The story of looking

Glaring through the countless misunderstandings of the days I see the beauty around each corner. The ladies, like rare butterflies, flit to and fro hurriedly with wooden shoed elegance, their lives lived on a sprung dance floor. The effort that it takes to be so lovely inspires my daily effort to be brave. I see the beauty in bravery, in looking, in being looked at, in looking lovely. I reinvent some days, creating a version of (little) Edie Bouvier Beale, turban donned, clogs, tights and shorts. 

And some days I want invisibility, skin, cotton, eyes of truth. On Tuesday, whilst invisible, I sipped a cup of familiar, while Jazz lulled me to another island. While there, away from the looking, I remembered and gave thanks to the women I know that encourage the many facets, the many versions of beauty to be visible every day, be it butterfly or caterpillar. 
  
Today is a slug kind of beauty, but it has not stopped raining for three days and a mohair jumper is my skin.