I woke up this morning to Beauty. The beauty of a small pug dog snoring softly beside me, The pleasantly heavy warmth of the down comforter, its red sateen cover glowing in the morning light. The scent of roses on the nearby table. The taste of strong hot tea with milk. The music of Snow Patrol urging me to forget the world outside.
And yet I also woke up to the world outside, remembering a broadcast I’d heard just yesterday. The G7 had met and there was talk that in bailing out their financial institutions, the Europeans had just blown their environmental budget. Each country had its predictable sob story as to why it couldn’t meet its target for lowering greenhouse gas emissions. Poland cried that it was too poor to revamp its Soviet-era coal plants, while Germany wanted to protect its car manufacturers. The Brits proposed paying developing nations to not cut down their rain forests, in lieu of lowering its own carbon footprint. At least they all agree that global warming is a man-made crisis and are committed to some level of action, unlike the powers-that-be in this country who are just getting to the point of admitting that climate change is happening. And while humanity dithers, the polar ice caps and the Greenland Ice Sheet continue to melt, drop by drop into the oceans, causing them to slowly rise, and eventually flood the coastal cities where much of humanity now lives.
There are some who view this as good news. The New Agers hope that collapse will bring on a more sustainable civilization. And if not, they’ll tell you that since “we’re spiritual beings having a human experience,” what happens on this planet doesn’t really matter anyway. And then there are the Christian fundamentalists who are looking forward to the Apocalypse because they’re so convinced that in the “Rapture,” or the Second Coming, Christ will beam them up to the Pearly Gates. It never seems to occur to those who take pleasure in shooting wolves from the air that God might think twice about allowing into Heaven those who managed to turn the Garden of Eden into Hell on Earth, even, or especially, if they did it in Her name.
If we were not in such a hurry to transcend this world, perhaps we could slow down enough to see its beauty and be moved to protect it-- out of love. There is the immense beauty of the disappearing Amazon Rainforest, the melting Greenland Ice Sheet and the dying Great Barrier Reef, but there is also the everyday beauty that still exists in even the most impoverished or frenetic of lives: the sight of the crescent new moon, the quiet sound of snow falling, the bittersweetness of dark chocolate, the scent of wild fennel growing along the bay, the warmth of a friend’s embrace, the ecstasy of a lover's caress, the heart-opening beauty of a child’s smile. If we could see how each of our lives is shot through with beauty, perhaps we could learn to cherish each moment and each other as well. And that would be real rapture.
Showing posts with label beauty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beauty. Show all posts
Friday, October 17, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Freudian Slip
Seeing other women’s beauty is easy, seeing my own is hard. The reasons are both generic and specific. A culture that worships the perfection of youth. Shaming parents. The body cast that covered my torso from shoulder to hipbone my freshman year of high school. Therapy and affirmations and self-improvement have helped me to reclaim a sense of ease and appreciation for this body, but I still struggle to have the confidence that other women, including my daughter, seem to just naturally possess.
On Christmas Eve, my 20something daughter and I are in Paris, walking through the 7th arrondisment, when I notice a name on a shop sign that I recognize from decades of reading fashion magazines. That Sabbia Rosa is an upscale lingerie store is immediately evident from the lovely white satin nightgowns on the mannequins in the display windows. Since Tina is interested in fashion design, I suggest we take a peek inside.
Tina quickly finds something to try on and disappears into one of the dressing rooms, while I wander around a bit, checking out the multitude of prints and colors. On a whim, I decide to try on something. From the rack, I choose an exquisite floral slip in autumnal colors on a white background, with rust lace, and the shop girl hangs it in the other dressing room. Peeling off the winter layers of coat, scarf, and boots takes a while. Finally, it’s me and the tiny slip. Cut on the bias, this one-size-fits-all gown hugs every curve, the ones I like and the ones I’m not so fond of. The length just above the knees, shows off my legs. When I peek out from behind the curtain, my daughter (who looks gorgeous in everything) enthuses, “It looks great on you, Mom!,” The shop girl agrees, adding, “You can even wear it as a dress!”
The colors remind me of a John Donne poem about the beauty of an autumn face.
Back again in the privacy of the dressing room, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. A woman in the autumn of her life, with long, auburn hair and brown eyes with flashes of green. A woman whose skin is no longer girlishly smooth, whose belly is rounded and stretch-marked from childbearing, whose body shows the effects of gravity. Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to suspend my disbelief until I can see her as beautiful, as desirable. There, there, it is. A beauty that is not airbrushed perfection or the flawlessness of youth, but the beauty of a body that can still dance, still feel deep joy.
