Sunday Scribblings: If I could stop time...

If I could stop time, I'd go ahead and do it right now. It is a Saturday morning of cold blue skies and a bright sun spilling across a landscape of fallen leaves and pine needles.

Lately, I've been noticing the faces of older women--the ones sitting in coffee shops or at bus stops, at the grocery store or walking their dogs.... I've been noticing their faces like I've been noticing my own, the way age makes subtle changes over the years, creating a map of one's life.

I look at those women and wonder: is she happy? does she have regrets? would she do anything differently if given the chance? does she have a partner? does she have children? do they love her? does she love them? does the fresh air make her smile? does she sit alone in front of a television at night? what is the most adventurous thing she's ever done? has her heart been irrepairably broken? does she work in an office, sitting inside of a cubicle every day? has she ever changed someone's life? My curiosities about the faces of these women are endless. Maybe because I wonder what they reflect of my own face? They are usually strangers, glimpses of them caught in a passing moment, causing me to continue thinking about them for days and sometimes even weeks in an attempt to unravel the story of their lives from a single expression.

I always thought that a woman should be proud of her age. And I still do. I thought that wrinkles and white hair and age were something that one should wear with confidence. To me, age is equaled to life lived--something to be celebrated. I have always found beauty in age.

I am drawn to the faces of other women because, at 31, the process of aging has snuck up on me. I didn't expect this. My naive assumptions about aging had nothing to do with these dark circles under my eyes. Everyone has always said that I look young for my age. But, these days, I think I'm starting to look exactly my age. Soon, I'm afraid that I will look older than my age. Something in my face has begun to look different to me. I don't recognize the woman looking back at me in the mirror. She seems tired--the kind of tired that no amount of sleep will ever cure. She looks worn out, kind of like the woman that stood in the cold wind of the bus stop the other morning.

Looking at myself I think: Who is that woman that looks like a less beautiful version of my mom? An only slightly thinner version of my aunt? I don't understand the familial resemblances. And so I am drawn to the faces of strangers to explain this metamorphosis that seems to be taking place in my mind and taking hold of my body. I want to know where I am headed and am looking for ways to alter my course--not in wrinkles, but in quality of life.

You see, happy women age the best. Their wrinkles have a way of setting off the sparkle in their eyes. Their weathered skin has a way of reflecting long days spent outside gardening and woods-walking. Their still-strong muscles are but reminders of their active participation in each and every day of their lives.

At the age of 31 I see myself on a cusp. My aging process has, in a way, only just begun. And so I wonder: How should I live my life in a way that will age me beautifully? And what is beauty anyway? To me, beauty means happiness; beauty IS happiness. Beauty is a result of happiness. And however my body transforms with the passage of time--that is what I hope it will reflect. But it's the process of getting there that feels precarious. The map of my body and life are sometimes hard to read.

And I realize that what I'm really looking for in the faces of strangers--is a guide. I'm looking for someone to show me how to live life fully, for someone to show me how to be my best self. And what I'm beginning to understand is that the face of every woman I see is, in her own small way, my teacher. I can gleam whatever small amounts of insights I can from the strengths and weaknesses of others. But, in my heart, I know...

...the rest is up to me.

As for the prompt of "if I could stop time...", I guess I got off track. Except maybe not. Is it the ability to stop time that helps us age the most gracefully? And if that is the case, what does it mean to stop time? Is it perhaps nothing more than appreciating the blue sky and sunshine of a Saturday morning, taking time to breathe and love and simply be?

And I can't help but wonder, what will my face say about me when I'm 37? 50? 70? 105? What do I want it to say?


*more stopping of time.
*image from www.presscluboftibet.org