Thursday, July 2, 2015


Beauty born is a gift from the gods.
     Winsome is Beauty Young, innocent and yet unvarnished. Filled with themselves and life. Curious, cute, constantly in motion. Like flowers, with hints of their future potentiality beginning to arise. Exploring, exploring, and pushing all limitations set by life. Totally living at full throttle, unaware that they are being tested, judged, guided by life. Any resistance brings disappointment. A weight too heavy is quickly dropped, forgotten and life moves on. But, if it is found again it may look quite new! A fresh search for the next. Living in the next. Outward, outward!
     Beauty Young is a gift from the parents. Quickly, something from within begins. Experience. A past. I remember this. I remember you. Things get names. Dog. Doll. Mother. Father. Me. Mine. As mother does, beauty young will imitate. Love, enjoy, cuddle or fear, worry and withdraw? Is the home chaotic? Angry? Safe?

     As the family guides, Beauty Young treads – or not - the wooden steps up the monastery of the soul and creates the pathway followed every minute of every day, neural patterns in the brain laid down by baby steps toddling after Mom. Is Beauty Young laying down beautiful patterns of life? Is she becoming as beautiful within as the beauty given by the gods? Is the life on offer to Beauty Young the Good, Beautiful and True? Is the child abandoned to the freedom and chaos of life? Is there a Guide at all? Is someone there worthy to be imitated? Is there a Pilgrim? A Witness? A Voice? Or Vanity? Self-Indulgence? Or, the repetitive pathways of isolating technology wasting time and brain power?


Beauty Ripe is a gift from life. Beauties buffeted, beleaguered and weathered by challenges have the eyes and the smiles that tell of lives which have experienced great testing, deep wisdom, tragedy, loss and love. Beauty Ripe's path up the monastery of the soul – or not – is a path are worn deep with the steps of the Pilgrim.

Beauty ripe tells of choices. Voluptuous - filled with herself. A wooden desk with tiny cracks, initials of affection carved in the top but re-stained later to be less visible. Cigarette burns. Glass rings. Inner and the outer paths which Beauty Ripe may tread in the world. There are many. Here are two:

     Wind-blown, the path of Nature, the home of the Wind. Riding into the storms of life, perhaps going full-throttle a time or two into a storm far, far bigger than she ever imagined, left the soul of Beauty Ripe  more muted in color, less vibrant. And a certain look in the eyes after having survived, but nearly consumed, in a storm which engulfed you and tore at your beauty from all directions at once. It sanded away your beauty and now you wonder if you are still beautiful at all?

     Intellect blown, a gift from academia, home of degrees and advanced degrees. Riding the mind into silent, narrow canyons of thought toward fountainheads of knowledge that few follow, leaves the soul packing arguments and research but vulnerable. Beauty Ripe in isolation. Intellect in winter may mean having to ford a stream and carry your clothes to save yourself from hypothermia. Hypothermia, a very wrong choice, death by intellectual egoism, believing her degrees are stronger than temperature, physiology and love.


Beauty Aged grows sweeter and sweeter. The sugar sets in the fruit. The body is a fight, tension over physiology, the sinewy and the soft. The adipose factor. The gift from the gods re-emerges having experienced what life has given us and what she has chosen for herself. And love gained, kept or lost replaces family in the path of the soul.

     Aging, an inner mellowing like wine which becomes smoother over the years. Like cheese with thick rinds and deep aroma all because the bacteria of life have been working secretly. And, fermenting in her all these years. Yeasts digesting and transforming her in-built rawness from within, releasing chemicals which mellow her psyche’s from the inside.

     Ripen and ripen and rot and rot. Beauty obeys the laws of nature comprised of rhythms of the cosmos and her spirit. Sometime she waxes, sometimes she wanes. These rhythms are the ones which makes plants grow and animals mate and migrate. Beauty eats the plants and food which gives her body health. And that health glows on the inside and outside of Aged Beauty.
    And, when Aged Beauty dies, her spirit goes into the cosmos and into the rhythms from which it was never separated. When the corpse of Aged Beauty is put into the casket and we hear the story, we know that Beauty Aged upon death is a complex thing hard to totally comprehend. However, it was beautiful to behold.

© Copyright 2015 Jean W. Yeager
All Rights Reserved

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