Musings: A Work in Progress

It's beautiful you. And I'm not talking about smooth pore-less-porcelain skin-shiny -silk-hair-bone-structure-evident-no bulge-everything in its place-no-need-for cashmere-or-makeup-(with the possible exception of some natural looking eye shadow and some clear lip gloss).
Fearful that someone might see those enlarged pores up close? Oh yes.
Bouncing around with ease, can-wear-anything- 'cuz-anything-makes-me-look-like- those-American-apparel-and-Gap-models-in-Glamour-Magazine--Not an option.
But,I'm not talking about them. Not today, I'm not.
I'm talking about the things that pour out of you like streams. Your art and the colors you combine when you dress and the red and orange pastels you know how to mix to create sunsets and the messiness that you make the most out of or the cleanliness that marks your aura. How about that one strand of hair that curls and you just can't straighten or when the afternoon sunlight highlights your face. Or the hips that will serve you well during child birth. Or the thinness that reminds us of a ballerina (raise that chest up high, girl. No need to hunch over).
Or the 10 year old journals with coffee stains and mascara-tainted-tear drops.

I'm talking about the journey that has made you, the scars in your nervous system that make you strong, the breath that has carried you through during panic. Your idiosyncrasies that make you beautiful--
like willows aging over rivers or streams--
like charcoal spread out over paper, dirty paint brushes and oil paint-stained jeans
like the wrinkles on the corner of your eyes
or the laugh lines that are now there to stay
like corrugated wood, now turned into an antique desk
or that snaggle-tooth that presents itself every time you smile..or talk.

like dandelions with their nappy hair blowing in the wind, becoming one with the ground that grew them--
like Peruvian flutes singing over Andes for thousands of years--
like stories your great grandmother used to tell you and passed down to her children and theirs--
like getting ready for the day, 8:00 am smells of coffee against the crisp morning air
like a kiss on your forehead
like waking up next to your beloved as the sun peaks through the curtains
like cute little kids discovering the world with their tiny hands

This is your beauty. Your unshakable beauty--the one that says wrinkles take precedence over perfection. The one that looks like a bloody wound on skin but is, in fact, a rose beneath the surface.
Jasmin scent breaking through when you speak, not directly obvious on your rolls, fat or hair. Porcelain skin subtly glowing when you read. And struggle. And make it. Not directly obvious,
as they see pimples with their eyes instead of beauty with their souls.