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It has been one of those weeks where the reality of my middle-aged, menopausal self has been brought into high definition. Oh joy.
You see, I am developing a website, and it is considered de rigueur to include a photo of yourself. You put a face with a name, and you are no longer some abstract entity. I get that; it makes perfect sense. And, yet, I am still not smiling.
Historically, the camera and I have an uneasy truce. We do best at a distance. My body can be awkward and tight, and my eyes are often captured closed in a blink or caught in mid eye-scrunching giggle.
Do you remember the first time you heard your recorded voice being played back to you? More than likely, your initial reaction was, “That’s not my voice. That’s not me.” Your voice sounded foreign; it was not the voice you heard when you spoke aloud.
I am like that when it comes to seeing myself in pictures. I know that sounds strange. I do have mirrors in my home.
In fact, I have come to the conclusion that I have a magical mirror at home. No, there are no Snow White moments and mirror-mirror-on-the-wall conversations. However, there is some tacit understanding between us that I look like I think I look like when I walk out the door in the morning. I am comforted at the continuity and consonance of this daily ritual.
Then, I see a picture of myself and I wonder, “Is that what I look like?” I know I am sounding rather perceptually challenged, and, no doubt, I am.
Years ago, when I was in college, I had the great opportunity to spend a summer in Japan with one of my best friends. My friend, who identifies herself as 5’13,” was a source of amazement to the Japanese; she was repeatedly asked, “How tall are you?” I, more of the meatball type in comparison to my friend’s spaghetti-like lean lankiness, was frequently asked, “How much do you weigh?”
My body and I have had our moments. There has been warfare; there has been hate. We have shared quite a history, quite a gene pool and quite a struggle in finding acceptance of the reality of my physical self. I thought my body and I had cobbled together a mindful, loving peace — and we had — until the web photo reared its ugly head.
I know I have a full face, tired eyes and cranky hair. I also have a nice smile, pointed chin and green eyes.
To date, I have had two rounds of pictures taken by two different people. I was told to smile through my eyes, engage with the camera, go meditative, breathe, relax and the like. Out of all those shots, there has been one lukewarm possibility of a photo – and that was a practice shot; I was still wearing my coat.
So, clearly, I need to relax more. That’s a given. And that very unclenching, will, undoubtedly, aid and abet the process. In fact, I might look more like my morning-mirror self.
It has been said that one picture is worth a thousand words. I just don’t like the words that these pictures are saying. I am thrown by these alien pictures, and I feel shallow and whiny in my complaining.
I have found myself all knotted up with angst over not looking “good enough” for my web photo. I was beginning to pull out the big guns and do a number on myself. Then, the light went on and I got it – again. I need to practice what I preach. I need to bridge the gap. And this gap has to do with accepting the self.
I know from many hours in my consultation room and countless conversations over the years with my female friends that I am not alone in my distress. Body concept is a minefield, and a “mind field,” of history, parental messages, idealized images and cultural influences.
Women, historically, have been primarily identified with their physicality. We women can get preoccupied with the external and aspire to some form of perfection. Men, too. Think of the upsurge in cosmetic surgeries and make-over programs. We all want to look good. We all want others to think we look good.
Social psychology studies tell us that the more attractive someone is, the more well regarded they are. Looks count in today’s world.
What we often forget is that the body is the chalice that holds the soul and animates the spirit. Our bodies are literally our temples. If I put that thought to the forefront of my mind, I find that I breathe a little deeper and relax a little more. I can remember that everything, and I mean everything, is in perfect order.
Why, oh why, do I care so much? I am not a terribly vain woman. In fact, I am fairly low maintenance. Yet, I care that the picture looks like me – and, granted a more rested, sparkly, spirited me. And as I write those words, I see where I have gone wrong. I was so focused on the outside that I forgot to connect with the inside.
There are certain cultures who avoid photographs because they feel the picture steals the soul from the person. As you well know, the eyes have been called the window of the soul. I get their point.
However, for me, come Saturday, they can rotate that lens cap off the camera. I am now ready, willing and able to have my picture retaken. I have walked across the Reality Bridge and accepted my middle-aged self. I will plug into my spirit, think sparkly thoughts and trust that the reflection of my soul is captured. That is definitely good enough.
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Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath, and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her e-mail address is ARMCDOWELL@aol.com. © copyright 2008 by Adele Ryan McDowell
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