When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do you focus your attention on what you perceive to be your assets or your flaws? Do you notice your long neck and fingers or do you focus on the tiny wrinkles at the corners of your eyes? How do you see yourself? With loving-kindness and appreciation as you would a lover or with criticism and judgment, as you would a bitter rival? Can you love what poet Mary Oliver calls “the soft animal of your body”?
Self-love has had a bad rap in Western culture. Think of the queen in “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” looking into the magic mirror and asking “Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?” The queen is vain, obsessed with her own appearance, so obsessed that she will poison the younger woman who is now her competition. Snow White is humble and pure, so unconcerned with her looks that one cannot imagine her asking the mirror’s opinion. And even if someone told her that she was the fairest in the land, she would not believe it for a second.
People say that beautiful women have the hardest time with aging because outer beauty fades irretrievably. And if beauty is synonymous with youth, then it will slowly vanish. But just as you can stay young at heart and keep a youthful open mind even when the body is no longer as firm and flexible as it once was, so too can you see yourself as beautiful even if your beauty is not the same as that of a supermodel or film star. I’m not talking about inner beauty, which contributes its own mysterious glow, but about outer beauty, about the perspective you take on the temple of your spirit, your own body.
Think of a lover, who never seems to notice your stretch marks, but instead praises your long neck when your hair is up or who compliments your behind, the same rear view that you have always loathed because one cheek hangs lower than the other. Can you imagine seeing yourself as your lover would?
Think of the women and men you know, your friends, your beloveds, your children. Most likely, you see their individual beauty. One friend belly-dancing in a local performance, her voluptuous body swaying to the beat of the drum. Entranced by the music, her face radiant, her costume glittering, she is an embodiment of the Divine Feminine. Another friend’s brown hair shot with silver, blowing in the breeze, her eyes alight with interest as she talks about the challenges of making a living doing what she love. A third friend whose deep orange caftan and carnelian necklace draws your eyes to her deep blue ones, her laugh as she shows off her Italian sandals, which have the word “sexy” stamped on the inner soles.
Now think of yourself. Do you see yourself the way you see your friends? Or do you focus on your every zit, grey hair, wrinkle, stretch mark or pound? Do you hate your thighs, your breasts, your upper arms, your belly, because they aren’t as firm or high or taut as they used to be, or as some celebrity’s appears to be?
I used to think that beauty was a gene that, like red hair, could skip generations. My blonde, blue-eyed mother with porcelain skin and my tall, brunette daughter with dark, almond-shaped eyes were the beauties to my plain Jane. All I could see were the width of my thighs, the stretch marks on my belly, the mousiness of my hair color. But as my daughter blossomed into young womanhood, I knew that if I wanted to be a positive role model of graceful aging, I needed to go beyond appreciating my body as a machine and change my self-perception to match my daughter’s view of me, which could be summed up as, “You’re beautiful and don’t let anyone tell you anything else.”
In my quest to see myself as beautiful, I wrote affirmations, lost a few pounds, bought clothes that fit my body, colored my hair auburn, found a good therapist to unlearn my negative conditioning, and began a 5 Rhythms dance practice. Now when I look at photos of my younger self, I can see the beauty that was there all along. It’s not the cool perfection of a Grecian statue or the willowy body of a catwalk model. It’s the thoughtful look in my eyes, the softness of my touch, the shy curve of my smile, the swaying of my hips as I move to the music of life.
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