Sweet and Petite

I've got this little girl named Fern.  Sweet and petite, feisty and spicy, with a quirk all her own.  There is this little thing about this little girl, truly small but so endearing.  This little thing that she loves so much, unique to her and highly delightful is her floppy little belly button.  This is no mere "outy" but rather takes on a form all its own, distinctive to her since the cord dis-attached, and she loves it.  This peculiar little place on her tummy is a source of endless delight, a built in play thing if you will.  A soothie of sorts that can take her from an all out meltdown to calm baby when combined with sucking her two middle fingers.  I love this funny little girl with this funny little belly button so very much.  I love everything about her, every little piece of her...........  One day she will notice that this little place on her body it different then most.  Navels are everywhere now a days, and so this special little spot on her body will be comparison shopped, and it will not fit in.  My heart will ache the day that one of her favorite things becomes her least favorite.  It will signify a change in her.  This little girl will be growing up, and will no longer love things that used to delight her but rather seek "normalcy" and value things based on the opinions of others.  I know that this day will come, and while it is a small thing the significance of that small part of her strikes something deep within me.  Its enough to make you Amish, and it awakens the mama bear inside of me.  I dare someone to be the first to tell her that every part of her isn't lovely, see what happens.  If only it were that easy, there will be no words spoken telling her that she is not enough.  The message will be received none the less as she is bombarded with images that tell her beauty is:  white, 5'10", a size 4, has straight teeth, compliant hair, flawless skin, perky little boobs, a thigh gap and an almond shaped belly button.  What shall I do then?  She will not be little any more.  I will not be able to scoop her up in my arms and sweep her away to a place where photo shop does not exist.  She will be beyond sucking her fingers and playing with her belly button.  I will not be able to sooth her as I am now.  So I will start now with telling her how fantastic she is, an image bearer of the most high God, bought with a price, and loved with his life.  I will tell her of the inherent beauty within her, the value that her life holds.  That each part of her was planned and designed with Gods artistic flair.  And that will her he said "I have this special little thing, for this special little girl and it is just right for her."

I really don't care what the media has to say............

Billboards bombarding
bombing my eyes with navels and drivel
of how perfection ought to be
and them saying thats not me

Women's eyes lowering
abuse apparent to any that would witness
don't you see them cowering
with eyes that are listless....


Still payed for their bodies to be prostituted
mens eyes take want they want
its all free
plainly posted for all to see

Plastered and smeered
gauked at and leered
Making women feel inferior
because of their posterior

Anxiety sells
to the weak and empty
Perpetuating a myth
a lack of plenty

Filling the void
shoving it full
all while assuming
all it takes is good grooming

A bag
or a beer
a car
and a good career

Crap covered in glitter
and priced to sell
all while endorsing
consumerism hell

The lies are apparent
the language is plain
All that they want
is yourself to disdain

To create longing and fear
to prey on the weak
to optimise sales
and for profits to peak

There is no desire
to meet our needs
but to feed the beast
that they will never free

To hell with the billboards
 and the magazine ads
I am sick of  profit whors
and consumerism fads

I done with the game
of trying to achieve
that mythical place
in which I don't believe

This is my body
Its all that I've got
and while I may not be a model
my husband thinks it hot

So screw the photos
that tell you to think
that something is wrong
and to just go along

Its time to declare
in no delicate way
that I don't really care
what the media has to say.

Bread crumbs on the table.

I am not sure how it happens, but it does none the less.  Little things pile, small pieces of a busy life, a full home are left lying around.  They get ignored, left for another day and soon it is not so little.  There is something to a home that is lived in, where traces of life in this space give a certain comfort.  The safety in knowing that none of us are quite there yet, that human perfection does not exist, and permission for authenticity is granted.  I sometimes choose not to clean before a friend comes over, wanting them to know that their lovely little tornadoes are welcome in this space and no personal possession that I own is worth more then that relationship.  But it is a delicate balance between authenticity and aesthetic.  Function and form.  Healing is happening but my wrist still has little function, limited range.  Typing may be easier but yoga is still out.  Knowing that limitation makes want to do it all the more.  Never mind that yoga and I had been apart for some time before this.  As I had written it off as trendy fitness, for beautiful late 20s single, who while being able to balance in tree pose could not balance a check book, let alone a baby on the hip with a cold cup of coffee in hand.  Like the cold coffee it had left a sour taste in my mouth, and I wanted none of it..........  Until now.  The lure of what I cannot have drawing me in.  As long as I chose to forsake yoga there was no desire for it, but now the choice removed by physical limitation I think of it longingly.  As my wrist heals this longing shall pass and I shall again be in my right mind, fully realizing that not everything I long for is my true longing but rather an emotional knee jerk reaction to the moment.  Because we can't live life in a studio and balance is a myth.  There is only reality, and the reality is that my house is dirty, and for now I am okay with the breadcrumbs on the table.