HILARY WRITES ABOUT THE INTERSECTIONS OF WOMANHOOD AND SPIRITUALITY.

Soft

I'm never going to get soft. 

I think to myself 

as I stand in front of the mirror

pinching my underarm skin

my brow furrowed

in resolute determination.

 

Nine months later my belly is stretched like a tent over pegs,

pulling, making room

and I know

this wineskin which has held so much new wine

could no longer be trusted not to burst.

 

I hold my belly in my hands

clinched between finger and palm

battle worn and pliable

my eyes weary, dark, deep

I nestle into myself, look into the mirror 

and realize that 

becoming soft may be the more beautiful gift.

Holy Moments

A Writer