I Never Saw Your Wrinkles

© March 2 2007 by Imelda Maurer, cdp

Several years ago I fell in love with gardening. It was a kind of surprising transformation following a farm-life childhood, where the work seemed only drudgery. So averse was I to having to go on Saturday mornings to hoe the weeds out of the long rows in the grape vineyard or from around the young corn plants, or to pick the field peas, that I cultivated the habit of praying for rain every weekend.

When I was in my mid-30s, I found myself living in rural southern Louisiana with an ample yard of beautiful, dark, delta soil beneath the lawn. I decided to attempt a small organic vegetable garden and cultivated a patch that was probably 20 feet by 12 feet. I was astounded at the delight I took in seeing the small seedlings take hold and flourish, at the beauty of the different shades of green against the dark, black soil. I looked forward to the time I would be able to spend in my garden, a time that became richly reflective and meditative, as well as emotionally fulfilling.

As that first spring progressed, the tomato plants grew almost shoulder height, producing tomatoes for me and many of my neighbors. After the growing season, I removed the dead plants and added them to the compost pile where, during the still winter season, they turned into rich dirt. That compost, added to the garden, nourished the next season's young plants. I had an experiential awareness of the universal cycle of life, death and subsequent new life, as I had observed my garden plants mature, provide fruit and later yield to death.

There is a distinct beauty in a young, maturing plant. A pepper plant, for example grows so straight with wondrous, dark, shiny, green leaves. Its stems strengthen and become almost woody, enabling it to support the proliferation of beautiful, glossy, waxy peppers. In doing so, the plant loses its youthful appearance and gains the beauty of maturity.

I began to understand not only that the appearance of the pepper plants in each stage of growth and development held its own beauty, but that there was a certain rightness and appropriateness in the beauty of each stage of that pepper plant's life. The reflective time in the garden provided the recognition of a connection between the stages of life in the plants I loved and nurtured and the stages in my own life. I recognized in a new and profound way that there is a beauty, a rightness, an appropriateness in who we are and how we appear at whatever age.

I've believed for many years that as we age our beauty deepens. The face and eyes of older persons reflect the richness of their life experiences and the wisdom that comes from their life's journey of intermingled pain and joy. It is this inner self, wonderfully manifested in some way in our physical being, that is who we really are. Robert Redford alluded to this perspective in an interview in which he spoke of a personal rejection of having plastic surgery because he believes that in that process, "something of your soul in your face goes away."
We all know at some level that, when we look at someone, or when we call a person's image to mind, that we are seeing the person as he or she really is -- something of the inner self. This was exquisitely voiced by a woman in a news story that ran recently on "Good Morning America.” The story cited growing numbers of adults older than 65 who are choosing plastic surgery. Featured was an 80-year-old woman who had recently had a face lift, tummy tuck and breast augmentation. She was shown sitting around a table with women of her own age group, obviously friends and acquaintances. One in the group asked why she underwent plastic surgery. The subject of the interview answered, touching her smooth, wrinkle-free face: "Look how smooth my face is. Don't you remember how wrinkled it was?" To which her friend replied in a soft-spoken voice, "I never saw your wrinkles."