Ah Saturday. This morning was yoga and meditation group. I never really know what to expect from myself. Sometimes yoga feels great. Sometimes it “hurts” my hip or shoulder. Some days the meditation is quiet and calm, not too many thoughts drifting by. Other days I cannot stop the endless ribbon of ego wanting to chat about something or analyze something else. I just never really know what will surface until I get started.
(Sept. 18 sunrise looking south east, photo by me)
Today the yoga part was especially nice. The breathing sequence was balanced and fluid. The poses all kind of melted into one another without too many little rebellion attempts from my hip or shoulder. I felt the little tension and stress I had wash itself out and a physical, mental and emotional sense of presence and ease flowed in.
As I settled into meditation later, still feeling light, I heard thoughts begin to chirp not unlike the birds at my birdfeeders….First sing songy, then agitated, then ceaseless, then snappy. Oh boy.
When I meditate it is the same as yoga, I never know what it will be like. Every single sitting is different. Some days the mind is quiet, thoughts and emotions are few and drift past quickly. Other days they rain on my meditation and I have to remember the storm clouds will pass on the breeze too, and be gone.
So, I settled in. Breathing softly and stilling everything. Then, it came. Like a megaphone cheer: “You’re not beautiful.” Well.
I listened to the rhythm of the words, the song it became. While the words may seem rather harsh and perhaps mean, they did not hurt or really fluster me very much.
I am not beautiful.
Later, as I had coffee with Bruce, I thought about the words. As I walked through Lowes, I thought about the words. As I was in the grocery and later cooking, I thought about the words.
They were actually liberating.
Searching on line, I found this blog, and this post was just what I was feeling: http://feministsatlarge.wordpress.com/2013/07/01/you-dont-need-to-call-me-beautiful/
I gave up trying to conform to someone else’s idea of physical beauty a long time ago. I was seen as too thin, then not thin enough, not tall enough, not short enough, not dressed right, or styled correctly. Media’s image of beauty and the fashion industry’s idea of trendy never “fit” me. It has taken me 50 years to love myself without the label of beautiful or pretty or anything else. I am just me. I am healthy. I am happy. I am content. Whether or not I am seen as beautiful matters not to me. I feel that when we say what matters is that someone is beautiful on the inside, it is like giving everyone a trophy for trying. It is more important to me what kind of person I am. It matters to me that when others look at me they feel I am approachable, present, open. It matters more to me that when someone gets to know me that they think of me with words like kind, compassionate, intelligent, thoughtful, helpful, supportive, loving, generous.
I’m not looking for sympathy, or reminders that “of course” I am beautiful.
I am not beautiful. I am me. And I’m okay with that.