Short odes to Purple

Personally, I think a blog about beauty MUST include a post about the color purple. So here's mine.

If my soul had a color
it would be purple.
Childish, yet deep and alluring.

The place I escape to,
the only place I melt into
and stop the world from spinning,
is purple and hazy.

A face with purple accents
speaks of inner beauty
and mystery,
a quiet love for adventure,
a romantic imagination.

Purple on a woman is
endless.

Purple on the road
is a portal
to the place where you will love
completely
and be loved
deeply.

A purple sky is
an invitation to magic.

I need purple in my home,
my soft place to fall into.
I need purple to wear,
bringing romance with me.
I need purple to gaze at me
with the promise of more.

God gave me purple.

Purple, you will be my color this fall.

What We're Really Missing

Today I was at the park with my kids, and my daughter told me that my long scarf made it look like I had long brown hair. She then proceeded to "braid" it. I could have sat there for hours with her patting, wrapping, and tugging on my scarf. It reminded me of when I had hair and my sister or a friend would play with it and fix it up. Or when I would get to be pampered in a stylist's chair.

Of course I started feeling sorry for myself. I had a very strong sense of loss in the fact that I didn't have hair for anyone to play with or run their fingers through. "He ran his fingers tenderly...all over my bare scalp..." Doesn't do much for you either, does it?

I also felt a sense of loss on behalf of my daughter. Shouldn't every little girl get to experience the sweetness of brushing her mama's hair? My daughter won't.

But then I realized how much fun she was having pretending my scarf was hair. She was having just as much fun fixing it up as she would have had if it were real hair. And I was enjoying the physical sensations and the emotional bonding just as much, too.

Maybe my sense of loss actually stemmed from the feeling that my kids are growing up too fast and I haven't been as present with them as I'd like to be. Or maybe I had a moment of missing my mom. Maybe it didn't have to do with my hair at all.

For everything I thought I had lost after developing alopecia, there has been a "replacement" that seems to satisfy the deeper need or longing that hair provided an easy fix for.

Are you feeling cheated out of anything right now? My advice is to get down to the real issue and look for opportunities where a replacement might satisfy.

Dawn

A sister's reflection--

extension,

model and metaphor,

connection

and grace--

the beauty

in this family line

redefined.

She is

the calm I seek,

the smile

that's true,

the truth about love.




My sister is strong, generous to the point of sacrifice, compassionate to great and small, bursting with talent so preciously guarded it has yet to find a worthy stage.

She loves me in all my unloveliness.

Her eyes are silver like a winter sea. Her smile is catchy, drawing you in like a clever jingle without losing the integrity of the heart behind it.

She is a giver. Her gift is finding the perfect one.

And today is her birthday. Drawing to a close now, I offer these thoughts as my humble portrait of her beauty on the day we celebrate her life among us.

Happy Birthday Dawny! I love you.

Do you have a sister? What poetic lines might she inspire you to write? How is her beauty?

(Photos by, of, or about my sister.)

The Art in Me

Today I was listening an old Jars of Clay song from the 90s, "Art in Me". It was a good day to hear that song. I was feeling pretty low today after some harsh run-ins with people (once with a teacher because I was ten minutes late picking up my daughter from school, and a couple times on the road) and I didn't feel anywhere close to the beautiful masterpiece I have been taught to believe I am.

The song speaks to the beautiful mess we all are, the hidden art that we usually don't see. I was struck by this today. When I mess up, I feel messy on the inside and out. And the opposite is also true--when I have a day of minor successes, I feel pretty well put-together in my appearance (regardless of whether I actually am or not, sometimes to my embarrassment). The way I view my behavior, accomplishments and failures actually distorts the image of my physical self that I carry in front of my eyes as I live and move.

Again, as I have written many times before, this all hinges on my own perception of myself. I suppose if I were to imagine myself as a work of art, I would be the type of critic who thinks impressionism is the only true art form, and all else is lacking. Or realism, cubism, or whatever that "ideal" form may be. I obviously have some standard in mind when I judge my own actions, thoughts and appearance.

When I look outward, I am very accepting of all forms of art and beauty. Well, most. Why can't I apply that same generosity and openness to my own reflection? I keep coming back to this question. Why can I show grace to others but not myself? How can I be so affirming of the beauty in others and so harshly critical toward what I myself have to offer?

I may never figure this out. But maybe, instead of looking at the whole picture, I can start by appreciating certain strokes of the brush, a particular combination of colors, or the movement of any given line. I can look at my life in pieces and find beauty in moments, conversations, decisions, responses, prayers, tears, and on and on...until eventually I come to see how they all come together in, yes, a masterpiece. An original, unique yet on par with every other master work in the gallery.