weathered and worn
We live in a world fascinated with youth, beauty, and perfection. We value the young, the fresh, the new over things that have been tested by time Like wood that doesn’t rot in a year.
When do we learn that the story is in the age? The beauty is in the cracks and the chips…the weeds growing around the footing…the chipped paint…the vines twisting their way around familiar patterns only to be pulled away again and again.
This house stopped me in my tracks recently. T
But… for me, this home was interesting. I wondered how long it had been there. I thought about how many coats of paint it had. Do their door hinges squeak loudly? What about those floor boards creak under foot when you cross in front of that uneven floor near the bathroom?
What was it that this house knew? What was it trying to say?
Thoughts of ageing gracefully have been on my mind a lot lately. I peer in the mirror and see wrinkles and age spots - wishing they were gone. Grey hairs pop up more and more. And all I want to do is hide from them. Because that’s what we do.
What if we embraced it all? No Botox. No hair dye. What if we just aged as we are for a minute and let nature take it’s course? What if we just let these marks be the signs of our inner beauty: Each wrinkle a lifetime of problems solved, each grey hair representing things we have learned. When will I see that these tired eyes, sore feet and aching back are just signs that I have lived a full life? When will I embrace each little fat cell I carry around my legs and waist that represents a meal enjoyed with friends or loved ones, or a delicious french fry or sweet ice cream cone I savored and enjoyed.
What if we put down the guilt and the shame of existing as we are and stepped away from the Botox and the banner ads telling us what we could improve? What if we just became comfortable as ourselves? What would happen if we just stopped listening to the BS we are fed and realized we are so much more than our outsides?
Inside these walls are where the interesting parts of me are. The story isn’t the wrinkle. It’s in how that wrinkle got there.