I have heard it said

I have heard it said that a woman has a choice.

As she ages, she can like either: Her body.

Or: Her face.

They say that when a woman reaches that certain age, a skinny body means a sunken face and a full face means a chubby body. 

Thus she cannot like both. How could she? Ewwww!

What then – on earth!!! – should she do?

~

I didn’t know I was lovely when I was younger. Many young women don’t. Many women hit middle age, look back and regret, “If only I had known. Why was I so blind?”

Mostly I rejected the notion of physical beauty. I found it obvious. To be born beautiful is pure luck. Why give it such merit? 

Even as a teen, I admired most the people who thought clearly and spoke truthfully, people who showed great compassion and held a high vision.

I never cared much about appearance, but about character. About presence and fortitude and willingness and heart.

~

It’s easy to love a perfect thing. Safe. Simple. No big deal.

To love the fading thing, the fragile thing, the confusing contradiction of a thing, the clumsy thing, the crude thing, the uncontrollable wayward thing, the outcast thing, the thing that never got a chance to reach its potential…

To love these things is the choice of character.

~

I choose: My face.

And: My body.

I hope you do too.

---

I truly do not know what I’m doing.

Even so, the plants grow.

And the flowers bloom.

My mother calls it: The Unseen Forces of the Universe Helping Us Along The Way.

All I know: I long for a garden.

At age forty-seven-and-a-half, life feels liminal.

I am no longer young. Not yet old. Something between. Middle Aged Woman.

This place, this body, it’s something culture hasn’t mapped well. There’s no nuance to the terrain. Only sharp cliffs, musty caves, dead-ends. Falling skin, hollowing bones, disappearing muscles.

Nothing lovely left here, they say.

But my sense of it is different. Much richer. Like compost. Have you noticed how it stinks so good?

---

She has never turned a head or saved a world.

Her neighbors hear flour when what she means is flower.

Mostly gravity’s laws confuse her.

But even so – even so – she loves her life in a tone that angels can’t help but hum.

And sometimes that tune gets stuck in an angel’s head and the angel sings along while dusting the corners of eternity.

And sometimes the angel flies to the girl – who is at once a woman – and whispers the song back into her ear.

It always happens right on time, right when the woman – who is at once a girl – was wondering what it’s all for.

She hears her melody and feels the harmony and she remembers.

I turned forty-five.

Gray hairs boldly grow betwixt the blonde. Coarse. In a direction of their own. Gray hairs don’t apologize.

I am forty-five. The mirror confirms it.

I am not the first woman to be shocked by her reflection. The changes happen so suddenly.

I am not the first woman to yearn for smoothness and effortlessness and tautness. Nor will I be the last.

But I will not avoid my reflection. Instead, I will linger. And I will let nature have her way with me, mostly.

Because I am most proud of myself for being willing to look at life squarely. Willing to attempt–again and again–to see clearer. Willing to feel confusion and grief and anger and longing and joy and awe and terror and ecstasy. Willing to feel. To learn. To see.

In my youth, I disregarded beauty. I thought it frivolous. Now I understand that what I actually believed was that I, myself, was not worthy of beauty. I didn’t linger in the mirror. I believed myself too unworthy.

Now, at forty-five, I try not to judge myself as one thing or another. Instead when I look in the mirror, I attempt to recognize the person, the human, the soul, looking back at me.

These days, I crave beauty at every turn. Not the sort of photo filters and laser peels, but the beauty of epic films and aching songs and dewy fresh cut flowers and silk dresses and the most exotic perfume you’ve ever smelled and the most pleasurable touch you’ve ever felt and the most flavorful bite you’ve ever taken.

I crave beauty.

And at forty-five, I allow it.

Happy Birthday to me.

don’t forget

the way the moon announces herself:

a soft curve inside the infinite dark

and then,

she grows

I move at the speed of twinkle lights.

The flashlight in your blanket fort.
I tried to be a laser
– certain, directed, hot.
Now I dapple leaves,
shadow puppets
on a breeze.
Blue sky.
Dance.

Sunrise celebrates

you
and i
do too

I want to believe

that my life matters.

I want to believe that your life matters.

Actually I believe it's accidental.

I believe we make our own matter.

It never ceases to amaze me all the things that never cease to amaze me.

Like the moon when I see it.

I always gasp as though it is something new. I call a friend or two, Have you seen the moon?

They sigh, Oh!

And the way the buildings in the city, when seen from far, look as though they are painted across the sky.

And graffiti that looks like art.

And somebody else’s lips touching mine.

If I won the lottery tomorrow I wouldn’t change much. I wouldn’t buy a plane ticket. I wouldn’t quit my job.

But I would walk slower. I would memorize the bridge of your nose, the way it rises and slopes.

I would take nothing seriously and exalt it all.

Like the birds, the way they gather, as if being together is absolutely everything.

And then they go.

quiet

your

thoughts

and

let

your

heart

beat

the

tempo

of the story

I am good at leaving,

good at being left.

By good,

I mean practiced.

I was born into goodbye.

My People

Those with hearts wide open

Fast forever friends

Easy laughers

Loud voices who know when to be quiet and can sit silent with ease

The sleeve-roller-uppers

The what-needs-to-be-done-doers

Diplomatic, extroverted, truth-telling loners

Perspective seekers with smile lines and sharp minds

Compassion givers

Moon gazing skinny dippers

who take nothing personally but feel it all and

let it go

the cure

for

everything

is

a long walk

The sky isn't falling

until it is.

When it does, let it.

Make space in your sinews.

Be wide-eyed.

Watch.

The path to heaven

is not paved with piety
but riddled with
wildflowers and weeds.

Which is which?
A quandary.
Unknowable.

Don’t be good.
Be awake.

Want to be an expert at something you love?

Stop trying to be the smartest and the most renowned.

Be the greatest lover instead, the most curious and devoted.

Trade small certainties for absolute delight.

Don’t bore me

with your big ideas, grand schemes.

I want to see you on a Tuesday

when the only thing to eat

is broccoli, no vacation plans.

Can you make art from the most ordinary of days?

may i take this heartbreak,

this loneliness, this worry and fear

turn it into a beautiful thing

a useful thing

may i soften what is hard

may i turn it into art

me into art

Your father’s cell joined your mother’s cell and you became.

You did not need
a to-do list,
project manager,
motivational speaker
to grow
into a human,
yourself.

Life knows what to do.
This rule remains
even now.

Trust it.
Let breath
live you.

Go now

into the wild without map or breadcrumbs. Take no pictures. Don’t write. There is nothing to document. Just simple experience ~ darkness falling, crunching leaves and cold.