The birth of a Goddess

Don’t look at me!

The room was small… too small for Libby Lewis. Her face grew hot and her chest tightened. People she knew sat beside her on the navy-blue lounges. They all babbled loudly then sat in silence when the man arrived and sat on the only accent chair in the room. Libby tightly closed her mouth and breathed silently through her nose. She lowered her light brown eyes and allowed her long brown locks to partially cover her face. She did not want him to notice her.

He encouraged the team of creators to tap into their artistic brilliance and produce masterpieces to save the fledgling digital magazine from succumbing to a silent death at the hands of the many online blogs and other e-zines. When her co-workers stood to leave the room, Libby did too. She followed her companions as each nodded politely or smiled awkwardly at the man. Libby left without doing either, preferring to remain unseen… comfortable in her anonymity.

As she walked to her favourite store, she unwillingly recalled the last meeting in that room just seven days ago. Libby’s artwork often spoke for itself but when the man asked her questions, they were mute, she was speechless, and then she was ridiculed. Not by him and not during that meeting. She was ridiculed by Shari and Angela, the two younger women who wore tight skirts and swung their hips when they walked, whose blouses were tight and provocatively unbuttoned, and whose painted red lips and hair in messy top knots turned many heads. They were her tormentors, daily reminders that the older and plainer woman she embodied paled in comparison.

Who am I?

The store was her sanctuary, aisles lined with books stacked in piles that threatened to fall if touched. But touch them Libby did… hard-covered books that formed precarious foundations caressed her hand as she walked past, as though fondling her fingers and beckoning her to return. The musky stale air held her as she stood in the recesses of the store, romanced by the stories she was yet to discover. She opened her eyes when an older woman in colourful garb approached. Her hair was dreaded and tied in a bun. She wore no makeup, but her wrists were adorned with bracelets. Libby pretended to browse when her eyes rested upon a small red box on top of a stack of books nearby. She squinted, aware that she had walked this aisle many times before and had never seen that box.

She picked it up and turned it over. It was plain and unmarked. She opened the lid and inside was a little black book. Libby returned the red box to the top of the pile then took the book and turned back the cover of the moleskine. She quickly read the first hand-written page and frowned. It was an instruction to stand in front of a mirror every day for seven and ask, “Who am I?”. Then, on the seventh day and only after reading the previous page, she was to write her experiences on the next blank page in the little black book. As strange as it was, she decided to give it a try.

Once within the privacy of her unit, Libby laid the red box on the coffee table and held the book in her hands. She read the instructions again and exhaled sharply, skeptical of its purpose. She stood in front of the hallway mirror but decided to read the instructions once more. She then looked at her reflection and quickly noticed the little round scars above her left eyebrow, remnants from chickenpox, and the scars on her chin, evidence of her learning to ride a bike. She saw the kinks in her hair and noticed how the tips lightened to a natural coppery colour. Her nose was splashed with freckles, as though someone had dipped a brush in light brown paint and rudely flicked it at her face.

“Who am I?” Libby asked her reflection. She squinted and willed an answer then opened her eyes wide and mocked the silence. “I’m definitely not Sleeping Beauty in this story.”

Libby laughed at herself then saw the easel reflected behind her, the blank white canvas gestured for colour. She smiled as she walked towards it then squeezed blues, yellows, and whites onto the palette and began to paint. When her eyes tired and her legs ached from standing, she laid the palette down and stood back to look at what she started. Her hands were thinly coated in places with blues and yellows and the smears on her face gave witness to their touch. She looked at her reflection once more and grinned with a knowingness, a belief that the one thing she was she had always been.

“I am a mess,” she laughed lightly.

I am not who you think I am

Libby completed this ritual for three more days and wrote each new word on a sticky note then stuck it to the mirror as reminders of what she saw – messy, ugly, plain, stupid. On day five she stood in front of the mirror and inhaled deeply, trying to gather the courage to open her eyes. The last three days were tough as she grew to hate her reflection more each time. Her day at work had been tortuously predictable as Shari and Angela maintained their onslaught. Day one… Libby’s hair. Day two… Libby’s makeup. Day three… Libby’s apparent crush and their boss’ disinterest in her. Day four… Libby’s wardrobe.

“I am hated,” Libby cried softly with overwhelming resignation as she glanced at her reflection. Her chest ached and she pressed a hand over it in an unconscious attempt at comfort. She leaned forward as she placed her other hand across her stomach, pain burned and snaked within. “They hate me!” she cried louder, then laid on the floor and allowed the tears to scream along with her.

