A little more than 40 years ago, my grandfather gave me a painting he’d created from my 7th grade school picture. I had no idea I’d be receiving such a gift. I knew he painted. I’d seen plenty of his paintings – always landscapes with a boat or a cabin or a lone figure fishing. I wasn’t aware he painted portraits.
Anyone, other than a 13 year old girl, would have been thankful, maybe even pleased, with such a gift. I, like most 13 year old girls, was self-conscious. The painting was large (12″ x 16″) and bright and, well … it was me. I hated it.
I didn’t hate it because of his painting style, I hated it because of the subject matter. There, in a frame, were all the things I felt ugly about: the pointy chin, the unruly eyebrows, and the awkward smile. My too-big eyes were even larger on the canvas.
(You might not remember the long pointy collars of a button-up blouse from the 70s – a fashion statement I still don’t understand. I wore that blouse under a light-blue sweater vest on picture day. I have another picture of my 70s self wearing a thin leather strip as a headband. It matched a fringe vest. As I write this, I realize that she was every bit as full of contradiction as I am, now. She was self-conscious, yet had the confidence to wear a headband, and a swingy fringed vest. I see that in my kids, too. They are self-conscious, yet they try on different “costumes” in an attempt to discover who they are. Some of us do this all our lives.)
I still have that painting. It’s made every move I’ve made. It’s currently standing between an end table and one wall of my bedroom. I have never hung it on the wall. (Sorry, grandpa.) I can’t imagine ever getting to a point where I want a large painting of my face on a wall.
It’s happened twice in the last month.
I’ll be backing the car out of the garage, heading to an appointment, and look up to see if I have something in my teeth. I see my eyes – those 7th grade eyes – in the rear view mirror.
(If you aren’t yet in your 50s, you can’t know how often you will be checking a mirror, once you get here. Not for mascara smudges or smeared lipstick or bad hair, but to see if the seeds from the morning’s toast are lodged between your teeth. They almost always are.)
The eyes I see are the eyes in grandpa’s painting.
The first time this happened, I was racing to the office. I remember thinking, “Slow down. You must be anxious. That’s just weird to see those eyes.”
The second time, I wasn’t in a hurry. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit this, but I liked seeing those eyes.
(Even if I had the resources, I wouldn’t invest a lot in anti-aging concoctions. I have no faith in them. The last time I tried one, it scorched my face. Because I hate waste, I applied it to my cracked heals. It worked so well, I’m now on my second bottle of the stuff that promised to take 18 years off my face.)
The eyes in the rear view mirror are creased with lines from lots of choices, mistakes and successes. Lines from life frame those eyes now. The lashes are naked and the brows are thinning, but they are the eyes I saw in the mirror when I was in 7th grade. The same warmth and intensity are there.
My soul is in there – the soul that has been guiding me since long before 7th grade. Recently, for some reason I don’t understand, I’m recognizing my soul.
Finally.
Hell, maybe one day I will put that painting up on the wall – probably in the bedroom, tho’.
I hope you look in the mirror, not to pluck or conceal or wince, but to recognize and acknowledge. I hope you see that spark behind your eyes.
It’s there.