Thunder Thighs
Last night, a poem came to me in a dream. I woke up with the words lingering in my mind, demanding to be written. I have not written in MONTHS and I have not published on my blog in a year and half, so I’m not exactly sure why this poem came to me now. Perhaps it’s the stress of the last several months and the toll that it’s taken on my wellbeing. Perhaps it’s the PTSD associated with the start of hurricane season, this week’s heavy rainstorms, seeing images of the horrific flooding in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and the DREAD I feel when I think about returning to our flood house. Perhaps it’s the story of the 12 year old boy who died as a result of being trapped in his basement during the Michigan flooding, or the stories of children being separated from their parents at the borders. Perhaps it’s my acute awareness of the aging process and my lifelong struggle with body acceptance. Perhaps it’s the #metoo movement. Perhaps it’s all of these things, or maybe it’s none of them. Perhaps I am simply a conduit of a message…..
Truthfully, I know that I’m much more than just a conduit.. that my act of sharing my writing is about my own healing through self-expression and vulnerability. Every time I share such raw emotion, I anticipate the judgment. I can already hear your voices in my head. I am well aware that even most closest friends deem me “too emotional” or “too sensitive.” They feel that I should change: I should be tougher, or more detached, or medicated.. or something other than someone who feels too much. And somedays I wish I weren’t a highly sensitive person, overly attuned to the energies around her. That I didn’t care so much. But most often, I cherish this gift that enables me to connect whole-heartedly with the people around me. This connection is only made possible when I am courageous enough to open up about myself, which is what prompts me to share this latest piece….
As always, be kind and gentle with yourself and each other
xxx C.
Thunder Thighs
If my thighs could talk, they’d tell you
About the injustices they’ve experienced
The harsh judgment
For their non-conformity
For their flabbiness
For the extra space that they occupy
They would tell you about the baby they cushioned on his way into the world
And they would tell you about the grief they carry for the babies who slipped through their gates too soon
They would mention the stirrups
Of being poked, prodded
Of being violated
They would tell you whose hands were loving and whose were not
Of their shame and outrage
They would reminisce fondly about mountain top climbs, deep sea dives, and runs in faraway lands
They would recall being pushed to their limits and how they persevered
Of being stretched and strengthened
And they would whisper about the days when they did not want to get out of bed
When the world was simply too much for their tender folds
They would tell you that their thunder is a force to be reckoned with
The sound of the lighting inside
Of one woman’s storm
