Hello, reader. How do you sleep when your thoughts are overwhelming? Saying thank you to my body is a way I soothe my mind.
thank you to my body
I love you, heart. Thank you for how you feel all these feelings with such bravery, while pumping my blood. Thank you for being the scapegoat for all my fears of death. I’m sorry I’ve worried about you in ways you never deserve. You’re doing amazing work, and I’m grateful.
I love you, liver. Thank you for cleaning me in an inner way. You are so large and strange, lobed and asymmetrical. You’ve been going great all my life, and I’m sorry I take you for granted. You are amazing, and I humble myself to you.
I love you, lungs. Thank you for drawing the sky into my body and harvesting some molecules you need, then pushing out what’s not needed. You make the rhythm of my life. I’m sorry for when I breathed smog air and smoked cigarettes. I want to treat you better. You are twin magicians.
I love you, skin. Thank you for helping me contain myself and for being the most basic of boundaries. I recognize what you need and want to give it to you.
I love you, sexual reproductive parts. Thank you for trying your best although I will never have a baby. I’ve blamed you for so much pain. But I love your efforts. It’s adorable how you still don’t give up.
sacred
I love you, brain. Thank you for what you hold and how you help create my identity, holding memory and values. You seem so heavy and clunky, and I’m sorry there’s no middle ground–I over-rely on you, or I spurn you in favor of the rest of my body. Maybe one day I’ll find a balance and get it right.
I love you, feet. You are so sacred for being my main way of connecting to Parent Earth. You are so vulnerable yet carry all 340 pounds of me (or however much I weigh these days). So steadfast, you deserve an award.
I love you, back. I’m sorry I’ve criticized you that you’re poorly designed and too vulnerable to pain. Thank you for connecting all of me. Thank you for your broadness and strength.
I love you, skeleton. I imagine you inside me and feel proud. You are doing great work. Todos somos calaveras.
attention
I love you, hips. You are my favorite joints. I love how large you are and how it feels to glide you around. I always want to respect what you need. You impress me every day.
I love you, breasts. I’m sorry it’s awkward to exist in the world and attract attention in ways that I almost never want. Yet I find you beautiful and enjoy the comfort you give to me as well as to my dear ones. You’ve endured scrutiny. Since I was a child, nasty men have consistently wanted access to your soft roundness. But I will never blame you for the violence others have chosen. You’re sacred and have done no wrong.
I love you, shoulders. I’m sorry I hid you for so long. I respect you and will never feel embarrassed of you again.
I love you, hands. You are my best friends, doing my bidding in a thousand ways. Thank you for writing, harvesting rosemary, making music, feeding me, touching everything, holding the people I love, brushing my teeth. I want to be kind to you all my life. Not only do you work hard, you are so beautiful. No one else admires my hands, but I always admire you–yes to little scars, knuckle wrinkles, the lines of my palms, the pink of my nail beds. I respect you.
grand
I love you, eyes. Thank you for continuing to see, even when it hurts.
I love you, ass. I’m sorry I used to resent you. These days, I will never betray you. You’re just right.
I love you, stomach. You are grand, and no one will ever understand you, but I treasure you.
I love you, neck and throat. I vow to protect you, including my thyroid. I’m sorry for when I stopped speaking. These days I work to keep you fluent.
I love you, intestines. Thank you for all you process.
I love you, cells. You’re amazing.
I love you, teeth. Thank you for not falling out yet.
I love you, ankles. Thank you for staying alive.
I love you, wrists. I will give you little kisses right now.
