I can recall being 17 and not liking some parts of my body. Of course there were pimples, and my strong thighs seemed too big. It didn’t help that my brother teased me with “blubber butt” and my boyfriend called my face and nose “round”, not in a flattering way. Now, at 77, I love every part of my body that works, and am grateful for every day I have lived, even the hard ones.

March 8^th marked 30 years since I bought my house – the little house in the woods on a little lake that has been my dream come true. As I walked around my yard the other day, I was drawn to the wood here and there, no longer covered with snow, but weathered and beautiful. I remembered how I used to “antique” things. All kinds of items, small or large, whether painted wood, plastic, or metal, I liked them so much more with that old, weathered look. Dry-brushed paint, speckle-sprayed, or sponged-on colors looked more real to me than a single, smooth, “perfect” color. Living in my own home and being an excellent scavenger (if I do say so myself) has allowed me to luxuriate in the real thing!

Maybe it’s my preference for all things natural. After all, how often do we see a single color, with no texture or variation in Mother Nature’s palette? Wood and water, sky and stone, foliage, fur, and feathers – their beauty is in their abundance of ever-changing elements.

I have come to appreciate the same in myself. You may have seen my poem Lines in my book, Enchanted. I’ve changed it a bit now that I see more lines and spots in the mirror.

Lines
another year, a few more lines
in the face looking back from the mirror

life lends her hand with meticulous care
to etch the legends there
of lucid days
of lusty nights
of messages shared 
about wrongs, about rights
of laughter that lingers
of smiles that last
of longing
of learning
of leaving the past

I know that new freckles
old scars and fine lines
are the legible passage of time
full of lessons and blessings
that wipe away tears 
in this gift of a life I call mine