Come into my eyes and Look at Me

Don't be distracted by my faint freckles. I can cover them.  

I have my mother’s stormy blue-grey eyes. My auburn eyelashes are a little thin, short. I can put on thick dark ones that look the same as if I painted and curled them.

I like to smile. I wear pomegranate red lip color to give my lips a natural yet vibrant tone. I can bleach my teeth, cap them even.

The wrinkled skin on my neck and around my eyes seems minor, easy to minimize. I can fill them with a cream to look smooth or if too distracting, stretch them taut or even just remove them. There are exercises if I do nightly might help, also.

My hair. So many options here. Color, style, cut, sheen. What would you like? 

"There is a voice that doesn't use words. Listen." Rumi

My friend Meghan and I are late-night chatters….two hours pass as we canvas the details of our lives and touch upon the depths of meaning of beauty, life, relationship. She reminded me of Rumi’s voice, expressed more than 800 years ago, still echoes today.

I grow flowers in my garden so I may have a ready supply of color and shape to bring inside and keep me company in my kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. Whenever possible, I choose hotel rooms with a vista to relish every sunrise and sunset.   

Beautiful women are alluring, a visual pleasure to acknowledge her features. She doesn't just attract my attention but holds it. Yesterday, I watched a commercial for a soap product that was selling beauty in a different form. The company celebrated the beauty of portraits of healthcare workers with damaged skin from wearing protective gear while treating patients infected with the Coronavirus. One headshot after another without words but soft music with an ascending rhythm played in the background. The final picture remained longer to allow the viewer to notice her features. Her serene yet determined eyes looked into the camera as if looking at me, and although I felt compelled to meet her gaze, I had time to see the dark bruised marks on her cheeks, forehead, and even some cut lines where her mask must have bored into her skin. Three words came onto the screen one at a time, overlaying the photo; courage is beautiful.   

COVID19's smackdown of the non-essential beautification industry has been a relief and respite to the daily, weekly, monthly grind women and men partake to go through to make themselves look better.  

 Have you noticed any difference in the appearance of people? Have you judged people by their appearance or background for their space? We are relying on a computer camera, awkward lighting, and sketchy wi-fi. Why make an effort to dress up, work on my appearance? People dying, those who work at hospitals are risking their lives every shift, older relatives, and community members who have illnesses are incredibly vulnerable to a virus we don't have a cure for nor fully understand.   

It is hard, stressful, and thoughts of beauty have shifted to related stories, captured moments of love, sacrifice, reminders of our capacity and need for joy and laughter as a way to get through. 

Yet, there are times - for a date, a party, an event where I enjoy the transformation to dress up, look my personal best. I need to filter the chorus of well-meaning friends, family, workers who want to help me. I want to love my lines, spots, shape, yet it is hard as there is money to be made to convince me otherwise. I want not to erase, change, alter, hide from who I am. I want to love and honor all the hardships or decisions that I might have made or genetic gifts to give me this face, this body, as is today. That said, just like I spend money and time to nourish the soil for my flowers, I nourish my body, skin, hair and enjoy playing with my features. I like to think if I am well, loving myself that my beauty will shine through.  

"You are not a drop in the ocean; you are the ocean in a drop." Rumi

Setting: a mid-afternoon at a small brick neighborhood church. One hundred fifty friends and family gathered on a Saturday in late May for a wedding - mine. It was partly sunny, 95 degrees and 90 percent humidity.  

Ninety minutes earlier: doubting my beauty with growing anxiety at being the center of attention, I now regretted not hiring a beautician. My maid of honor and sister had make up and went to work. My eyelashes were now dark, thick, long, and curled. My freckly face now Barbie beige and my plump lips painted a Chinese Red. I felt radiant.  

Later, on the alter, the heat of being in the spotlight without ventilation, my pores blocked, eyelashes and brows now temporary dams and obstacles.

I concentrated not to move my head in any way as a coating of new sweat had now gathered and was holding a place in my eyebrows, hairline. I tried to keep my eyes open, sensing the balance was delicate. I wasn't nervous; I was hot. My choice of a Princess Diana satin wedding gown was at first regrettable except for the potential to be a body sweat diaper.  

I felt the first trickle form from my hairline. Drops of saltwater slowly rolled and collected on the inside of my eye. I squeezed my eyes shut for relief from the stinging salt. 

I opened my eyes and turned to my fiance and watched competing for trickles of sweat race down from his sideburns into the fabric of his neck collar.   

'What,' I said in a snappy whisper at my husband-to-be. 

My beloved opened his mouth as if to talk but just held it open. He looked at me, not with love or adornment but puzzlement. Momentarily confused, I thought I must have missed my line and looked at Father Gigi for help. 

The priest looked away from me and turned to my maid of honor and said, 'get her a tissue.'   

From an early age, I have always loathed pity and now standing on an altar before 150 people with the service interrupted so I can wipe my brow was too much!

'It's okay, really.' I forcefully whispered to the priest. who ignored me. I watched my maid of honor leave my side, walk off the altar and stand in front of my mother

My frugal mother always had a kleenex tucked somewhere deep inside her purse -- still crumpled, leaving one to wonder if fresh. I turned and watched the scene, trying to telepathically tell my mother to please give her a new one. My cheek was itchy, so I held my bouquet with my left hand and used my right to relieve it when I saw the black on my finger. I turned back to face the priest, now realizing I had at least one raccoon eye. My best friend returned with a wrinkled tissue, but like a mortician on a deadline, she went to work patting, wiping. She smiled as she pressed, then dragged, but the sweat just continued, and she stopped with a sweet comment, 'there, perfect.' I met her smile, almost to a laugh, and smiled even more broadly towards Father Gigi and my new husband, who squeezed my hands and did look into my eyes, smiled and stayed a while.