I have a dermatology appointment in Amherst this morning at 8 and blew my writing wad on this ... so writing here is out of the question at the moment.
PS. OK, so I went. And while I was there, the doctor inspected a small nodule above my left eyebrow ... nothing serious, but something that waxes and wanes in the heat and I thought it might be nice to remove. The doctor said he could/would do it, but not today ... it would take some time, time he had not allotted for today's visit.
And then he segued into the fact that an excision might leave a scar. He said it with a kind of concern, as if a scar on the face might be unacceptable or distressing as if I would be somehow less beautiful in my own eyes or the eyes of others. I told him I was a little old to be worrying about how pretty I might be.
But his words also brought me up somehow short: All my life I have been wowed and smitten by beauty. It melts me and I love being melted. Music, art, a sunset, a way of thinking, a kindness offered, a small smile, a hand held, a bend in the river ... in what seems like endless shapes and sizes, I have loved something called "beauty."
But the idea that I might somehow be concerned or convinced by my own beauty has never crossed my mind. True, I don't want to look, act or speak like a slob, but after that, I cannot find a convincing reason or longing or belief or melting in my own beauty. And the doctor's words made me wonder why I had never turned the lamp around in that way. Others (my daughter's visits to the mall come to mind) seem capable of it ... why am I not?
It was just a flash ... odd stuff.
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