Facial expressions are pages of our inner secret diary, for we are supposed to live in loving societies where such honest vulnerability is an advantage of all.
In his facial expression was a tiredness, a need for nurture and a chance to rest.
Facial expressions must be read by the soul, by the loving heart, for this is when our instincts create and maintain the loving bond.
Facial expressions are a window to the soul and a chance to develop the kind of emotional intelligence that gives real grace and space for the feelings of others.
Even in her advanced years her inner child, her pure loving self, is dwelling in a moment of joy - and thus her face is a picture I that will forever live in the gallery of my best memories.
Lara is slumped at the breakfast table, her brows creased and face tense. When Mom sits, coffee in hand, she asks "What's up?" her tone casual and light.
Lara's scowls at her scrambled eggs, "I don't know whether to do basketball or swimming. I like both but I only see Claire at swimming."
Mom takes another sip and then continues, serious faced, "I see, well, what's does your gut tell you? Which one do you want more?"
Lara's face crumples again, "I don't know!"
Mom makes her face straighter than a poker player and says, "Lara, you're not going swimming." For a fraction of a second the corners of Lara's mouth twitch upwards, until her conscious mind asserts control again. Then Mom says "Actually, no, you're not going to basketball." Lara's face is serious all the way from her eyes to her mouth, no pleasure at all, not even masked. "OK," Mom says, "We'll finish this set of swim lessons, then switch to just basketball. You can still see Claire every week, OK honey?"
Grandpa moved like a clockwork soldier at times, especially in winter. He said it was the shrapnel he got in the war, somehow the injury never fully healed. It didn't stop him though, he hobbled just as fast as the rest of us walked, often faster. I asked him once, about the day it happened, and his face fell into an expression I'd never have associated with his features before. Under that exuberant personality was someone more vulnerable than I could have guessed. He was in a truck on the way to the battle of el Alamein in Egypt, the side was only canvas. The fabric was no barrier to the metal shard and neither was his flesh. He spent the battle in a Cairo hospital, and likely it saved his life. He couldn't understand why he lived when so many "better men" died, he couldn't even speak the names of his fallen friends without bracing his face to stiffness. I never asked again. We talked about the town garden competition, about radio shows and runner beans. He'd earned it.
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