Living My Life As Beautiful

I went for a swim today, and left feeling pretty darn good about myself.

• I had gone swimming despite trying to talk myself out of it over the entire course of driving from work to the pool
• I had gone to the weight gym and was happy to note that I had progressed from spindly I-can’t-lift-this arms to doing 15 pound dumb bell bicep curls (yes, the miniature Hulkette in the re-making—ask Mr. T what he thought when he first saw me in a sleeveless feminine dress, during my rock climbing years, eight years ago)
• I had stretched really well—probably the first time this whole season, so I was patting myself on the back
• I performed my mitzvah of the day, an unasked for kindness to another individual—who was grateful enough to thank me several times.
• I had stepped out of my trying-to-hide-behind-the-scenery self, and was wearing a cute outfit—and I felt it, too
• Some guy named “Biff” thought it was cute, too, and actually tried to pursue me in what was an initially flattering, but became annoying, kind of way (OK—he only looked like he was named Biff. I think his real name was Ben).
• Due to the fact that I was not in the competition/training mode, I didn’t have that feeling of short-changing a workout (by not going hard enough, or long enough, or skipping an interval)—and that hadn’t happened for a long time (like the whole training season).

All these factors combined to form this inner feeling that just seemed to radiate all the way through to the outside.

I was feeling so good, that I probably let my guard down.
Because, suddenly, it popped into my head how sad it was that I would never know myself as beautiful.

Now, that’s an interesting thought.
Because, in many ways, it’s very true. Not just for me, but for many, if not most, of the female gender. At least in this country, which is the only country/culture I am at least somewhat familiar with.

When I was young, in my pre-teen and teenage years, I had an inner, almost unknown longing to be blonde and willowy (note “miniature Hulkette” reference above”). I went to a primarily Caucasian high school. Fashion advertising in the 1970s mostly used Caucasian models. Those were the days before “ethnic” models. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe that there was a time, when my look, a mixed Eurasian blend, was undesirable in the public arena—and that this undesirability was generally accepted. Blonde and thin was in—and I was imprinted with this model of beauty, and found myself lacking, without being aware of it.

There are other reasons that I’ve never found myself beautiful. Growing up without much in an overly abundant world has certainly contributed. Being called “fat” and “ugly” during my growing years didn’t help. “Frog eyes” was another one—which reflected my “not normal” eye shape, and made me acutely aware of those Japanese women who had surgery (blepharoplasty) to make their eyes look more “Western”.

But, I think there’s another part to this that is shared by a large number of women in America. And, that is, we are immersed in a cultural standard that doesn’t accept women (and, possibly, men, now) for their real, natural, honest-to-goodness beauty, and instead models an almost impossible perfection, that reflects weight, height, proportion, and color standards.

I have somewhat outgrown those currents of my youth, but I still don’t think I am beautiful.

Can you imagine going through your whole life, not living up to SOMEONE ELSE'S standard of beauty? I think that’s how most of us live our lives. It certainly is how I have lived mine. It really is sad, not to know oneself as beautiful—especially, when all of us really are. If I can live my life, with the feeling that I had as I left the pool / gym, then I will be living my life as beautiful. As for knowing myself as beautiful, well, that will still be some time coming.

One of my favorite stories:

BIRTHDAY SWIM TURNS INTO ORDEAL FOR 70-YEAR-OLD MAN

The Associated Press

TOKYO-A Japanese man thought he would try something new--snorkeling--for his 70th birthday and ended up in a 19-hour swim for his life after being swept out to sea by a strong tide, a maritime official said Tuesday.

Hideo Murasugi set off on his first snorkeling expedition at noon Sunday at a reef on the southern Japan island of Ishigaki, about 1000 miles south of Tokyo.

His family reported him missing when he didn't return that evening and authorities sent out a search party, according to Ishigaki Maritime Safety Department spokesman Kazuo Toji.

Murasugi swam ashore unassisted Monday morning after spending the night dog-paddling and floating in the water while he waited for the tide to turn. Nineteen hours after entering the water, he made it to shore, Toji said.

Murasugi told officials he had been swept out to sea but realized he was not far from shore when night fell and he was still able to see lights.

"I'm very sorry to have troubled you," Toji quoted Murasugi as saying. "Having snorkeled for my first time, I've experienced enough marine leisure for a lifetime."

I like this story for it's under-stated expression.

