‘Beauty of age’ – Colleen Deer
The morning was one of those where an inadvertent glance in the mirror on the way downstairs tells you that you need a comb. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Annoying really as I had slept fairly well for a change. But the morning likes to throw these things at you and knowing I had a busy day ahead, life, it seemed, wasn’t going to make things easy.
I had a conversation about life with my son. We have some good ones. He was speaking about how he views the pastyears of constant hard work as an investment in life. In his view, he could have accepted the minimal recovery he had, learned to cope with it and enjoyed himself as much as possible. But instead he chose to invest time and hard work in his recovery, spending almost every waking hour working body and mind in any and every therapeutic way possible.
The analogy he gave was that of two bottles. One full of cordial, diluted with water, the other half full of pure cordial. The first seems like more but the contents are weak, the second, less in volume, is concentrated, pure flavour. He has chosen to invest the time now and even though they are years he will never see again he chooses to live his future equipped for a concentrated life full of the richest experience he can.
Which, as you may expect, set me thinking. If you read my meanderings you’ll have noticed by now that it doesn’t take a lot to set me off.
I remember as a very little girl being fascinated by people’s faces. It wasn’t so much the features as the textures of their skin. There was the paternal Great Grandmother. I have a very early memory of her home, dark and quiet, all red velvet and mahogany with stuffed animals and birds under glass domes and the heavy curtains closed against the light. There was a coal fire in an ornate black grate, the mantle fringed with velvet bobbles. Something straight out of the Victorian era, which, of course, she was. I had been taken along as the family said their goodbyes and remember pristine linen sheets on what seemed a huge carved bed, draped with heavy curtains and Great Grandmother propped on the pillows, hushed voices all around.
Kissing her cheek, her skin was dry and thin, folded like tissue paper, fragile as a winter leaf. She smelled faintly of roses though. Her hands fluttered as if to speak and her lips were pale, the skin almost transparent. I don’t suppose I was much more than three.
I remember the maternal grandparents with greater clarity. Grandma with her round, rosy cheeks and crinkly eyes. She was always smiling and laughing and the naughtiness and joy just shone from her. Great Granddad with waxy smooth skin, crackled with spider veins over his cheeks that fascinated the small child. I still remember sitting on his knee and tracing them with my finger while he explained that they were the kiss of the wind and rain on his face. And then there was Great Grandma, in the chair in the corner. She had been an invalid for many years, suffering a degenerative physical illness that must have left her in great pain much of the time.
Her skin was a beautiful texture, still creamy and velvety to touch. Yet the wrinkles wrote the story of the pain and a certain bitterness on her face. As the years passed and gravity began to win, her face drooped into folds that wrote of decades of discomfort.
By the time I was in my teens it had been noted that I bear a strong resemblance to my Great Grandmother. I had no problem with that, she was accounted a beauty in her youth…though I, of course, fragile teenager that I was, never saw that reflected… only the family features. But I resolved then and there that I would write my own wrinkles. And they would reflect not pain but laughter.
It was probably the best decision I ever made.
I have smiled through some pretty rough times. It is useful as a mask to hide behind when we don’t want the world to intrude or to see. It can hide the loudest cry of the heart sometimes. It allowed me to smile for my sons when I felt I was being rent asunder. But most of all, it allowed me to find joy in living.
It is, of course physically easier to smile than to frown. The chemical and emotional benefits are well documented. But there has to be something to smile at if you are going to make a habit of it. So it opened my eyes to the world in a new way. I began to see the small beauties, noticed the sheen on a pigeon’s breast, the powdery softness of a butterfly’s wing, the sheer exuberance of a bank of dandelions in the sunshine and the way a bumblebee looks as if it should be stroked. I became aware of the world, and as I did so it became alive to me in a way it had not been before. And in turn, I became alive to it.
The more I smiled, the more I saw to smile at… in nature, in people, in myself. Writing my wrinkles is a daily adventure I shall never tire of. Each one tells a story and I wear them with ease and no regrets. I simply wonder what the next chapter holds…..
Jan 2013
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 
…exhilarating post, m’Lady… the wrinkles of laughter and joy… what a great attitude… I’m in your corner with this 😉
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Now why does that not surprise me, Seumas ? 🙂
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I love this post…and the thinking behind it 🙂
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Thanks, Cathy 😀
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I enjoyed every word of this…well written and thought provoking for me…Blessings
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Thank you… I need the reminder occasionally 🙂
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Sue, Is that painting yours, the rainbow wrinkles? It is magnificent, each line as beautiful as your memoir. I couldn’t help but read it out loud and smile. I thought of my grandparents…their skin made such an impression on me and I saw their history written there too.
I don’t know the age of your son, but he sounds very wise, a true thinker, perhaps reads much. Clear that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, as they say. Melissa Xx
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No, I couldn’t find the artist either.. wonderful, isn’t it!
Thanks, Melissa, Nick is 30 now and can no longer read a great deal. He was stabbed through the brain nearly 6 years ago in a random attack. That he can read at all is a miracle. But he manages the odd bit of wisdom now and again… but don’t tell him I said so 😉
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What a blessing that Nick is capable of such clear insights, well ahead of many who have not suffered such trauma. 🙂
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Oh there’s little wrong with the clarity of his mind 🙂 Just a few mechanical problems and his eyesight.
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I understand. Sorry for the assumption, but when you describe his experience, I really shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Thank God for miracles!
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Oh don’t worry, given the injury he should not be here let alone have more than his fair share of wits about him 🙂 It’s a miracle I am awed by every day.
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Amen. And one more thought, you don’t look a day over 30 yourself, must be the genes!! 😉
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Not so very far off double that! And the profile pic is less than two years old. Mnd, some days… 😉
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You can read Nick’s mentality in his own words if you like 🙂 https://scvincent.com/2013/01/27/possum-ergo-facit-i-can-therefore-i-do/
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Oh, yes, I would like that very much.
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Beautiful post, Sue. There is such thing as sweet, happy wrinkles. My grandmother had them too and I have a few of my own that I’ve come to appreciate.
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I don’t really mind the prospect of wearing the index to my life somehow.
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This was very inspiring! I think I will try your approach and get myself a few extra laugh lines. (PS Your son is a very wise man )
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It’s never too late to rewrite the wrinkles, Daleen 🙂
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Lovely post, Sue, as always. Not many people really see things in such detail anymore, especially when they look at older people. As one with my fair share of wrinkles, I salute you!
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Being aware of the details matters such a lot.. we miss so much with our heads down trying to do what we ‘should’ instead of what we can.
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Reblogged this on Anita & Jaye Dawes.
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I like to think that most of my wrinkles were caused by smiling a lot, but I fear this is not the case. Room for improvement, I think!
Best wishes…
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Gravity, in all senses of the word, has a lot to answer for 😉
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Wrinkles are thing that come to stay. You can never ge rid of them.
Evelyn
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I don’t mind them… I ‘d just rather mine were laughter lines than bitterness.
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great descriptions of your grandmas. The touch and feel when kissing is perfectly set out. With mine I remember the puff of face powder and the mixture of lavender and naphthalene that seemed to hang around.
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Ah, mothballs… yes. The big oak wardrobe which actually had a fur coat in it… I did try to reach Narnia through it too 🙂
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now that would make a fascinating post…
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I think it may be a common dream to many of us.
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Reblogged this on oshriradhekrishnabole.
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Reblogged this on Barrow Blogs.
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Beautiful insights here, poetically expressed.
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Thank you.
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