Mary McEvoy on finding the beauty within

Mary McEvoy introduces us to some of the themes in her new book – from growing old to keeping dreams alive.

ONE winter morning last year I saw a little water hen in my garden. I had been feeling very lonely and isolated, and when I saw the little bird I began to smile. Before long my sprits began to rise. I realised in that moment how seemingly insignificant things can have great meaning and power. I also realised that unknown to myself I had been storing up many of these moments in my unconscious and now they wanted to surface so I put pen to paper and Ordinary Beauty was born.”

BEAUTIFUL LIFE

I adored my parents, but we weren’t the Waltons. I regret many things that happened, but life is eternal and relationships continue beyond death, so it’s comforting to pay tribute to them here. I hope they like it!

The way my father put on his boots was fascinating to me. I would sit at his feet and watch him every morning. The trousers would be tucked into socks and then he would take the left boot, loosen the laces, insert his foot, tap the ground twice with his heel to ensure a good fit. Then the lacing would begin.

I loved it when he did that. It was like a mantra in movement over and back pushing the laces through the little eyelets.

When both boots were done, the laces firmly wound twice at the ankle and tied in a double bow, he would stand up, a giant in my eyes, and start the day’s work.

I always felt safe in those days.

I wonder if I ever told my mother she was beautiful. I hope I did. Because she was, and I don’t think she knew it. She may have wondered while putting on her lipstick, but I’m sure she would have put such notions from her head. Because that’s what you did in those days. It’s a pity when beauty goes unsung. Tell someone they are beautiful. Don’t leave them to wonder. Late as it may be, I’ll say it now: My mother was a beauty.

Ageing sucks. That’s it. But since I don’t have much choice I’m going to make the best of it. It’s better than the alternative.

I recently found a picture of myself taken when I was in my early thirties. I was, I will admit, shocked and saddened. When did this creature with cheekbones, a jawline, a waist and, let’s be honest, an income, depart my life? When did the matronly, wobbly-tummied hobbit I saw in the mirror this morning arrive?

I try not to be ashamed of the hobbit, let’s call her Lavinia Largebottom; after all, I’m encouraged to practise self-acceptance, self-love even, by the many well-intentioned self-help gurus whose books are causing my shelves to buckle. But, try as I might, I just can’t bring myself to like Lavinia Largebottom. In fact, I would go so far as to say that nobody likes Lavinia or her many sisters. The fashion pack certainly would like her to take a hike to the nearest boot camp. Even if she returned from such a camp honed and lean, she would still have that age thing — and that will have her sent, likitty split, to the uncool step, where she would languish until she: (a) dies, (b) has to grab a Tena lady from her bag or (c) is proclaimed as a cultural icon because she is the only aged person in the universe with style.

It’s a terrible wake-up call when you realise that you are now a member of the older generation. All the things I was so sure I was right about — fashion, language, music and all manner of popular culture — have changed so much that I now find myself disapproving of almost everything.

I disapprove of long dyed-blonde hair, pale lips and those strange short dresses that look like upside-down egg cups. I disapprove of people saying ‘I done this, I done that’. People who say ‘samwich’ drive me mental. And don’t get me started on music. When did wriggling and miming to the backing track of a song that could have been written by a chimpanzee pass for music? Films I don’t want to see include anything with an actor barely over the age of consent saving the world and lovey-dovey-they-hate-each-other-but-they-really-love-each-other rom coms. Having 329 explosions or car chases that go on and on and on, do not a film make, they an idiot make.

So where do I belong? Where does a late middle-ager who doesn’t want to be biddable belong? I don’t want to read about knitting or grandchildren; if it weren’t for Lavinia, I would wear AllSaints clothes all day and I just don’t care for André Rieu.

Then, this morning, I turned on Sky Arts and there she was, the answer to all my prayers. Chrissie Hynde — 62 years of guitar-rocking, in-your-face, what-are-you-looking-at woman. Then they all started rushing into my mind. All those elders who inspire not only their peers but anyone with a brain — Patti Smith, Mary Robinson, Aung San Suu Kyi, Debbie Harry, Helen Mirren, Leonard Cohen, the Rolling Stones, Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama ...

What a tribe I belong to. So let’s stop putting people in the age box. Whatever age you are, if you remain curious, engaged and gently uncontrollable, there are new things to learn, teach, discover and pass on. Every age has its torments and its gifts. By George, I think I’ve just inspired myself. I belong right where I am on this planet, alive, vibrant and curious. So to hell with boxes; I’m going to do what I want, wear what I want, say what I want. Now where did I put my glasses?

If I were to sum up the entire book it would be this last piece. My dream is to be full of trust and gratitude. I feel if I keep chipping away at my ego, letting go of my vanities, I’ll crack myself open to that wonderful place.

It’s good to keep your dreams alive, just don’t let them take over. There is wonder here and now.

Keep your dreams alive, and surrender; surrender is not giving in. It is falling back into the arms of providence.

Ordinary Beauty, published by Hachette Books Ireland, is available in all good bookshops, €12.99.