Heart-shaped Hips

4 a.m. winter
assertiveness melting
in this dark throat

I recently saw a painting titled, “The World Moves on a Woman's Hips” by Rebecca Mercer. In bold, rounded form, the subject carries a child on one hip and an empty laundry basket on the other. Her hips are voluptuous, almost making a heart shape as she strides forward in purpose. The painting is vivid with primary blues, greens, and reds, the exception being the child wearing a purple shirt. Behind her is a yoni shaped opening in a swirl of fabric. It is beautiful and I'm drawn to it but also, I am struck by the choice of child and laundry basket on the hips, as if “the world” is childbearing and laundry.

Men working on the septic situation in the side yard tossed jackets over the skinny dogwood branches at the corner of the house. It is oddly something so mundane and yet, I've never seen it before now. As a woman, as me, I wouldn't have done that. Perhaps I would create a painting of me, with my full, heart-shaped hips, removing workman's hoodies from delicate dogwood branches.

It is morning now but still very dark and gray. I sit in the corner of the L-shaped couch, staring at out jacket-covered tree crotches, thinking I might be at a crossroads. The problem before now is that I have been trying to work through and eliminate fear, as opposed to focusing on the mastery of love. There is an infinite supply of fear to either conjure or ignore because I am the one creating it all. What if I just . . . didn't? What if it is truly enough to simply avail myself at all times to love?

Returning home from work last night, I realized I am menstruating in conjunction with a brimming moon. Ruddy fullness hangs supported in the trees and I can feel its glowing heft bearing down in my womb. My body readies a place to nurture something new. And I think thats how the world truly moves.