Beauty
 I want to know if you can see beauty
even when it’s not pretty,
every day,
and if you can source your own life
from its presence.
–From The Invitation, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
Lately I’ve been drawn to writings on the gifts of imperfection, on the quirky things that make a woman dazzle in a cookie-cutter culture, and on the topic of beauty.
I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because the hyacinth blossoms scenting my office are fading, and yet they remain unapologetically fragrant. What an excellent metaphor for women aging in defiant splendor. Perhaps it is because I was browsing through a stack of photos I took in Tibet and lingered on one in particular. The one of my friend, Khandro.
The picture was taken—via iPad—early in our acquaintance. I vividly remember sitting, half curled, on my hard-as-an-ironing-board hostel bed absorbing the surreal.
I was in Tibet. Was I dreaming?
Nope. The bright walls and small mound of luggage confirmed I was, indeed, in Tibet. Brass-colored sun shared just enough afternoon window light to allow me to jot notes on my experience thus far.
The scritch, scritch, scritch of my pen almost obscured a tiny, but persistent, knocking sound. Curious, I opened the door just wide enough to be polite and saw Khandro smiling at me.  She spoke little English, and I spoke essentially no Tibetan, but what the heck. Our freely exchanged smiles spoke volumes. I waved her in.
Somehow, through pantomiming and facial expressions, I learned a lot. She had taken a bus over hellish roads to be with our group, and as a result had a splitting headache. I offered her a couple of Tylenol and a cup of Good Earth tea…which she eagerly accepted.  I brought out the iPad and showed her photos of my husband and home back in Minnesota. I pointed at my wedding ring and then at my husband’s photo, but had no idea if Tibetans use wedding rings as symbols of coupledom. It was at that point I noted she was hiding one of her hands by keeping it folded within the fabric of her dress. I made a mental note to ask our guide, Dianne, about that later. Dianne and Khandro had been friends for years.
Over breakfast the next morning Dianne told me that Khandro, as a child, had accidentally touched an exposed light socket. The electrical burns were so bad that few thought she’d live. Miraculously Khandro survived, but not without a cost.  Scar tissue remained like a sheet of crepe paper on her midsection, and the fingertips of her left hand were gone… amputated. The left hand. The hand on which I was showing her my wedding ring. I felt horrible. Did she think I was taunting her as I pointed at my ring and waggled my fingers? Dianne didn’t think so, and explained Khandro was a kind and loving soul.  However, going forward I should be aware the scars and lost fingers were a source of shame.
For reasons I cannot explain, as our time in Tibet unfolded Khandro took me on as her special ward. She’d walk protectively near whenever we were on the streets of Tagong, insisted I keep my purse inside my jacket so it wouldn’t get stolen, and encouraged me to eat spicy broth soups to stay healthy.
I tried, at Khandro’s request, to teach her a few English words. “Purse,†“shoes,†and “umbrella†were favorites. She never quite managed my name however. Instead of “Gail,†she would say something to the effect of “Ghee-la.†I adored it. Our comfort with each other seemed otherworldly given the lack of verbal communication and cultural touchstones. Minutes turned into moments, and moments turned into memories. Great memories.
One day our group visited a monastery tucked in the shadows of a snowcapped mountain. Although the calendar said July, the air was bitterly cold. I noted that Khandro had no gloves and offered her the extra pair I carried in my coat pocket.
She hesitated.
Too late I realized my good intentions might have caused her hand insecurities to surface. Why didn’t I have mittens with me? My face must have shown my concern because she seemed to reconsider.
Khandro took the gloves, put them on, and looked into my eyes. She then took my hands, lifted them slowly towards her lips, and  gently blew her warm breath on my fingers. It is against her faith to say “thank you,†so she said it in the only way she knew how.
In that instant there were no imperfections or insecurities. There were simply two women who cared about each other. How beautiful is that? And so, my friends, I repeat these words by Oriah Mountain Dreamer:
I want to know if you can see beauty
even when it’s not pretty,
every day,
and if you can source your own life
from its presence.
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