My Three-Graces Season

Sep 27, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Voice & Power

I went in search of Renaissance art today, remembering that there was a particular period in which women’s bodies were depicted as large and voluptuous. My need to find such was hardly creativity-inspired; instead, rather desperate. I kind of hoped that seeing them would help me better see myself.

I am about twenty pounds above where I normally hover and thirty from my idealistic goal. Never mind that this has been my idealistic goal for more than twenty years. Never mind that I am now in my mid-50s, post-menopausal, and hosting a significantly slower metabolism. Never mind that the last guy I dated would sometimes say, “You’re chunking-up a little bit, aren’t you?” and that maybe, even subconsciously, I (still) respond in rebellion and rage. And never mind that for the past 18-months (interestingly, the amount of time since the guy and I broke up), I have been working exclusively from home, sitting at my computer for 10-12 hour days – no movement, no standing, no break. I understand it all.

You’d think I could extend myself some grace. But no. That idealized vision of myself (no matter how unrealistic), haunts, plagues, and deceives.

Somehow I have convinced myself that I will be happier once I see that number on the scale again, once I can get rid of the multiple sizes of clothes my closet holds, once I can be thin. I know it’s not true, that it’s all an illusion. But that doesn’t silence the voice within that will not leave me be, that rolls its eyes when I get dressed in the morning, that sighs as I walk past the mirror, that says, “It’s Monday. Get your shit together this week, OK?” that nods in determined agreement as I witness the world around me saying only thin equals good, only thin equals acceptable, only thin equals lovable, only thin equals worthy.

Believe me, I know better. I am well-versed in the objectification of women, the media’s tyranny, the cultural messaging. I know all about the necessity of being embodied and present and accepting all of me, my whole and complete self. And I remind myself of this repeatedly, even while I stand in line at the grocery store and stare at the covers of People or Self or Cosmopolitan and deliberate over the purchase of Peanut M&Ms.

So back to the Renaissance art.

Artist Peter Paul Rubens was particularly fond of creating images of women who were large, curved, and far from what we describe as perfect and beautiful today. One of his final works was called The Three Graces. Three ample women, barely clothed but for some gossamer here and there, and forming a circle together so that one of them has her back to her viewers. They are thought to be Aglaia – which means radiance, Euphrosine – which means joy, and Thalia – which means flowering, and they served Aphrodite, the goddess of love. I can’t help but wonder what they are
saying to one another, what they know that I don’t, what stories they tell amongst themselves.

Here’s what I don’t have to wonder at all: Not a one of them is talking about how they were merely wearing gossamer because nothing else in their closet fit. Not a one of them is saying, “Look at me! Can you believe how much weight I’ve gained?” Not a one of them is talking of a new diet or exercise plan or seemingly miraculous form of self-affirmation. Not a one of them would have considered such a thing. And without that self-critique, without that shame, and within the trifecta of their
friendship and love, all we see is beauty…and grace.

I want in on that. Yes, in on the graces of radiance, joy, and flowering; even more, in on Grace itself x 3.

So I think I’m going to call this my Three Graces Season. Because I’m not opposed to wearing gossamer. Because even with Peanut M&Ms in hand, I want to be reminded that beauty is relative and true and ever-present and mine even now, evermore, always. Because I’d rather serve the goddess Aphrodite, love Herself, than the insipid little gods who keep nattering on and making me crazy.

May it be so.

Is beauty worth $8 + tax?

May 6, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

As I sat down to journal this morning, I spotted the fresh tulips I bought just four days ago. They are already drooping. One or two more days and I’ll have to throw them out. Is it worth the money when
they only last such a short time? What I’m really asking, is this:

Is beauty worth $8.00 + tax?

I know the answer AND I can see the way my mind wants to weigh the benefit, the value, the worth – as though beauty (and so many other things) is practical, something to be calculated through a Return-On-Investment filter. And this got me to wondering: How many other values that defy measurement do I subject to such?

Multiple examples rush to mind:

  • The measure of my own self-worth tends to decrease the higher the number on the scale. (I’m not proud of this – even disagree with it, fundamentally – and still…)
  • I have been known to measure a blog post’s success (and subsequently the worth and value of my writing) on the number of shares, likes, or views it receives.
  • Based on the response I receive (or don’t) from a text or email I send will measure my willingness to continue to express my desire.

This kind of measurement doesn’t serve me at all! And yet, I do it all the time.

But here’s the thing: self-worth, creativity, and desire don’t bow to a cost-benefit analysis.

There is no measurement or rating to place on such things – as though we can analyze and determine in advance whether a quality like hope or love or grief or disappointment is worth it. And when we try, it’s a slippery slope. More than slippery, it’s downright dangerous.

  • The tulips are going to die. Why spend the $8?
  • Allowing myself to express grief surely won’t change the past. Why bother?
  • This happiness won’t last more than 5 or 6 days. That’s not long enough. Better to tone things down than to be disappointed.
  • Even if I don’t eat this candy bar today, I’ll weaken tomorrow. The effort at restraint isn’t worth it given my certainty of the future.

Though a few of these may sound somewhat silly, more of them sound familiar. This is exactly what we do. This is exactly what I do. Here’s my best (and most current) example:

Too often when I sit down to write I am measuring the value of my words as I go along. I hear the voice of the critic, fear certain misunderstanding, worse being ignored, and have already begun quantifying them, limiting them, cutting them off at the knees. I have already dismissed their significance and the value of my ongoing investment. In effect, I’ve done to myself (before anyone else can) the very thing I fear: I’ve ignored my own words! Sometimes I so completely pre-determine their value and worth (or lack thereof) that I never begin! (I know you know what I mean here…)

Further, in (pre) measuring the worth of something, in determining it’s value (or not) we actually enable the very thing we intend to prevent.

  • 6 days of beauty in my home isn’t worth $8 — and so there is no beauty in my home.
  • My weight will never change — and so it doesn’t.
  • My grief won’t heal anything — and so I don’t heal.
  • My happiness will never last — and so it doesn’t.
  • My writing will never go anywhere — and so it doesn’t.
  • Why keep hoping? I’m going to end up single anyway — and so I will be.

Here’s what I’m coming to:

Risky investments and not measuring the approximate value and worth, even logic, of our every move might actually be the safest bet. Buying tulips even though they’ll droop and die. Making healthy choices even though it’s hard. Choosing to grieve even though it’s scary. Allowing myself to feel joy knowing it will not last. Writing and creating no matter who understands (or not), reads it (or not), loves it and me (or not). Giving away my heart and desiring, desiring, desiring even though I might get
hurt.

Stated even more clearly, a safe bet is never as interesting, exciting, or fun as tossing our fate to the winds, holding on to hope, and being willing to risk everything for what we value most  and deeply desire.

I’m off to buy more tulips…