Just a little over four months have passed since my son was born. I have a beautiful, chubby-cheeked boy who smells of sweet milk and whose smile grows out of the left side of his mouth. I love him with all of my heart. Still, when I am alone and getting dressed, it continues to shock me how foreign my body feels to me. I have been a belly dancer for 16 years now, rarely shy of showing my curves whether at my lightest or heaviest. Adorned in sequins and beaded fringe and rhinestones, I always felt beautiful. A few extra pounds earned through chocolate and wine were not just forgiven, but celebrated once Middle Eastern rhythms reverberated through every inch of my being. And yet, now, it is so hard to admit it, but I am suddenly ashamed. Nine months of pregnancy, glorious as they were, left my belly stretched beyond recognition, striped pale purple and pink. The shape is odd to me - loose and then pulled tight at the scar where my son was pulled out into this world while I lay unconscious. This is not the belly I have danced with for 16 years.
One of my students is battling cancer with grace and bravery. She told me today how important belly dancing is and that she has been ordered by her doctors to keep it up. Cancer can make a person feel like their body has betrayed them. Belly dancing, however, reminds us to appreciate the body. Rather than hating what the body is doing, belly dancing has the power to elevate and make us love our bodies for allowing us to move beautifully, sensuously, and within a circle of friends who love and accept us.
I have so much to be grateful for, especially my students who continue to inspire me. This is the only body I have. I think I can learn to love it again for the experiences it provides me. Whatever the condition of my belly, I am still moving through this world as a belly dancer, a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, and a teacher surrounded by extraordinary women. I can live with that. No, I can more than live - I can shimmy through my days with a smile and a full heart.
