More than any other time, I am spilling into my womynness. Walking down the street today, catching the sun in the locks of my hair—gentle breezes caressing my center to travel down my back and the inside of my thighs. I am so alive and wide, growing into my womynness. The man at the corner winked at me; I smiled back. I am no longer afraid. Time has taught me to appreciate my gifts—subtle curves, tender waist, full lips and warm skin. This is not conceit. This womyness is hard fought—hard won. To be woman is to be whole and layered. I am remarkably woman—carefully made. I see, all the time, little girls who mistakenly believe that because their bodies talk, womyness is bestowed. Womyness is not given, it is earned. I’ve waited so long for this-- fought through harsh realizations and sat with unpleasant considerations—walked through the loss of a marriage and a parent, upset of family and friends—two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the road less traveled by. Zora Neale Hurston wrot...