, throats and cheeks, broad smiles and freckled noses.
But then there's my own.
Like many women, I have struggled with my own body. I love the idea of it--the rounded hips perfect for resting a baby on someday, the broad shoulders that can hold the weight of another's world--I like my body figuratively, love it even, but in all of its realness, in all of its sometimes pimply-so-quick-to-bruise-wobbly-bits fleshiness, there's no love lost between my body and me.
In fact it sometimes feels like all-out-war: Jamie Lynn vs. her Grandmother's hips and her Mama's thighs, round 27.
But then, every year, the beach happens.
I carry a sea kayak to the ocean and slowly insecurities about pale inner thighs are replaced with the strength of my arms.
I throw myself into the water, salt and sea washing over me, and thankfulness for knees and strong calves floods in while fear of failure, fear of fat, fades away.
Running this morning with Sarah Nichole, my limbs strong and competent under me, my mantra of you are not enough, you are not enough, you are not enough was replaced with a song of I can, I can, I can.
We are beautiful y'all--all of us--beautiful, beloved, whole.
We can. We can. We can.