I’ve been spending a lot of time in contemplation of much these days, gazing at every inch of the elephant of sorrow and each cell that makes up the blue whale of regrets, trying to make this puny human learn where the process leads.
Contrary to popular opinion in some circles, this old shell has not hardened beyond the capacity to grow, and I’m finding out that I can, indeed, fit a lot more under the hood.
Although it will come, this is not to be a post about deep stirrings of my psychic soup, but rather a few shallow observations of what has risen to the surface as I attempt to suss out the makings of me. I will, eventually, I’m sure, ride the remorse leviathan and live to blog about lessons learned from the journey, but today I want to talk about eyes. Mine, to be specific, my relationship with both of them and a surprising new vision.
I have come to hear quite recently that my eyes are one of my better features. I write these words with trepidation and disbelief, having spent the better part of fifty years wishing I had a different set. Having formed much of my self-image at the time Keane art was plastered all over the place and Twiggy’s was the face to aspire to, my Hanks eyes seemed inadequate, and since that message was underscored often enough by my wide-eyed mother, I accepted what seemed fact that beauty was to evade me because I was so unowl-like.
It’s only been recently that I’ve stopped doing all I could to minimize my boobs, too, after years of being embarrassed by the copious chestage I developed early in life, and I do wonder what an early comfort with … perhaps even some appreciation for … my physical form might have produced in the way of positive outcomes.
Would I have made better choices in life if I’d felt more worthy? I’m fairly sure that would have been the case, since I am aware of the impact of unworthiness and where it led.
I understand well that standard beauty is a product aggressively marketed, and I also feel that no harm was meant as the underlying theme of “not quite pretty” was repeated throughout my formative years, but I am pissed off that it’s taken me this long to start feeling comfortable in my skin, especially since it’s heading south.
Lessons?
Well …
I love the fact that Sam and Cj know to their bones that they are beautiful and understand that it is my job to continue to arm them with the confidence they will need when the world hints that they are in some way falling short.
I’m also rather pleased that I can manage to feel pretty … when I take the time to fix myself up … finally.
I still have a long way to go on the “worthy” business, but realizing this does make it easier to relax the reflex judgment muscle that’s been honed over the years, and that’s an energy saver.
And although it’s neither easy, nor comfortable, I’m pleased I’m still climbing the learning curve, as resting on laurels would just give me a fat ass.
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 