Some days I am unapologetic beauty and boldness, bright colors and genuine grace. On those days, age is a concept that has no sense or meaning.
But some days I find self-adoration seriously hard. Some days I see only flaws—dark, deeply lined examples of where perfection has failed to find me. Some days, beauty and youth is not what I see in my own brave face.
What I see, often, is wrinkles.
On days like that (more than once), I’ve found myself with a surgeon’s phone number in my hand, or caught myself scrolling through websites that merely confirm my suspicions: that “things could be better if I just changed ______.”
Those days are not so much fun. On those days, I need more love.
Knowing I will always have a little of both, I searched for ways I could harness the love from my up days and channel it into my down days. And I found a beautiful solution:
I began to write little stories about the lives of each of my wrinkles.
And the more I wrote, the more amazing I realized each line was. They became mini love notes to my aging face. They are the cataloged, chronicled evidence of my 32 year—and counting—existence.
We all go up, we all go down. And we all need extra love on some days.
I gladly offer you some of mine:
Tales of my Living Lines
Some of my secrets ask to be held. I keep a small wrinkled space for their privacy.
He loved me so much, here on my forehead, that a freckle folded in upon itself and spread into a wide smile, taking my skin with it.
Between my eyebrows lies single a furrowed row, plowed and ready for the planting of newest ideas.
My dreams come out of the ones right above. Though a mixed bag of wild, and worldly, and weary—they welcome you all the same.
The deep one beneath my eye says, “I’ve seen weird sh*t.” and others cluster ‘round in support.
A special job is given to the one by my ear; it captures my kindest words and whispers them back when I’m in fear of drowning.
One is not merely a wrinkle at all, but a sleepy little river. Down it flows my watery wishes for you.
Two more move close to where my mother stroked my face, hoping to feel her feather fingers (just once) like my cheeks did.
Another simply speaks for my mute, human heart.
Now each time I notice a new line, I tell myself its story. And when my stories fail? I look to my future;
“When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an unspeakable dawn in happy old age.”
~ Victor Hugo
And failing all of that—humour:
“Jewelry takes people’s minds off your wrinkles.” ~ Sonja Henie
The Beauty of Imperfection.
Author: Crystal Davis
Editor: Travis May
Photo: Author’s Own
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