She shuffled in shyly, but with purpose, apologizing over and over again for her seeming offense. There was nothing to apologize for. I tried to express my confidence in her and thank her for her understanding.
Physically, she stands tall, but hunched. Her hair would be blonde, if it was clean. As it was, it was brown with dirt and oils. She is losing her hair. Her face is hard with whiskers. Her arms are covered with tiny scars. Both arms. Despite the hunch and the shuffle, she walked with purpose. She was there to help her friends. Her purpose in service elevated her. If I was to draw her, I would paint her in shades of blue with light glowing from her strong face. She would be floating with power and majesty. Radiant.
Not an hour later, I passed by two women packing their children away in their identical Mercedes Benz SUVs. I heard one woman say to the other, "Let's do lunch and manicures next Wednesday!" Both in jean capris and brightly colored layered tee-shirts. Very clean. Very tan. And very pretty. If I were to paint those women, I would paint them in golden fields of wheat with cotton eyelit lace dresses, joyfully reaping harvest from the earth.
Then there's me. Somewhere in between. My comfortable cotton dress, my checkered vans, my unbrushed hair, thrown up in a quick bun, my reliable car. But if I were to paint myself, I'd paint myself rooted in fire looking towards a white light. I would paint all my glorious fat and my mouth caught in a belly shaking laugh.
We all occupy the same space. Worlds within worlds. All touching and overlapping.
Today I am grateful to be a woman on this earth at this time.