The Age of Beauty

The most beautiful face I've ever known, belongs to my eighty-seven-year-old grandmother. Each time I see her, I am struck anew by the depth of her loveliness. The joy in her journey, her struggles with sorrow, the threads of wisdom she's bent down and picked up along the way, are present in each line of time upon her face.

How could anything - ever - be more beautiful?

We're taught to dread wrinkles and sags and softening of the skin - the inevitable proof of the time we've spent here on earth. Yet, the more time we put in, the more reason we find to celebrate each passing year. Character is forged, integrity strengthened and gratitude becomes a feeling so deep the word no longer conveys a strong enough meaning.

I don't see an aging, forty-something face when I look in the mirror. I see a person growing 'into' her face, finally beginning the process of filling it out. At long last, she's figured out what her convictions are and has built up enough strength to live them.

The best of youth is gone. The best of here is now, and the best of aging is yet to come.

Fresh and new, the face of youth is a blank canvass. It is through the physical brushstrokes of aging that a masterpiece is created.

[ Terri McPherson © 2000 (tmcphers@mnsi.net) -- from Aiken Drum ]