Putting On My Face

I met myself in the mirror with half an eyebrow on.

Oh, the joys of one main floor bathroom - with the best lighting - when a higher need arises.

For the record, eye brow brush is an easier pause than mascara. Mascara doesn't wait. Mascara means someone's either going to hold it, or share space with me and my mascara.

If that shocks you, you never grew up with one bathroom and six family members. Or one good bathroom and three kids.

And if my makeup requirement makes your eyes roll, too bad. Get in line... outside the door.

A master bathroom is still on my bucket list. But one recently remodeled main bath beats a bucket and no plumbing, so I mostly don't grumble.


Back to half an eyebrow...

Most of my life I've thought of my daily makeup ritual as putting on my face. I confess: I like the process. I like the colors. It's the only drawing and painting I do consistently. And I like those genetic, life-deepened, dark circles concealed, thank you very much. Tired on the inside is bad enough.

I like to look as put together as I choose on any given day. So, I put on my face.

But on too many days in this recent season of life, my philosophical inner dialogue takes the phrase and runs amok.

Putting on my face. The obvious metaphor can zing.

I spent years hiding behind my face. Painting on some pretty, adding a smile, and all is well with the well-worn facade. That's the downside of it... or perhaps just the mis-use. But it happens. As do the harsh accusations on those days when I need my best, but I'm all leaky eyes, smudged concealer, and liner that won't line. And irony hits as I watch myself persist. Broken must not win... on the outside. These days meet me in the mirror hissing, "What's the point of makeup - or your life? Why even try? You're just a fake!"

Nothing faintly pretty about that. Nasty gut punches aiming to negate the recent years I've spent working to live more honestly - with myself and others.

Today, however, as I finished filling in that thinned, blond brow and it's partner, added shell pink and warm gray to my eyelids, lined and coated invisible lashes into a "classic black" frame, then dusted my cheekbones with rose, I pondered a hidden strength in this ritual.

Vision-casting and choices.

I can see myself as hiding or I can see this as a time of creativity. Instead of facade, it can be a time for filling in the cracks left by fear, disappointment, exhaustion, and... life. Of outwardly hinting at the part of me that has or will find victory over these obstacles.

I am not wholly into the affirmation craze, but I do believe in speaking truth.

Truth is: I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I was created for divine purpose, even if I'm still knocking around in the dark over that one some days. I fail often, but I succeed, too. I don't want to get out of bed many days, but do it anyway. I'm afraid and anxious, but am learning to push back. I'm often overwhelmed by circumstances, but I find breath to do the next thing.

And in it all, my God sustains me.

He also knows my heart, my frailties, and loves me anyway.

So now, perhaps when I put on my face, I can look into those eyes that mirror my heart, my hurt, my longings, and imagine more than the moment... how I feel, or don't feel...  the life I hope for, but don't have... the person I wish I was, but am still becoming.

Perhaps I can see all the lines and lacks of a life-worn face transformed to order, character, polish, confidence, and courage. Not hidden... 

Adorned. 

I can remember those who say they find beauty and value in the woman behind the face, despite her struggles. I can smile at her and choose to believe them.

This may seem just vanity, but today I reframed a part of my day - a part of myself - that I've often nipped at with cynicism, to my own harm.

Today, I put on my face,
eyebrows and all,
looked more deeply,
and came out of hiding.


What do you see when you meet yourself in the mirror? 

*     *     *     *     *

Lest anyone take a tangent, let me clarify: I believe outer beauty is nothing without inner; that of the two, inner has the power to change what we truly see. And though we may never fully escape the vanity in outward beautification, it's not wrong to take something raw and try to add beauty. Created, we are inherently creative, and pride can flow equally in doing or not doing. Anything good can be taken to a bad end, but this doesn't mean we never strive for good or beauty. And my point goes beyond that anyway. We often think and say horrid things about ourselves and our lives, forgetting our Creator - the author of hope, faith, love, and beauty - who fashioned us for good, for purpose, for His glory. ... His words speak life. 

Prepare Him Room

Our feelings about the holiday season can be complicated. Shaped by childhood memories, tradition, and beliefs, tempered by joys and sorrows, even reflecting the diversity of our personalities and preferences, there is no one size fits all. Nor does there need to be. 

So, while all around me the festivities are in full ramp and twinkle, Christmas and all the trappings will come slowly and sparingly to this minimalist’s heart and home. Sometimes - some season’s of life - I need to clear space in my head first. Most often I don’t take the time. But this year I’m determined to exchange the baggage of holiday expectations for the clarity of my “whys.” What choices, inward and outward, will stifle them and which will breath life and peace to the reason for the season in my heart? 

While I work this out, one choice is simple. I chose Christ decades ago. 

He is all my heart needs. At Christmastime, to me, all the rest is window dressing. 

