Inside a Rose by Kat Magendie

I walked The Rose Walk along Lake Junaluska, even though most of the roses are not doing so well right now. We had a surprise snow a week before, and a few gentle frosts, and then back to springlike weather. I glanced at the roses here and there, noting their bowed heads and browned tips. Then, this one rose caught my eye. It was browned at the edge, yes, but not bowing its head in defeat, and I caught a glimpse of the inside of a petal—the petal was soft, dewy, and bright glowy red. I took my camera from my jacket pocket and snapped a photo. That rose was the perfect metaphor. For although as we age or go through tough times, we may become a little brown around our edges, a little worse for wear, our insides are full and ripe and dewy and beautifully soft and young.

I smiled as I walked away from the rose. Quickened my step. Felt as if I’d found out some secret that really isn’t a secret at all. I walked tall and straight and proud, head up, eyes forward.

One of the great things about my generation of women is that “Older Women” are no longer considered headed out to pasture—look at the female actors who are over forty and still tearing up the screen (oh, not as much as we’d like, for youth is still revered), and women who defy their age and circumstance by doing the things they’ve always dreamed of doing but were unable to because of lack of confidence. Our confidence levels rise with our age, and with experiences. It’s an incredible time in our lives. I think back to when I was younger and how I cringed at the idea of getting older, and now I see the beautiful part of it, the freeing part, the I feel damn strong and damn proud part.

There are, however, times when I fear time is moving too fast and I may not have as many years in front of me as I had behind me, but that only makes me work harder towards the things I want to accomplish before I leave. And, there are fewer things holding me back now than there were then: including my own self.

If, like that rose’s inside petal, all we women (no matter our age or circumstance) could turn inside out, we’d all look the same—beautiful and complex, pulsing with life. That’s my gratitude thought for today.

A Word About Vigilance by Patresa Hartman

Saturday was beautiful and marked by freedom -- a welcome shift from weeks of commotion and planning and responsibility and schedule keeping. And still, something fell at the end of the day. I don't know where it comes from, this spontaneous cloud, but it appears out of blind corners from time to time and settles around.

When it settles, motion is restricted, fond memory erased. All connection seems lost, and I spin.

It did not last long, and I am grateful. Blew through, blew out, as I slept. But I can still taste it this morning. It hides, but not well: The tail end of it pokes out between the bookshelf and the floor lamp. It is waiting for me to drop vigilance.

A word about this vigilance:

I once engaged a student in a debate about pessimism. He argued that anyone who is a realist is by default a pessimist, because there is nothing consistent in the world but war and death. He was an intelligent man, and an angry student who kept his facial expressions hidden behind a thick, woolly beard.

And it occurred to me then, how easy it is to by a cynic. So much easier. If war is a wheel, it is the squeakiest. If poverty is a color, it is the loudest. If all the ugly in the world is an elephant, it is the most space-taking in the global livingroom. It is not necessarily a matter of intelligence to notice; it is a matter of picking out that which is glaringly obvious.

Optimists often get jabbed. To be hopeful is to be oblivious, too mindless to understand. But I disagree. In a world on fire, it takes work to keep one eye on beauty and promise. It takes vigilance. And so this morning, I will take inventory before the cloud can settle and direct my thoughts.

• I am hungry, and there is fruit in the fridge.
• My dog sighs, and her nose is wet and shiny.
• The curtains are parted, and the fog is hovering just enough for texture.
• The grass is dewy and a richer green.
• The street is quiet, the cars still asleep.
• The turqoise cushion, with its missing button, appears to wink.
• The coffee is fresh and perfectly tanned by cream.
• The paper is thick and neatly stacked.
• It is early Sunday and everything waits.

How Grateful are We? by Angie Ledbetter

A Chinese proverb most often attributed to Confucius says, "Don't curse the darkness -- light a candle." I love that quote and say it to myself sometimes when I'm tempted to curse more than just the "darkness." ;)

When tempted to wallow in misery or sadness, I step outside whatever environment is causing the intense feelings of bleakness and get a glimpse of something refreshing. Today I sat outside in the early morning. The sun wasn't out of bed yet, but you couldn't tell it by the varied bird calls and songs filling the air. A cool breeze played in the outstretched arms of my Dad's mature fig tree. I'd gotten a decent night's sleep and had an aromatic first cup of coffee in hand while I breathed in the smells, sounds and sights surrounding me. I steeped in the light of the coming day instead of its mostly dark beginnings. Ahh.

Something else I've found refreshing is taking a gratitude test. Although there are many, this one is only six questions and scores come back immediately. Now it's official -- I'm immensely grateful -- the quiz proves it! And that reminds me that I'm thankful for this blog. It gives me frequent opportunities to look around, over, under, and beyond the moment to find treasures I'd probably otherwise miss.

Take the Gratitude Test

Who Started all this Beauty Madness? by Kat Magendie

I flip through a magazine and realize it’s no longer strange to see clever ads for Botox and plastic surgery, the ones that make the decision seem a smart and savvy one for the up and coming woman of distinction. Why are we so hooked on “Beauty” and who started all this madness?

Let’s see. In ancient Babylon, not only the women but also the men wore eye shadow and eyeliner, darkened their lashes, curled their hair, and used henna for nail color. Ancient Grecian woman crushed berries to blush their cheeks and applied fake eyebrows made of ox’s hair. The Egyptians liked to show off their veins with blue "paint." Those girly Roman women made facial masks out of flowers, honey, wheat, and eggs. Oh, but the hardy Medieval women slapped bat’s blood to their faces (good god), while both men and women used pumice stones for toothbrushes (ouch). Beginning with the sixteenth century, women patted white lead on their faces to look “pale” (lord help them), and while they were at it they lightened their hair with lye--of course their fell out so they had to wear wigs.

Huhn. Well. Maybe a few lines and dark under-eye shadows aren’t so bad, considering what some will go through to look, um, good. We can laugh or say, “EEK!” at the ancient ways of beauty, but really, are we much better now? Today there is the aforementioned Botox and plastic surgery; and then, liposuction; hair plugs; weird crazy diets and supplements; stomach stapling and banding; “full body” lifts; lip plumper-outers that look as if the woman was stung in the lips by fifty-two hornets; cosmetic foot surgery to reshape the feet, for god's sake; and the uh, er, ahem, “female body parts” plastic surgery to beautify "down there," geez.

I smile at myself in the mirror. I’m not so bad. In fact, I’m grateful for the good genes my parents passed down to me. Good teeth, solid bone structure, healthy body. Yeah. Not so bad at all, considering the “cures” for what is the natural progression of our lives. I’ll take it…I’ll take me, just as I am. Be thankful for what you have, or else where will all this madness end?