My fear of indulging in myself, my physical appearance, has roots in my mother’s struggle. She was trained as a missionary. My mother loved fine things but denied herself the pleasure of them because she did not want to be a slave to wanting. She believed the pleasure that beauty brings and its fleeting nature separated her from love.
She did not realize until she was an experienced grandmother that her very wanting created suffering.
The denial of what was actual was the under layer of denying the want of fine things. Not wanting to want caused suffering.
To have this perspective of my mother is to have perspective of me. Although she is no longer alive, my freedom is freedom for my mother.