We would add a few drops of bleach each week to the fountain water to keep down bacteria. After a dozen years, bleach deposits both built up and began to decay parts of her face and body, as well as loosening the crystals in her belly. After I closed Herland, Hypatia came to live in my garden, along with an assortment of other broken-nosed and gently damaged goddesses.
Being flayed was a feeling I related to, and during those dozen years, I got over a dozen tattoos. Much of this was a reclaiming of my body, my beliefs, and my standards of beauty. A way to be comfortable in my skin. Everyone has scars on the inside - mine are on the outside, and they are pretty, colorful, and make for good stories.
Now in my fifties, I'm experiencing a new body image issue, that of becoming the crone, the hag, the elder. What does it mean to age gracefully? What does it mean to express my authentic self? I am questioning dying my hair, working to accept my Buddha belly, while pondering the delight in creases, folds, and wrinkles.
I decided to paint Hypatia, to reclaim her as a symbol of my croning. Her hair is silver white, with a crown of pearls and roses. As I painted her thin hair, fine wrinkles, smile lines, tattoos, and scars, I thought of Ani DiFranco's line, "I got highways for stretch marks, see where I've grown." I think about all the ways to love a body that is half a century old, the ways to treat myself with tenderness and respect. Just like my old car, this body needs more regular tunings, more quality fuel, and a little more lubricant.
How will you re-create yourself today?
(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)
