The Scars that made her Beautiful

Whatever is pure and undefiled by daring individuality or the darkness of an unfortunate world- THAT is beautiful. In the beginning, the severity and expectation of purity becomes a unanimous decree passed down from generation to generation. A hope for our daughters, that they’d never shed a single salty tear aside from the ones that swell from joy. A prayer that a wicked world would pass them by when seeking victims for its next tragedy or precautionary tale. It’s true- there’s a precious beauty tethered to the innocent, those who don’t see, speak, hear but have a healthy fear of the unspeakable things lurking in hollows of humanity.

…But the Ruins of Pompeii are just as pretty, just in a different way. A miraculous way, because the ruins are undeniable proof that strength is a requirement of survival.

She’s never owned a perfectly white communion dress. The palms of her hands were never impeccably clean or equally blameless, no. She’s been both dirty and guilty more times than she can count. She was not the immaculate feather adrift in the breeze. She was not the disciplined ballerina dancing on key. Perfect? She never has been and will never be. Satisfied with the imperfect being she turned out to be? Certainly.

When Hozier said, “She’s the giggle at a funeral,” he had a woman like her in mind- of that, I’m sure. She’s the Joan Jett in the room. She’s Titian’s Danae. She’s the girl who waits for summer to blossom so she can stop wearing shoes. She’s the lady standing on the table, dancing with a shadow in her arms singing Sinatra’s "I did it my way". She’s the one with all the confidence and contagious laughter that dried all the disapproving whispers.

She’s the one with the contradicting tattoos, standing on the soap box challenging whatever’s unfair. She’s the one with her hand raised, not afraid to question what she’s been told to believe in. She knows, bravery also means accepting help with what we don’t understand. What’s right isn’t always proper, subsequently eyes roll as she struts her perfect form past those so preoccupied with normality that they’d fall for anything if it means fitting it. Her chin, its up way higher than their noses, she knows its far better to stand for something.

Ask her to share the best advice she’s ever received, she’ll tell you- “Hate has a price and that price is your peace. Just live every day of your life thankful that love is still free.” Ask her to repeat the most profound thing she’s ever read; she’ll say what Mary Elizabeth Frye said. “Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die.”

Both funerals and tombstones are for the living, that’s what she meant. Sob sessions and pity parties for those who must learn how to live without us in physical form. The stones, they read something ominous or wise to comfort who’s left behind still trying to find themselves as they find a way to move on. Some basic “Sunrise/Sunset” nonsense. Her last request was simple enough, “On my stone I want the truth about how I lived.”

And so it reads: “She was the sun and the moon, the heavy sigh in the room. She had a heart of gold, a silver tongue, a wicked sharp mind and she had iron in her spine.”

Yes, she was beautiful like the ruins- in a miraculous way, with all her scars.