As I slip off the dress, I glance at the price tag. Six hundred and thirty euros, or about the cost of my transatlantic ticket. I could dip into my savings and buy this nightgown, made in France, from French silk and lace. Another dress comes to mind, a pricey little black number by French designer Azzedine Alaïa that I tried on once. It was a dress that also embraced every curve, like all of his clothes. At that time, I could have afforded it more easily than I can this one, but I totally lacked the confidence to wear it. Browsing in a bookstore here, I saw a quote by Alaiä, along the lines of why would any woman spend big money on a little skirt, if not for seduction; why else wear clothes. Indeed, the Parisian department store, Galeries Lafayette, refers to its lingerie section, which takes up an entire floor, as “seduction fashion.” However, if I buy this slip of a gown, I will not be looking to seduce another, but to please myself.
A few days later, just before leaving Paris, I return to Sabbia Rosa to try on the gown again. The shop girl remembers me. “Is everything alright?,” she calls out as I stand for a few minutes gazing again at the woman in the mirror. The gown is just as exquisite, the woman wearing it looks just as lovely as before. Resolving to remember this image in those future moments, when insecurity or Botox temptations assail me or old age overtakes me, I take a picture of her with my mental camera.
When I’m 90, I want to remember this moment.
On Christmas Eve, my 20something daughter and I are in Paris, walking through the 7th arrondisment, when I notice a name on a shop sign that I recognize from decades of reading fashion magazines. That Sabbia Rosa is an upscale lingerie store is immediately evident from the lovely white satin nightgowns on the mannequins in the display windows. Since Tina is interested in fashion design, I suggest we take a peek inside.
Tina quickly finds something to try on and disappears into one of the dressing rooms, while I wander around a bit, checking out the multitude of prints and colors. On a whim, I decide to try on something. From the rack, I choose an exquisite floral slip in autumnal colors on a white background, with rust lace, and the shop girl hangs it in the other dressing room. Peeling off the winter layers of coat, scarf, and boots takes a while. Finally, it’s me and the tiny slip. Cut on the bias, this one-size-fits-all gown hugs every curve, the ones I like and the ones I’m not so fond of. The length just above the knees, shows off my legs. When I peek out from behind the curtain, my daughter (who looks gorgeous in everything) enthuses, “It looks great on you, Mom!,” The shop girl agrees, adding, “You can even wear it as a dress!”
The colors remind me of a John Donne poem about the beauty of an autumn face.
Back again in the privacy of the dressing room, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. A woman in the autumn of her life, with long, auburn hair and brown eyes with flashes of green. A woman whose skin is no longer girlishly smooth, whose belly is rounded and stretch-marked from childbearing, whose body shows the effects of gravity. Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to suspend my disbelief until I can see her as beautiful, as desirable. There, there, it is. A beauty that is not airbrushed perfection or the flawlessness of youth, but the beauty of a body that can still dance, still feel deep joy.
As I slip off the dress, I glance at the price tag. Six hundred and thirty euros, or about the cost of my transatlantic ticket. I could dip into my savings and buy this nightgown, made in France, from French silk and lace. Another dress comes to mind, a pricey little black number by French designer Azzedine Alaïa that I tried on once. It was a dress that also embraced every curve, like all of his clothes. At that time, I could have afforded it more easily than I can this one, but I totally lacked the confidence to wear it. Browsing in a bookstore here, I saw a quote by Alaiä, along the lines of why would any woman spend big money on a little skirt, if not for seduction; why else wear clothes. Indeed, the Parisian department store, Galeries Lafayette, refers to its lingerie section, which takes up an entire floor, as “seduction fashion.” However, if I buy this slip of a gown, I will not be looking to seduce another, but to please myself.
A few days later, just before leaving Paris, I return to Sabbia Rosa to try on the gown again. The shop girl remembers me. “Is everything alright?,” she calls out as I stand for a few minutes gazing again at the woman in the mirror. The gown is just as exquisite, the woman wearing it looks just as lovely as before. Resolving to remember this image in those future moments, when insecurity or Botox temptations assail me or old age overtakes me, I take a picture of her with my mental camera.
When I’m 90, I want to remember this moment.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Making Friends with the Mirror
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.
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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