Bequeath

Rolling Fat Max, my heavy-duty tool box on wheels, into the hotel I can’t wait to unsnap its lid, slide out its drawers and dig into the photographs, paper, tape, pens, markers and stickers housed inside.  It’s the annual scrapbook weekend I spend with some of my favorite girlfriends, a marathon we power through for three straight days every February.

 

We’re all preserving memories for our kids; I’ve been with many of these wonderful mothers for the past twelve years, as our children start their very first days of school, and now as some wind up their last days.  When I move into the neighborhood (and into their lives), I expect I’ll watch their children come into their own, what I don’t anticipate is watching these women come into their own, too.

Many of us (well, me anyway) are years behind in our scrapbooks.  In the pages of the books we’re creating, the teenagers among us are still in elementary school.  So it’s no surprise we run across vintage photos of ourselves from younger days teasing big, frizzy hair or sporting questionable fashion choices.  But as I look at these photos now, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that while the face of my youth may be pretty and unlined, on the inside she lacks confidence, wisdom, and any idea about what she wants, has a right to, or is capable of achieving in her lifetime.

 

When we talk about aging, especially as women, we often feel time is not on our side. We agonize over physical attrition:  Those lines and wrinkles creeping onto our faces, gray hairs becoming prominent in our manes, a few extra pounds on our frames, maybe our teeth aren’t as white anymore, our hands not as smooth.  We’re socialized to reject the patina years of weathering the storms of life wash upon our bodies.  While we proudly, willingly don (and even pay extra for) clothing revered for its imperfections, plainly spelled out on tags announcing the inherent flaws of natural fibers, we have a hard time accepting, with the same enthusiasm, how this concept translates into that same coveted beauty when bestowed upon us by years of living. It’s a Shiva we can sit for decades, so engrossed in mourning all we lose we fail to identify, let alone celebrate, all we gain.

And the gains are significant, life-altering even.  Years of being everything to everyone give way to an understanding that taking care of ourselves is imperative to the well-being of everyone we touch.  In making room to acknowledge and validate our own wanting, we open up the possibility to explore our dreams and desires.  We take risks and find confidence in all we’re able to accomplish, as well as in the lessons learned when we fall.  And suddenly what’s on the outside doesn’t matter so much anymore because we’re fueled by all we’ve created on the inside.

    

I wish I could say I penned these words, because they are so beautiful in their simplicity, in their raw truth aching to be heard:  “Time is a gift, not a detriment, to a woman.” 

Not only do I want every woman to believe this for herself, I want to infuse this into those little boys starring in the pages of my scrapbooks, growing into men who not only believe it, but value it, and voice it to the women they love, every single day.