Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so my Mother said. I’ve got a pretty good eye. I see beauty in most everything. Today I found a few pieces of beach glass and some less-than-perfect seashells. I thought they were all beautiful. None of them was perfect, but I especially liked the less-than-perfect shells. They of course reminded me of myself.
The first one I was moved to pick up was half of a large, common, clam -shell. I was stopped in my wet tracks in the sand by the thick, purple edges of the broken specimen. It was striated in shades of orange and black and had some chips that reminded me of the sink we had in our old house on Rossmore Avenue in Hancock Park. The inside was smooth and lavender, and reminded me of mother-of-pearl. It looked like it had been around for a while, and I loved how heavy it felt in my hand. A few feet down the beach I found it’s mate. Not it’s other half, the second shell was smaller, like my husband is as compared to me. This second shell was slightly less flawed.
I’ve always seen the metaphor in flawed beauty. When Tom and I got engaged we shopped for rings and both fell in love with a pair of earrings we saw in a gallery in Brentwood. They were twenty-four carat gold, irregular sort of squares with a vivid crack across the middle of each of them. Inside the cracks were tiny diamond chips. “They’re just like us!” I exclaimed. “The cracks reveal diamonds!” We looked further for something better but ultimately went back to the artist and had him make our rings in the same, flawed style from which the cracks in our rings revealed what was precious.
Tom and met because of our flaws. He was twenty-nine and I was thirty-seven when I spotted him across the room of our mutual therapist’s office. I had asked her for months to start a “group” so that I could maybe learn how to relate to people in a healthy, balanced way. Tom was in the group.
None of his flaws were visible, and I expect mine were at first hidden as well. He was sexy and fit in his dark suit, jacket thrown over the back of the couch, tie off, with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal his thick furry forearms. He looked up when he saw me in the doorway and I nearly fell into his deep dimpled smile. “Hummmm!” I thought. “He looks interesting!” That was it for me.
Who goes to therapy for fun? No one that I’m aware of. We go because something is not working in our lives. Something we don’t understand that needs fixing or healing or illuminating. I was not there for something to do on Thursday evenings. I could after all, have been at an AA meeting, (I had lots of flaws that needed attending to.) I don’t remember why Tom was there, only that over the course of the next four years while I remained with him in the group and after; we became good friends and then fell in love.
The rough edges we came in with have been smoothed and softened over time. Like the treasures I find on the beach. Our love is precious, at least to me, because of what we have survived. The dents and chips don’t matter so much as the beauty of the whole.
Maybe I should be looking at my chins and drooping eyelids that way. Oh never mind. That’s another topic, which I have already covered. But maybe not.
I love my life so much! I love the people, the place I live, my first cup of coffee in the morning, the finches at the feeder outside my window in the morning, I love hearing the crickets and frogs down by the creek, I love the ocean and the beach and hearing the whistle of the train that goes through town several times a day. I love the simplest, purest things about my every day life. Clean water to drink. My jammies and slippers, my bed, my pillow, my husband’s snoring next to me. I love making tacos for my grandkids, even though that’s all they ever want to eat. I love talking to my husband about almost anything. I love my girlfriends, and tea and shopping and going to meetings. I love all of it!
Mine is a sweet, sweet life, and yet, I am not perfect. Chock full of chips and slubs and flaws of every kind. Still, he loves me and so it seems, do my friends and family. Not one of them ever asks me to be the perfect specimen. The perfect wife, or mother or grandmother. No one expects me to be the perfect friend. They all know that I am flawed and yet, we continue on.
I was thinking that maybe there are flaws built in to the design of a person, (like our wedding rings,) to make each one more approachable. I think this is true in Chinese art. I know for certain that no one ever married me or asked me to sponsor them, or invited me over for a cup of coffee because they thought I was perfect. Who would want to be around that? I have had friends that seem perfect. It’s a drag, really. I mean I know they’re not and they know they’re not, but they seem to try as hard as they can to project that image. I know. I’ve done it too.
In my third marriage, to a wonderful, fun, good -looking man, I wanted everyone to see us as the perfect couple. We were perfect in that our imperfections complimented one another. He was neat and linier in his thinking while I was all about the “big picture”, with big ideas and grand plans and no idea how to implement such things. That wasn’t my department.
I would throw the silverware in the drawer and he would take it out and organize the forks and spoons and knives. My shoes were piled in a heap on the floor of my closet and his were in neat rows with shoetrees. I had my own language, my own way of doing things and he was forever trying to improve me. Of course we fought about these differences, but I would never tell anyone about the disagreements because I wanted to project an image of perfect harmony.
Ultimately I became resentful and acted out rather than speaking out. I didn’t get mad; I got even.
When that marriage ended I was single for many years, during which time I met Tom. I think I always had a crush on him but he was oblivious. We had lunch or dinner together about once a month downtown where we both worked and one day I decided to tell him about my feelings over lunch. “I have some great news!” he blurted out when we sat down at a table near the window, Oh, what is it? I asked, “Arlene is moving in with me!” Oh, how nice for you. That was the end of me. A couple of years later, he and Arlene were guests at my fourth wedding.
Tom finally noticed I was a girl, about six months after my fourth divorce while we were having dinner one evening in May. He had broken up with Arlene and I was single again when we got together as friends and saw each other in a whole new light. We have remained together from that day on.
Many of my flaws were gone, while some remained. Marriage is a great arena in which to discover ones flaws. I remember in my early sobriety when it was suggested NOT to get into or out of a relationship in the first year. This, the old-times said, we be a great disservice to both parties insomuch as we would not really know who we were for some time. That was certainly true for me.
When Tom and I finally got married, I had known him for twelve years and had been sober for over twenty. Still, there was work to be done by each of us. I had been married unsuccessfully and subsequently divorced four times. I was forty-nine years old, had three adult daughters and four grand kids. Tom on the other hand, had never been married or had children and he was forty-one. Clearly we needed help.
For the first time in MY life, we decided to be pro-active. We sought out, found and employed the services of a marriage counselor whom we saw regularly for a year before, and for two years after our marriage. For the first time we learned some tools that helped us navigate the narrows of each other’s past hurts and histories. We found that almost nothing we argued about was about “us”, but was caused by bumping into the wounds and bruises of our pasts. We learned to take a time out, pull back, then come back and try again. It has worked perfectly for a couple of imperfect people.
Today is another beautiful spring day in Santa Barbara. We shared a quiet morning; I visited my friends with my daughter and grandson so that Stacy could have some cuttings from their garden. We met Tom for lunch on our way home and I am looking forward to my nap. Tom is outside fixing a broken umbrella on the patio nearest the dining room. That in and of itself is progress for me. In the past, I would have insisted that we buy a new one, but time has taught me otherwise.
Not every broken, cracked, torn thing must be tossed aside. The history of a thing, the tears and chips and breaks can make it beautiful. Can make it stronger. Can make it worth hanging onto and appreciated, if for nothing more than the memory of the wind and rain and sunshine is has endured.
My life is so glamorous! Lucky for me, it is just not fair!!
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