Lights, trees, and wreaths will add adornment soon, 

but for now I will gaze upon this unassuming scene, simple and quiet, 

reminding me to let my heart and mind prepare Him room.

Day Off Musings

Sitting outside Paper & Cup with a cappuccino and a rare "day off," watching professionals walk by and reflecting that I've never been a professional anything. Not really.

I'm just an English major wannabe with a smattering of part time work experience who's raised three stellar humans, can pull off a mean haircut after thirty years experience and no formal training, is adequate at a piano and mic, can toss out medical terminology well enough to be continually mistaken for a nurse, is a decent caregiver and amateur social worker, though I aspired to neither of those roles. Some say I can write.

I guess I'm good at absorbing skills well enough to fake my way through most things, self-taught being the kinder term. Forever finding a way to be whatever life needs me to be.

Will I ever be a professional anything? I don't know. Does it matter? Probably not. But what would I choose if I could? I have a few ideas. Will life ever grant enough breath and space to pursue anything? Will I be brave enough to go for the gap if I see one? Will I be too tired of being brave to care?

These are my day off musings.

My cappuccino is long gone. The petite professional in the cute black and white dress and sweet heels caught my eye as she walked by for the third time. We shared a smile. It's easy to imagine that her life is as amazing as those shoes, but I'll bet she has to be brave every day too.

Boundaries

Spent a few hours manually cutting an edge in the sod along the curb and driveway the other night. Dirty, sweaty job, that. But nearly every project and issue around here is evading closure, so I needed a visual of something completed.

Never mind the enclosed mangy, pale turf with its list of woes or the fact that it’s almost July and I’ve purchased nary a flower for bed nor pot... there are straight lines on the edges of my lawn and for now straight boundary lines around all that remains undone feels like a win.

To regain footing in the toss of the past few years, I’ve learned a lot about the value of boundaries - also hard work, messy, and ongoing. Though life may be eluding tidiness, today I can see where my yard ends and that is enough.

No Words

Yesterday my dad had what they're calling a stroke. He arrived in the ER unable to answer simple questions, his attempts to speak, indiscernible. Though unaffected physically, his speech aphasia remains some 32 hours later. Making slight improvements, then waning once more.

According to Wikipedia: "Aphasia is an inability to comprehend or formulate language because of damage to specific brain regions... The difficulties of people with aphasia can range from occasional trouble finding words, to losing the ability to speak, read, or write; intelligence, however, is unaffected." 

I'm not sure how to process this, but these thoughts are the beginning.

It's so odd to see my Dad, the word man, without his words, yet still trying to speak. Sometimes giving up with a shrug or tossing up his hands, yet not overly flustered. That he remains content, is both mystery and relief. 

We often think we know how we'll feel about certain things, but I'd never really stopped to think about how it'd feel to be with Dad without his words. Speaking, writing, reading... these have been his greatest pursuits, his greatest joys. The crossword and the word jumble his daily challenge. 

Now it's his words that are jumbled and we are left to work out the clues of gesture and incomplete utterance. Can we discern the full thought he leaves dangling or decipher the nonsense syllables? And how the random full sentence becomes a moment of celebration! 

I am so connected to this word man. Even in my youth when my heart rebelled against our intersecting downs and acrosses, the words were woven in ways I could not see. His fascination with words planted in me. A gracefully ascending DNA of sounds, rhythm, syntax, imagery, poetry, and prose. 

Will he ever again toss a newly minted page of verse my way? Shaky handwriting adorning blue-lined paper. Phrases crossed out, re-rewritten once, even twice... 

"Try this one out. What do you think?" 

Well, Dad... right now I think I miss your words. 

 

Hands

What do you do when life’s been a little sideways? Sometimes I paint my nails. Because: painting, and colors, and a quiet moment to make something look finished... for a few days, anyway. 

And today I stretched the quiet moment while they dried and snapped a photo.

“Look at that perfect, frosty rose polish!” 

Then I was rocked by how old my hand looks. 

Truth is, this one, and its even more weathered twin, have done a lot, carried a lot, soothed a lot, scrubbed, and dug... a lot. They’re hands acclimated to heat. Shaped and misshapen by thousands of squeezes, pats, dings, scars, scalds, and abrasions. I don’t baby them. Forget to lotion them. And push them to the limit, even when they ache.

I’m sometimes startled when I actually see these old hands. Skin so beat up and wrinkly... and that pinky with a slight bump and bend at the knuckle.

I’d like to imagine myself physically young and untouched by life and time, even as I claim to embrace and elevate the marks of its passing. Guess I'm still worshipping youth, still holding fast to an ideal of no mars and scars... and no being dragged sideways.

I’d rather only see the pretty polish. 

But it’s not the truth. 

My hands tell the story.