Searching for Stars on Our Skin

Imprints and Constellations

A thick strip of silver glints under the light in the bathroom mirror and catches my eye. Lower down I notice that an extra crease has quietly joined the others on the right side of my nose. Signs that I ‘ought’ to be worried about, according to many. Clear markers of a life lived, which ‘should’ be erased immediately, also according to many. But what would happen to this map of my face—with its stories engraved across it—if I refuse to succumb to the expectations of The Many?

Three weeks ago, it was my birthday. I felt a mixture of relief at having made it through another year, coupled with the fear of dying. The emotional side of getting older is now gradually taking up as much headspace as the issue of what I look like as I age, both feel inextricably linked. Now though, with every birthday that I reach there is a visceral understanding that my days are numbered. I catch myself wondering what my own number of remaining days might be. It’s an untethered question with an unknown answer. To quell these circular thoughts I need something to lift me out them and blow my mind, to be shown some sort of context within the bigger picture.

The night sky has captured my imagination for as long as I can remember. The immensity of space and the mysteriousness of knowing so little about it stirs my curiosity. To look up and feel amazed is edifying; even more so since realising that there is a whole tapestry of stories in the sky, waiting to be retold.

Each constellation tells of a myth written centuries ago and passed through the ages like folktales from the firmament. I’ve been learning more about these myths and star stories in a guided journalling project with the aptly named Stardust Collective. We explored the idea of weaving our own stories into the constellations, changing the symbolism and creating new meanings. Cassiopeia became the hills where I grew up, reminding me of the land that made me. Hydra became the chalk stream that meandered through the valley, welcoming bare feet and paper boats. Constellation by constellation new pictures emerged, and with them the slow realisation that so many stories are written for us and of us, without our input or truth. Ideals and fantasies are conjured up and foisted upon us along with the expectation that we will participate. Retelling the stories of the night sky to reflect my own life has helped me to remember that we can reclaim the narrative in other areas of our lives.

The signs of physical ageing that others tell us we need to either make invisible—or become invisible ourselves—is a narrative that I am keen to re-write. The reductive nature of our collective obsession with a smooth, firm, blemish-free existence is dispiriting and damaging in equal measure. Yet it endures. And I’m bone tired of it. I don’t know how to change it and I don’t have the answers by any means, but I take solace from the words of women wiser than I.

In her book, The Dangerous Old Woman, Volume 3, The Joyous Body: Myths and Stories of the Wise Woman Archetype Clarissa Pinkola Estes shares her own knowing:

“The body is wise, the body is the consort that was born with us, a being in its own right. The one who records all our adventures and misadventures; informing us, healing us, acting as the sensory being who loves us and who is loyal to us for life. As we age we come to know and value the consort all the more.”

As I lean in towards the mirror I mull over these words to counter the usual inner dialogue of fault-finding. It takes a lot of effort to change the story, but I am willing. I see how the fullness of time keeps re-drawing the map of my skin. I see the blonde rapidly being replaced by silver and grey. I see a body on the precipice of being made invisible by the choice to allow its natural processes. I hesitate and question my conviction, wavering because of the opinions of The Many. But I also remember the sky is my compass, pointing towards the importance of re-writing inherited stories that no longer hold true. Perhaps if I’m lucky, I might reach the age where time has etched deep constellations into my face and my hair is the colour of stars.