And here's what was apparently going through my mind as I sat dumbstruck at the first grandmother death:
The strangest thing about looking in the mirror isn’t frequently being disgruntled by our appearance, or that we may on occasion even find ourselves quite – almost unbelievably – beautiful.
Instead, the strange thing is looking at the face, the head with its bigness, seeing we are not children or featureless expressions of our true inner-selves, but contained. And, in fact, these containers can seem to bare no earthly semblance whatsoever to the _____ we carry. Not a one of them. Even looking down at my own body, it is not uncommon for me to be still amazed I have breasts, muscles, and this adult body – completely simply by way of having been born, and continuing.
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1 comment:
Here's hoping you've become more comfortable being your bod.
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