When I am anywhere but alone at home, I feel like the proverbial elephant in the room. I am all-too-aware of my body, the solid presence in a space, my Being There.
Why is beauty still so important, still so widely talked about, still something we care about at such a visceral level?
… and other lessons from the Konmari art of decluttering
It’s well-documented that certain tribal cultures believe a photo taken of a person is the stealing of his or her soul. If this is true, we are a world of walking zombies…
Have you ever been to a city that revealed itself slowly? The kind of place where every wrong turn leads to a new door, carved, and studded with brass? Where twisting streets beckon toward dead-ends and bare walls, while an unassuming archway opens onto a light-filled vista?
There is something about not fitting in that presents us to ourselves in full, and maybe, just maybe, there is beauty in what we see.
Instead of always hankering after having it all, why don’t we try shifting the focus to celebrating what we already do have?
When your face breaks open to someone, smiling, or to just be, just feel, you have beauty on your side, more so than if you are sneering at another woman.
I am going to start this off by saying, “real men” don’t worry about what other “real men” do, because they are secure enough to not care what is or is not measured as being “manly.”
When he told me that “the beautiful ones always smashed the pictures, always, every time,” I knew that someone understood — I was a beautiful one, simple me.