About 15 years ago, I went night diving off Mokuleia, on the north shore of Oahu. I went with a couple of people I didn't know too well (OK--yes, there's a lesson in that one...), and at a location I was unfamiliar with. We surface swam out from shore, dropped down, and were immediately picked up by a rip current. It was sudden and shocking, too quick to react. All I can remember is being tumbled end over end, in a tangle of my own limbs, and my partner tumbling next to me. I remember seeing the bottom rushing by--like when you're little and hanging your head outside of a car window or over the back of a truck bed, and seeing the asphalt rush by, up close and hypnotic. At some point, we were spit out into a calmness, and my partner signaled to surface, which we both did.

I remember the inky blackness and the motion of the dark sea. We had no frame of reference. We were out in the ocean, in the middle of the Pacific. We weren't in a bay, and the island curved away from us as the shore rounded a point of land away and to the right of us. We had chosen to dive in a sparsely populated area--an empty YMCA camp, a few vacation rental cabins, the remainder a small airfield, one homestead cabin on the mountain/mauka side of the road, and then nothing but an impassable dirt trek which lead around Kaena point (the location that Lost is filmed in, by the way).

I remember the gently buffeting movement of the water and the realization that we didn't know where we were. Gradually, we reoriented ourselves, and our eyes adjusted. As we floated for what seemed forever, but was probably only moments, as time stretched and seemed to stand still, we discerned a distant whiteness, and beyond that, a few distant scattered lights. Given a direction, we suddenly had a purpose. As there was no way I was going down into that water again, we surface swam--which in diving consists of streamlining the upper body with arms at your sides and kicking--and kept our eyes on the dim whiteness and lights. I remember being thankful for the large, stiff fins I had on--far too large and stiff for a small, irregular diver like myself. I was thankful for my strong legs and large quadriceps. I was thankful for my calm mind. I was thankful for the lights.

In time, I realized that the dim whiteness was the foam of waves breaking onto the offshore reef. As I fatigued, all I wanted to do was reach those waves and surf my way in to shore. I didn't think about the reef, or how large the waves might be--I just focused on a consistent, smooth, rhythmic kick and on conserving my energy. We were lucky, and actually made our way in through a channel in the waves, across a calm lagoon inside the reef, and dragged ourselves up onto the sandy beach.

The ocean lends a calmness and a cradle, even as it can gently take your life. I have no idea how I would react to 19 hours in the water solo. Those distant lights must have been very comforting to Mr. Murasugi, as they were for me. After 19 hours in the water, I, too, might decide that was enough "marine leisure" for a lifetime.

Mr. Murasugi truly does illustrate the adage that life is 10% of what happens to you and 90% of how you react to it.

Happy birthday

First day of a new blog.

How easy it is to dream--and how abruptly chastened the dream when hit with the reality of a blank page.

Suddenly, those high thoughts of cerebral exploration, and celestial musings, grand "ah ha's" and prose to serve the heavens, grind to a halt.
I truly am my father's daughter.
The difference is he didn't learn about the chastening of the blank page until he was 50. He held that chastening close inside, turning a blind eye, unwilling to lose his dreams, and spent his days whirling with ideas, in that heady space of a writer who is unable to commit to the page.

The reality is that I write mostly in my mind, in the half twilight between sleep and wakefulness, novels and documentaries, exposes, New Yorker investigative articles, my autobiography complete with annotated footnotes, sidebars, and poetry.

Kirk Douglas, in his sixth book, wrote: "Everyone should write his or her own autobiography. It doesn't have to be published; in writing it, you will get to know yourself. We are so busy living that we don't stop to take inventory. It's important to take inventory of your life to know what you've done that is good, and what you've down that is bad The way to grow in life is to know where you are and where you want to go. Writing an autobiography can make you a better person."

Therefore, I am here. Musing on self improvement. And staying up far past my bed time. Thank you, Mr. Douglas. Really. Your words goosed those incomplete inspirative imaginings, and have birthed them onto a page.

So, now--What to do with a blog?

Musings and blog exploration by the numbers:

1. Questing for creativity, perfection, beauty, and balance, in a workaholic, triathlon obsessed world (or maybe, that's a triathlon, work obsessed world...)


2. Staving off age and infirmity


3. Wondering how in the world did I get here from "there"


4. Books! Books! And more books!


5. Am I really OK? And, what can I do about it.


6. Shouting accomplishments from the rooftops?


7. Riotous everything


8. How to avoid negativity


9. Health

And, finally

10. Maybe now I'll keep a journal.

Mostly I think I need to take inventory to prevent the forgetting.

There are over half a million minutes of sight, sound, sniff, and feel, a year.
How many minutes will I never know again?