“She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her beauty and her eyes.” Lord Byron
There are no cloudless climes here. No starry skies. 
Dark and beauty still meet there though. In her eyes. In her beauty.
She doesn’t walk in beauty, she doesn’t often walk through life at all. Her life is a running race with an undefined finish line. From Blackberry to baby, to boardroom to beach. She goes out to work to bring home the bacon, to bring it home, and serve it with a peppercorn sauce and flambe.
Who judges her race?
Who judges her face?
Who judges her?
On any given day she’s ten different faces. Which one are they judging?
She’s mercurial. Too often a degree too hot, or too cold. You never quite know with her. She’s like the weather. One day there’s a rain of tears, the next a day filled with a thousand sunshine diamonds. Each precious gem reflected in her aspect.
She stoops. Not always to conqueror. Sometimes merely because her load is too heavy. The weight has curled her spine into a foetal form. A koru not yet ready to set straight her course in life.
She’s often proud. I know not of what. But everyone needs something to be proud of. It doesn’t always go before a fall. Sometimes it means she cares enough.
She’s sometimes haunted by guilt. The should-haves, must-have-dones but didn’ts.
If only. She had.
Often the moment has long passed and she is left with regrets, albeit hard won understanding. Physically she’s like..
…….It doesn’t matter. She’s short, she’s tall, she’s black, she’s white, she’s fat, she’s thin..
The body is only the shell. She’s inside.
When she loves you she pulls you in past her window display of beautiful clothes, makeup and the perfect figure. Past the tired eyes drenched in drying mascara, past the lipstick, the foundation ‘ivory moisture perfect coverage’, and the PR plastic of her audience’s expectation.
She is not an actress, a glossy magazine ad, or a John Lewis tvc.
She pulls her loved ones inside where she lays herself bare. It takes great courage.
Revelation, and reflection replace retreat.
She’d really prefer simply to hide. But she can be brave. She’s not afraid to fly, even though she fears heights. Metaphorically and literally.
Mercurial. Magical.
She’s an amalgam, a contradiction. A greek chorus of characters from the Empress to the everywoman.
Who is she?
She’s redefining beauty. She’s more precious than rubies or rubicons.
She’s a modern woman, like you.
This post was written on the prompt ‘She’ part of the Sleep is For the Weak Writing Workshop. Have a look at the other great entries here.
Image: Flickr CC – Ton Haex
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