I place my stacked hands on the space right under my navel. My belly presses into my palms as I inhale and expand. Lungs filled to the brim. My belly feels infinite. I exhale like a dragon. Under my hands resides a jewel, the color of a California poppy and it’s spinning like a dreidel. This place is made of earth, earth that is rich and fertile. Take a seed between your fingers, press it into your belly with a rigid thumb and wait. Take great care. Countless sit ups, a loathing-spiked sigh when the dress won’t zip, and avoidance of pizza with mozzarella that can stretch for miles will only serve as a stifling agent. Feed yourself. What are you hungry for? Go surfing. Twist. Bend backwards. Kiss someone’s earlobe. Don’t let the leaves fall without you at least once noticing how they light on fire in their death. The pomegranates are coming. Enough with the cellulite creams. Let’s talk about the poison–about how every time we see the glossy cover of Self magazine and make a wish, a wish for anything other than what our mamas gave us–how that’s the real poison in our world, it’s not so much the chemicals in our chicken or the hormones in our milk, it’s the pinching of fat from our bellies, the no thank you when offered tiramisu, the photoshopping, the snipping, the enlarging, smaller here but bigger here, relentless. Where does it end? These are our bodies, they are our homes and someday they will be a skeleton. But for now, they work, they can throw baseballs and grow babies, they get thirsty and sleepy, they can dream. But our bellies, they scream the loudest. We have many products to mask their cries, but be brave. Listen. A belly is more sensitive than a spine and wiser than a heart. This is the part of us that is the creator, the mother, the temptress. Those archetypes do not come from push up bras and false eyelashes. They are grown in our cores, intuitive and tender. Take great care.