I have a new line under my eye. Well: both eyes, but the one under my left eye is more pleasing. It's a line I would have drawn there myself if I had taken a photograph a year ago and wanted to draw age into it prettily. The lines under my right eye are broken and look a little bit more worried. The right eye line is a happy, flirty wrinkle. I am aging to match Bu's eyes. His eye wrinkles are twinkly gestural drawings. Each one is like an artist's swooping stroke reinforcing the movement of smiling.
I am happy to have this smiling line to define my eye. I imagine it was born just today, the day I noticed it in the mirror. I don't want to think that it came gradually and I haven't caught my reflection smiling lately. I say today is the birthday of this new definition in my face.
My hair's changing, while I'm waxing narcissistic about my appearance, has stalled. The gray that darted in furtively at twenty three and made aggressive, spidery advances when Mom was sick seems to have relaxed and decided that the new worries of motherhood are better reflected in laugh lines. It decided I don't have to make an earth mama's worried choice yet about embracing early gray or chemical dye.
I feel comfortable in body today. More centered and solid. I like watching the mirror for proof of the seismic shifts that are starting to settle now. Like an earthquake was the loss of mom, and then birthing was a volcano that forged new land by vomiting up fire. Forcing the life/blood/energy to and over the surface, then I cooled and mellowed and was a fountain of comfort.
Now the ground stills, and new things take root.