I had ordered long legs, but they never arrived. My eyes are

Hear the voice of Jane Seymour, who with humility and truth declared: “I had ordered long legs, but they never arrived. My eyes are weird too, one is gray and the other is green. I have a crooked smile and my nose looks like a ski slope. No, I would not win a Miss contest.” At first, her words may seem as jest, a playful lament about outward form. Yet within them lies a timeless lesson: that beauty is not born from symmetry, nor perfection, nor the vain measures of worldly contests, but from the authenticity of the soul that shines through imperfection.

For the ancients themselves knew that the gods often marked greatness with signs that set one apart. The poet Homer sang of Odysseus, whose strength lay not in godlike beauty but in wit, endurance, and cunning. The crooked path of his life was mirrored in the lines of his face, yet his story endures long after the names of flawless beauties are forgotten. Seymour, in speaking of her mismatched eyes and crooked smile, reminds us that what the world calls defect may, in truth, be the very mark of distinction.

What, after all, is a Miss contest but a fleeting parade of outward form? The ancients raised statues of marble, yes, but they also knew that marble cracks and flesh withers. True greatness is not awarded by judges on a stage, but by the lives we touch and the light we carry. Seymour admits she would not win such a contest, but she has won something far greater—the respect of audiences, the endurance of a career, and the ability to stand as herself without shame.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, whose gaunt frame, ill-fitting clothes, and rugged face were mocked by his rivals. He would never have won a contest of appearances, yet it was his strength of character, his humor, and his compassion that shaped nations. His awkward smile, his unusual nose, became not flaws, but features remembered in reverence, symbols of a man who bore heavy burdens with dignity. So too does Seymour’s declaration remind us that surface judgments do not define the worth of a life.

Her words also carry within them the echo of resilience. To name one’s so-called imperfections with honesty is to disarm them. To say, “My legs are short, my eyes are strange, my smile is crooked,” is not to surrender to shame but to rise above it, to reveal that these things do not control the spirit. The act of naming imperfection becomes an act of power, a refusal to let the world’s narrow ideals bind the soul.

The lesson here, O seeker, is that you must not wait for perfection to live fully. Do not delay your song because your voice trembles, nor hide your face because it bears marks the world calls flawed. Your power lies not in symmetry, but in authenticity. Let your crooked smile shine, for it tells the truth of your journey. Let your mismatched eyes gaze outward, for they see the world in a way no other can.

Therefore, walk boldly into the world as Seymour teaches—not as one who seeks crowns of fleeting contests, but as one who carries a deeper crown: the crown of self-acceptance. Take up your imperfections as banners, for they make you unique among millions. Show the world that true beauty is not what is demanded, but what is lived, what is given in kindness, in courage, and in authenticity.

Thus Jane Seymour’s words, humble in form, become heroic in meaning. They are a call across the generations: reject the false idols of perfection, embrace the marks that make you singular, and remember that no contest of appearances can measure the beauty of a soul alive with truth. Go forth, then, with courage and crooked smile, for that is the truest emblem of a life well-lived.