the galvanized metal coneflower tucked into the little garden with the ornamental grasses has rusted. we brought it home in july when it was silver and shiny. but the elements of weather have already gotten to it and have erased the shiny and smooth, turning it to a rougher texture, a warm brown color, like the center of a sunflower or the color of freshly ground coffee.
i still love it though, this coneflower.
its shape has been inspiring out back there in its little garden – the same garden that protects baby bunnies and tucks in our aspen tree. in the snow it has collected flakes until barely any of the metal is visible – like a tall snow-mushroom umbrella-ing anything below.
i stop in front of the mirror before i facetime or zoom. i wonder how i am seen from the other side of the camera. i am no longer shiny or silver. the elements have taken their toll and age has begun to catch up.
but as i gaze at other beloved faces across the technology of a phone or computer, across a table or on a trail, next to me on the pillow – i know that nothing – no amount of rust or erasure of smooth – can change the fact that they are still coneflowers, nonetheless. still beautiful. still loved.
over-exposed and blurry. that’s how i prefer photographs of me these days.
this morning i opened facebook and there was one of those “you have a memory” pictures. it was from nine years ago when my girl graduated from college and she and i and one of my nieces were all in a pub gathered closely together. adding to my over-exposed and soft-focus-photo-capture-desires, this memory looked different – younger – than when i looked in the mirror shortly thereafter. hmm. the marks of time.
my sweet momma would look in the mirror and, in a singsong whiny voice whine, “i look like an old woman!” she was 93. i would gently remind her both that she was a woman of age and she was amazingly beautiful wearing that age. but as i look into the mirror each day, i’m wondering if she was as dismissive of my words as i am dismissive of david’s “you’re beautiful” compliments. we are so hard on ourselves. our grooves, impressions like the ones in the carpet at the old family home, are earned from the long haul, from all that we have encountered, from the sun in day and dreams at night.
the wear and tear – or lack thereof – on each of us belies the courage and tenacity beneath the surface. we keep on keeping on, adding a wrinkle here or a grey hair there. i thought i was getting used to the appearance of tiny evidences of middle-aging until one famous morning. it all had gone basically unnoticed until that one day when i looked in the mirror and WHAMMO! my dad’s jowls had appeared. what?!? i stared at myself. my dad’s jowls stared back. it was all i could see. what on earth had happened overnight??
i ran to the next room to get a photograph of my sweet poppo and, sure enough, there they were. a perfect match. i pulled up a recent photo of my dad’s sister, his only surviving sibling, and voila! there they were. i am in a perfect-harmony-trio of jowls. i looked for a picture of my sister. though i was hoping to, i didn’t really see any jowls. what’s up with that, dna? seems slightly unfair to me. ahh, indents and jowls. the marks of time.
i look sideways to the window as i write this. below the sill are a variety of lines in the wall, many of them. on summer nights, when the window was wide open and you could feel the breeze blowing and the sweet smell of mown grass drifted in, this was the window that babycat jumped into to sleep. his lumbering body stretched out on the sill, he would lay there throughout the night. in the morning, he would put his paw down in front of his body and drag it along the wall to carefully get down out of the window. the scratched lines remain. indented in the wall, i am not eager to remove them in these times of dearly missing our beloved cat.
one day, like the vacuum that will remove the ridged lines in the carpet in david’s parents’ living room, a little sanding and paint will remove these scratched lines. but their import won’t go away. the sofa that sat in the living room may no longer be there, but the times spent there will always be a part of that space. the scratches on the wall may be fixed, but the cat that graced our lives will always be a part of this space.
the jowls that are now on my face will remain, however, and i suspect become more pronounced, just like the wrinkles and the grey hairs. all that i have been – including the times when i didn’t care about over-exposure and blurred photos – will remain. all that i have experienced, just like you, makes its mark. and we will be lucky if we someday glance in a mirror at 93 and whine-like-we’re-45, “i look like an old woman!”
this tree. gnarly and twisted and wrinkly. it looks a little halloween-esque at dusk and could be downright scary in the dark of night. it’s seen so much life, so many decades and its lifeblood travels throughout the healthy tree, bringing and sharing nutrients. home to insects and small creatures, it provides shade for the vegetation beneath it. it’s not just an old tree and it’s not the picture of what we think of when we think of a beautiful tree. but it is. beautiful. you just can’t judge a book by its cover. my sweet momma always said that.
momma would look in the mirror and talk about the wrinkles on her face and how “old” she looked. in her wheelchair she could appear to be meek, wrestling with difficulties and just an old woman. but that was so not so. she had seen much life. she was home to my dad, me and my sister and brother, our families, extended members as it fanned out the branches of our family tree, her friends. she provided warm words and kindnesses to all around her, strangers among them. she was beautiful. every last gorgeous wrinkle. you just can’t judge a book by its cover.
we had a black lab years ago, one of a few in our family history, when The Girl and The Boy were little. his name was hughie and he had at least 47 allergies. he was treated for many of these and we tried to address the auto-immune disease he had as well, but he lost most of the hair on his body. he looked gnarly and rough and wrinkled. as a lab with little hair, he looked scary to those who did not know him. he struggled and, even in his discomfort, was gentle and sweet, a learning for The Girl and The Boy, who were his and, despite his outward appearance, knew what was inside. he was not the picture of what we think of when we think of a beautiful dog. but he was. beautiful. you just can’t judge a book by its cover.
inside. beautiful. how hard is it to always remember that? you just can’t judge a book by its cover.
reverse threading 