She cried and cried then snapped upright in anger. She wiped the tears, stood, and walked towards the red box on the coffee table.

“This is fucken stupid!” she yelled while fresh tears welled and threatened to wet her flushed cheeks once more.

Libby grabbed the little black book and sat heavily on the sofa. She flicked through the pages to get to the last handwritten message and read it out loud.

“Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be? A quote by Charles Bukowski.”

Libby blinked then frowned, not able to read the rest of the page.

“Can I remember who I was before the world told me who I should be?” she asked herself, stunned by the question.

Libby moved to the floor and reached for the sketch pad and pencil she kept there. She wrote every single word her tormentors had breathed life into during her three years of working with them. When she could not think of another, she looked over the page and circled the ones that crushed her chest and pained her stomach. As she closed her eyes and leaned against the sofa, Libby rested.

They were words she recognized from her childhood… spoken by her parents who parroted what their own parents had said to them. She moaned as she knew she had forgiven them long ago, but the words were still with her like invisible knots deep within her body. She realized that somehow these words were her comfort, the barricade she often hid behind, the excuse she often used. Now was the time to let them go.

Libby placed a hand over her heart once more and inhaled deeply, feeling her chest rise and fall with each breath. As she exhaled, she instinctively thought of a word that hurt and replaced it with a word that freed the pain when she inhaled. Exhale messy… inhale creative. Exhale ugly… inhale beautiful. Exhale stupid… inhale intelligent. Exhale plain… inhale vibrant. Exhale hated… inhale loved. Over-and-over-again until the pain became less.

I am who I am

It was day six and Libby walked with a confidence and a smile that introduced her before she spoke. She often attended the monthly art auctions held at the marketplace near her home. Occasionally she had a piece of her own art up for auction, especially when she needed the money. On this day she held the canvas carefully and knew that her piece would bring both heartache and pleasure to the right buyer. She called it “The birth of a Goddess” and ran her fingers over the blues and yellows once more as she waited for the auctioneer. As they spoke, the space on the road filled with curious buyers and bystanders. Then when the auction commenced, Libby retreated to buy ice cream.

The warm sun was not biting, and the slight breeze played with her wavy brown hair. Her freckles danced as she turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. She breathed in the smells of the marketplace and the sounds of people around her were melodies to her ears. As she slowly walked back towards the auction with her ice-cream, Libby heard a familiar voice. She looked ahead and saw her – Shari from work. She was standing beside him with their arms intertwined.

Libby frowned slightly, disappointed that of all the women he could have he chose her. She shook her head and rattled the negative thoughts from her mind, then shrugged with an “oh well”. When Libby’s painting was before the crowd, she held her breath until the bidding started. Twenty dollars… wow, Libby thought. Then it went higher and higher. Libby looked around the small crowd to see who the bidders were. Her eyes rested on him. He was bidding and would not withdraw even when Shari pestered him too. His competitor was an older woman in colourful garb. Her hair was dreaded and tied in a bun. She wore no makeup, but her wrists were adorned with bracelets.

Libby stood stunned into silence then jumped when the auctioneer slapped a hand into the palm of his other hand. “Sold for $20,000 to the gentleman in the front.”

She shook her head. Did he say $20,000? Libby thought then waited until the auction had ended to approach the auctioneer.

“Well that was the largest sale we’ve had,” he beamed as he handed her a cheque. “That was a stunning self-portrait though.”

Libby took the cheque and stared at the numbers. $20,000… self-portrait? she thought then said, “Thanks. What made you think it was a painting of me?”

“Awww c’mon Libby. The beautiful freckles, the light brown eyes, that big smile, the soft hair. All those blues and yellows were stunning though. What was behind those colours?”

Libby smiled and shrugged. She knew that was a story she was yet to write.

Straightening another’s crown

The next morning, she opened the little black book and read the page before the blank one that was hers. The author of the page wrote about finding a true expression of self and as she started to pen her reflections, Libby knew that this was just the start of her journey.

When she arrived at work, Libby walked past her boss’ office and saw her painting on the wall opposite his desk. She smiled and walked some more, then peered around a corner to see the vacant desk. Without hesitation, Libby placed the red box on the keyboard and rested a paint-stained hand on the lid before swaying down the hallway to her own space filled with colour, beauty, and love.

Shari Michaelson arrived at her desk a short time later. She picked the red box up and turned it over. It was plain and unmarked. She opened the lid and inside was a little black book.