The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

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It used to be that I liked things to be slightly complicated. Sprinkles on the ice-cream, buttercream roses on the cake, that sort of thing. Everything about me was busy, from the head to the feet, with difficult, aerosol-canned hair and chain links on the black velvet shoes that jingled and clinked when I walked. Even my music, for a time, was industrious and metallic and if there was poetry in any of it, it was obscured and smothered by the heavy throb of drum machines and vibrations of bass. I grew into the complications, brought hints of it into my personality, slowly branched out from the roots of myself and didn't know how far from the ground I'd gone. There was nothing easy about whom I'd become, and I had no idea what sort of confusion I'd let grow wild inside, until I couldn't see through the thicket of thorns and twisted boughs, anymore.

I think, as you age, you gather knowledge as you would berries into a basket. A ripe bit of loveliness here, a round, perfect red jewel there, but the basket never seems to fill to the brim, as you sometimes steal a bit of sweetness and swallow it whole. Occasionally, you misjudge the maturity of the fruit, but at least this lets you know which ones to avoid next time around.

I have to admit that I never understood why so many women, particularly married, motherly women, often looked so...plain. It was as though they'd given up on themselves entirely, and I always told myself that I would never be like that, that I would always give proper attention to my appearance so as not to fall into the trap they had. I decided it was laziness, that they'd done all they set out to accomplish and now the ruse was done. Now, though, I am beginning to understand the change of focus in some. I am beginning to think that as you get on in years, you begin to search for the deeper meaning in things, rather than focusing on the surface. Now, this may not apply to everyone, as there are definitely some spiritually and emotionally stunted people out there, but in the small circle which I surround myself with, there has been a tangible shift in the perceptions as to what makes a person happy. While most of the people I know enjoy 'new haircut day', or 'found a great shade of lipstick month', by and large, the real happiness has had nothing to do with the inherent complications of beauty. Rather, it is a matter of becoming acquainted with who you are, and developing a very real affection for yourself, rather than striving to ward off evidence of the years that have passed because no one is going to fall for it, anyway.

Occasionally, I take a good look at the woman in the mirror, often times when I've come out of the shower or pulled myself from the hot, soapy bathtub. Without the makeup, without the clothes, without the fuss of a hairbrush, I see who is. Expressionless, unconcerned, as new as a tiny kitten and as old as the hills of the Irish coast, I am there, and I am untouched. I see the little girl with the red ringlets as much as I see the white streaks which leech both sides of my mane. I can't deny finding myself more attractive this way; blank, almost pure, as natural and free as any other animal on the planet. There are no enhancements here, and I doubt there ever will be. I will never be able to convince anyone I'm younger than I am, and it shouldn't matter much. As I value knowledge and wisdom, I can't see how moving backward would mean much to me. Better to be real, I think. I can be beautiful with white hair and road-mapped skin, lovely with spider-veined legs. I suppose, when it comes down to it, I can be the greatest work of art if the brush that paints me is soft and clean: a self-portrait, composed with learning and a keen eye for balance.

I wrote something to this effect, once:

After The Bath  (13+) Coming to terms with what is. #1469037 by katwoman45

The truth of the matter is that for all my bellyaching and worry, I feel as though I like myself a lot better than I used to. Maybe it's the unfettered joy I get from the simpler things in life, things I either took for granted when I was younger or ignored altogether. Like, the way my mouth seems to burst with pleasure when I eat that first sliced disc of cucumber, or how a good cup of orange pekoe tastes when having an honest conversation with a friend under lazy, swaying, summer afternoon trees. I feel absolutely queenly when those moments come, and even a bit of pride too because I've let the complications fade away somewhat. I still like ice-cream, but I like it neat, in a glass bowl, without the sprinkles. I like my cake to be thinly sliced and simple, with a delicate layer of icing, maybe only as thick as a card in an envelope. I like my walls to be nearly bare, unless I've art that means something to me to be hung on them: empty walls equal potential, I think. I get an almost sexual joy over empty journals and blank computer pages because they gleam like crisp, white linen to me, allowing me to imagine all the possibilities in them, rather than how I used to agonize over what I presumed to be the likelihood of failure. I like long, easy flowing skirts and shoes that cushion my feet and I keep my hair loose and long, streaming with reds, golds and beginning streaks of white, the way that it is intended. I like poetry in music, untainted by the manipulations by machinery, and I like to watch the lilacs bloom, because they have the perfume, and because, like most flowers, they possess a colour that nothing outside of nature will ever be able to reproduce convincingly.

Sometimes, I like to strip things down and start at the beginning, with the things which will allow for it, the things that will benefit from new beginnings. When the complications build up, it shows, just as it would in a painting, with erratic themes and images that only serve to warp and confuse the minds of those who are trying to hone in on the point. While this may work for some, I like the messages to be powerful, yet clear. I want to be open to receiving what is intended, to be free from the tornadic swirl of intricacies that I create with my own misguided perceptions. It's better that way.

I feel joy in the quiet moments, like eating fresh, warm bread with real butter, kissing the man I love, holding the daughter I worship. Those moments of awareness are not as rare as they once were, but that's because I let them happen now. Sure, I want people to think I'm pretty and together, but I have to admit that a person's genuine happiness often does make them appear to be more beautifuI than one might assume on first glance. Very often, the happiest people and the most beautiful people are one and the same. I know this, and because of it, I am working to clean the slate and erase the noise and unnecessary pictures. Some of it will stick, but at least I have come to understand that every conscious moment holds the possibility of redesign, but in a way that matters.