Beautiful

While I was on my walk this morning, I could not believe the amount of beauty that was all around me. The sun was rising, the river was perfectly flowing, the birds (yes I said birds) were singing their beautiful song, even the sound of the cars passing by had a beauty to them. I started thinking about beauty and how beautiful I felt at that moment. I was up and moving and doing something so good for myself. I was there making the most of what I have. I realized there is so much to beauty--and I was reminded of a piece I wrote last year and I wanted to share it with you all. You are all beautiful. We are all beautiful in every aspect of the word.





You called me beautiful.

Hearing that word automatically causes the muscles in my neck to tighten and my head has no choice but to turn away in disbelief. As I look down in an awkward manner, a heat that seems to burn with the surprising intensity of smoldering embers, slowly creeps up my neck, then tints my cheeks a subtle shade of crimson. My eyes are uncertain of where to look and a sheepish grin becomes visible. Gone is the smile you say you love so much.

In that one word I hear many things . . .

I hear an uncomfortable silence. I am not accustomed to hearing that word used to describe me. I have yet to remember my lessons of grace that had been so prevalent in past life. Lessons that taught me to smile charmingly, with a coy tilt of my head and say "thank you" with a ever-so-slight playful note of confidence in my reply. I have long forgotten the coaching that allowed me to presume that the words that fell from your tongue were truth.

I hear the echoing of nothingness bouncing off the walls of my childhood. Longing to hear my parents say the words that you so easily recognize in me. I don't remember hearing the very people who gave me the gift of life, uttering, "You're beautiful", not even a single "you're pretty." My scrawny frame, freckled-face, the fact that I was awkward and weird, and wore spectacles since age four, must not have conquered up images of beauty to them. Everyday a similar face looks up at me and says, "I love you mum", and without even a moment of hesitation I tell that beautiful face, that she is indeed beautiful and that I love her greatly. Maybe I see a beauty that my own parents never could see or maybe I was born during a time or into a home that did not understand the importance of fostering a child's self-esteem. I know, without a doubt, that my children have know that I feel they are beautiful in every aspect of the word. And I am not afraid to speak those words to them.

I hear the laughter of children who made me fall for their pranks "Hey, you're pretty…Pretty ugly that is." The word ugly is one I have no trouble believe about myself—for I know the truth about the events that have happened in my life, the good, the bad, and most obviously, the ugly. The events as seen through my eyes and held in my personal memory files. Moments that I can flip to when ever I need them and replay them just as I saw them take place. The way I saw them through my own thick, heavy glasses. How is it that silly childhood jokes have distorted my ability to see certainty as an adult?

I hear the voice of the one I thought was so true. The voice I claim to be the first to inform me that I was indeed beautiful. What an ugly time of my life that turned out to be. The sound of his voice still hurts me. Bitch, whore, tramp, slut, ugly girl, dirty, bad, bad, bad. No matter how hard I scrub, I cannot wash those words out of my mind. It was then that my beauty was extinguished, stamped out, cut, maimed, and changed. My beauty felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against its back, the sharpness of a blade held to its throat, then feeling as though it had been shoved from the top of a towering pine, hitting every branch along the way, finally land with an reverberating thud on the cold, hard ground. Leaving me sticky with pitch, battered, and bruised from that day forward. Haunting me, till death do I part. Rotting.

Hearing the word sometimes paints a picture of an era when my beauty caused heads to turn in my direction and jaws to drop in awe. This was the moment in time when I could have my pick of any man. Tall, dark, handsome, rugged, chiseled men. Wealthy, smart, gentle, caring, passionate men. Choosing carefully or hast-fully, whichever the occasion called for. This beauty was only on the surface. This type of beauty was very dangerous. Hurting whomever, however, whenever. Because my wounds were still being licked clean from my earlier fall, at the end of this period, I ended up hurt myself most of all. This beauty faded as quickly as summer suddenly slips into autumn. As a dainty flower fades in beauty, I too have lost this type of gloriousness with each passing year.

I hear the empty promises of short-term lovers. The sounds of their voices whispering softly into my ears "You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen," as they greedily kiss my beautiful neck, taking my beautiful, delicate hands into theirs, with promise, an imaginary band drawn over my left ring finger. They would tell me everything I wanted to hear, just to fulfill their momentary desires. Images of fairytales with beautiful princesses rescued by knights on white stallions played through my mind. I felt myself riding off into the sunset holding tightly to my prince. Together forever. Until one day the prince found a maiden so fair, who happened to possess more beauty than I. I was left in the middle of a desolate land all alone, with tears and dirt smudging my beautiful face.

The word does bring back the memory of finally finding the man who makes my heart beat louder, the one who makes everything clearer, and who brings out more of my true beauty. Nothing is more beautiful than a bride. With great love comes great comfort and great comformability. Patterns begin to form and develop. Lovers become partners in life. New roles are taken on. Some of the romance is swept under the rug so day-to-day life can take center stage. After years of togetherness that love is a knowing. Words that were once spoken so readily become words that are assumed. The idea of my beauty has become understood, the word becomes one my groom doesn't feel he needs to speak as often as I need to hear it.

I hear the complaints of the scale as I plop my ample body up onto it. It wails, as do I, as it measures my once firm body. It gives out a little laughter as the results display on the little digital screen, taunting me with memories of lighter times. In a mere blink, I am brought back to the days when the scale ruled my life. I stripped down every bit of my clothing, stepped on it every time I came remotely close to it, judging my worth against the numbers on its face. Congratulating myself for a job well done if the numbers were in my favor or punishing myself when the digits were even a fraction too high. I walked endless miles, preformed countless reps, and strained my body all in the name of beauty only to watch it decline with each child I pushed into the world and with each year I celebrate.

I am, to some extent, aware that these are just the sounds in my head, the filters I have made, and the inner critics that judge the person reflecting back at me. The voices tend to dwell on the past and all its ugliness. They are unable or even unwilling to see the many different layers of beauty that are so very present. However, the voices, critics, and filters are sometimes louder than my inner sage and seem to delight in stacking on more and more disbelief upon the wall that they spent so many years building. They chant loudly, announcing all my flaws for the entire world to hear and surely the public believes everything they proclaim.

From time to time, I do hear the sound deep from within my soul. The knowing voice. The wise-ness that is deeper than the creases in my forehead, and wisdom that has grown fuller than my bosom. This voice pushes up through all the layers of hurt to remind me that beauty is more than skin deep. Beauty is there in the smile on my face and the story in my eyes. Beauty is ever changing, just like the seasons. Reminding me I should dance during all of the seasons of my life. My beauty is a story of true beauty, the beauty of my heart, of hope, of endurance. There is beauty in my action, my view of the world, in my spirit, and the amazing beauty of my talents.

When all of the corrupt voices are at bay, I am able to clearly hear my lover, my soul mate, my best friend, and my partner in life, the one to whom I will always and forever answer "I do". He whispers sweetly,"You are beautiful,” . I hear truth in his words. He draws me into him, embracing me with his entire being, inhaling my intoxicating scent. Gently kneading fingers follow the muscles of my elegant back. His hands trace the graceful flow of my hips. I feel truth in his touch. The sensation of floating over takes me, I grow dizzy with anticipation, he breaths love deep inside of me, and my spirit emerges, dancing. I am a goddess. My alabaster skin glistens in the moonlight. Wisps of soft auburn curls trickle over my shoulders and cascades down my back, clinging to my moist skin. Eyes closed down in ecstasy, lips part. As I arch towards heaven, exposing my breast, my feminine stomach, the secret realm of my desires, I feel the gods and the stars smiling all around me. It is in that moment that I recognize what you are saying. I am beautiful.