Remember when you were 16 and you believed your physical appearance needed improvement?
Later at 30 or 40, same thing. Something about you was below par. Unperfect. Not acceptable.
You’re older now, with the song of imperfection (still) singing in the background about wrinkles, effects of gravity, weight. Whatever.
Recently you and your sisters thumbed through old photos — and realized how gorgeous you all were then! Dripping with beauty, full of light. Vibrant and bright-hearted. You had no clue!
Here’s the plan. Grab my hand, go with me, let’s fast forward to 92 looking back. How lovely we were — now!
Beautiful one, you rock!
The morning teacher seemed friendly enough.
She mostly dished kindness, but here and there, something spat sideways from her beautiful offering bowl . A dollop of derision, for instance, placed perfectly atop the morning porridge. A sprinkle of disgust mixed with the crystal clear sugar. Disdain, just a touch, floating in the pretty peaches and cream.
This surprised me — every time — until I clarified my thought-butter.
Does scorn hide in the covered corners of my pantry? Does my upper lip curl (even slightly) upon detecting (fear parading as) prejudice, hate in others?
And, do I notice?
Where’s my oatmeal-blueberry love then?
There I was all by myself, minding my own business, when Morning Glory climbed onto the porch, reaching out in five or six directions, dropping conversational color everywhere.
What a miracle to be alone, then suddenly offered such bright company.
Glory said, “Hello, I’m here for you, want to talk?”
How generous of her, how brilliant, how refined. She must have been feeling magna cum beautiful, brimming with a Master’s in Purple.
The casual, confident climbing. The lavish, vibrant offering. The gift of full presence.
I, simple human, aspire to all of these. My friend Ms. Glory already knows how.
The watercolor painting of a ballet dancer slid elegantly down the wall one night while I was sleeping, offering a poignant point the next morning: “Are your feet dancing, honey, through this change?”
The puffy white comforter secured on a shelf since winter, untouched for months, came tumbling down. I watched it roll. (Freaky, really.) “You’ll land softly.”
The Zen brush painting was “overlooked” during packing wall art. Ah, yes! “Meditate, see things as they are, not as the mind insists.”
Moving advice: Dance confidently forward through your changes! Or pirouette. Or slide down the wall. All of it works.
Moving to a new household — so many choices.
Where does the heavy cooking pot go, or shall I give it wings? What about this perfect stack of porcelain, this whisk of all whisks? Where exactly will I sleep, dress, brush my teeth?
Am I alone on this journey?
Not in the least. Change, my faithful life partner, is visiting. Encouraging, hovering, sometimes demanding attention.
And yes, tapping gently on my heart.
How will this go? Will we remain friends, speak often, solve matters of love in an evolving, satisfying way?
Will we grow together, stroll into the sunset, die happy?