I was asked a question recently that stopped me in my tracks: “How would you describe yourself to someone who cannot see?” A photograph would be a poor substitute anyway; a single, silent frame could never capture the truth of a life lived. The most important things about me are not meant for the eyes.
So, forget the color of my hair or the lines around my mouth. To understand who I am, think instead of texture and temperature, of substance and sound.
Begin with my foundation. I am not made of sand, changing with every tide. Feel instead for stone, weathered and solid, cool to the touch but holding a deep, ancient warmth within. Or think of oak. Run your hand over old, sturdy wood; feel the deep, unwavering grain that tells a story of seasons and storms. My bones are made of that. There is a ghost of a girl still inside me, one with scraped-up knees and tears that tasted like the sea, but she is now supported by this stronger frame.
Next, understand my surface. My skin is not a smooth, featureless canvas. It is a map. Do not look for its beauty; find its meaning. Each scar is a landmark, a ridge where a star fell and burned its way into me. Each one tells a story of survival, a lesson earned. My hands are not delicate. Feel the calluses and the strength in them. These hands know the weight of sorrow and the labor of building joy. They know how to hold onto the past without being trapped by it, and how to shape the raw material of today into a new tomorrow.
Then, listen. My voice wasn’t always here. For a long time, I was defined by a quiet that wasn’t my own. But that silence broke. And the voice that emerged is not always loud, but it is clear. It has learned the cadence of a lie and will not let it stand. It carries the weight of every choice I have ever sown. It can be the quiet resonance of the ground under your feet, and it can be the piercing sound of a bell ringing true. It is the sound of a woman pulling up a chair to the table, ready to state her shares.
Finally, know that my true center is a place you could never see anyway. It is the throne inside my mind, a kingdom I built for myself from joy and sorrow, grace and guilt. It is a quiet space where I have befriended my own soul and finally feel whole. This is my greatest power and my truest home.
So, how would I describe myself? I am a landscape, one that is all my own. I am the rough bark of the oak, the cool surface of the stone. I am the story you can feel under your fingertips and the sound of a voice that has learned its own power. I am a living work of art, and my story is written not in ink, but in substance.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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