They could be to anyone, from anyone. Some of us wrote imaginary love letters from our husbands, from the perfect middle school crush or holiday fling, or from a parent, living or deceased. They were all fantastic. I chose to write a love letter to my body. Like many women, many people, I am in a perhaps lifelong, mostly behind-the-scenes process of working to embrace my body just as it is. Before I even got through page one, I choked on a sob.
It was a powerful experience for me. Here it is, 15 heartfelt minutes of my guts on the page. Some of you may prefer to read it typed below; others may prefer the photographed scrawl. I hope I find a good place to read it aloud again someday. In the meantime, feel free to share this with anyone for whom it might resonate.
You rode two MSs, Houston to Austin, a city to another fucking city, a century ride, to your job and back, so much riding, and all in less than half your existence.
Remember, dear body, you only learned to ride at You dance, even though some say yours is not the body for dancing. Who says? Society says? You belong, you would be better appreciated, in another era. You make me possible. We can go to church together and debate the soul, the spirit, but there is no doubt: you are real.
You are dynamic. You have and are getting shit done. You have walked seemingly endless trails through the night. You have hauled basses and amps larger than you, been crushed by waves—held under and still made it up for air—on rafts over whitewater. You have also said no, recoiled, shrunk away from temptations, errors, at the last minute. Thank you for that. You have kissed unexpectedly, embraced with your everything.
