Why Can't You Be Like...

My daughter won't let me brush her hair. At all. Ever. And she looks like Mowgli from The Jungle Book.

So we get to school the other day, with her unbrushed hair, and her teacher tries to brush it, achieving the same results as I always do: nuthin.

She then proceeds to bring other girls in the class over to my daughter so she can see their pretty, perfect hair.

Now, this needs some context. This was the day of the kids' International Assembly at school. They got to dress up in traditional clothes from their culture/country of origin. My daughter was wearing her galabeyah from Egypt (something like this) with brown sandals.

The teacher was telling kids to take their T-Shirts off from under their clothes so it wouldn't look too casual. She had one girl remove her glasses, for heaven's sake. She clearly wanted everything to look just right.

I can't blame her, but I also wanted to laugh and remind her that these were first graders. Let the girl wear her glasses. Let that boy keep his T-shirt on.

Now, when it came to my daughter, I was torn. I had been trying to get her to brush her day all morning, too. I wanted her to look "nice" and put-together. I tried to use language promoting self respect rather than comparisons and advice to conform to culturally-defined standards of beauty. But this teacher flat out told Esther to compare herself to all the other girls, who also had make up on.

So my question is: How do we help our kids feel good about themselves without setting them up for a life of "If only I looked like..."? Should I force my daughter to brush her hair if she really, REALLY doesn't want to? Should I wait and see if the social pressure at school gives her a push in the direction of a neater appearance? Should I tell them all to stuff it?

Opinions, please. And check this out for a somewhat enlightening/somewhat pathetic discussion about why supermodels don't brush their hair. :)

For Women Only

I'm serious. If you are a man and you are still reading this, consider yourself warned.

I had to go into Victoria's Secret the other day for some bridal shower gifts. I came out feeling totally deflated. I almost mean that literally. The Victoria's Secret models, whose boobies were everywhere I turned, seemed to be taunting me with their full curves. I looked around the store a bit for myself, but quickly realized (as I knew before I walked in) that I couldn't fill out anything hanging on their racks. (Pun intended).

So naturally I have been feeling a little...well, little. I feel like I don't have the basic equipment required for playing on the women's team, so to speak. I suddenly can't find clothes that make me feel good about my shape. I don't want to walk around in a padded bra, advertising something I don't actually carry in stock. (Yes, I think it counts as advertising even when it's just your husband looking.) But I do want to feel feminine.

Today I found hope! A beautiful blog called "Small Bust, Big Heart". I'm so thrilled to find this, because the biggest problem I have is feeling like I'm the only woman who is trapped in a 12-year-old's body. Now I see that I may actually be part of a larger subgroup than I thought. Go check it out--even if you don't have a small bust, it's nice to recognize and celebrate women of all different shapes and sizes. The blog had links to online stores for small-busted women, like Little Women. Now I can choose the places I shop, places that reflect my needs and my reality. Just browsing the styles online is so fun, because the models look like me!

This all goes to show that self-image is largely contextual. I mean, we all need to build a foundation of self-love in which we recognize our God-given beauty and accept that it is more than enough. But we also need to consciously avoid situations where we know we will represent a counter-image or counter-message if we are not standing solidly on that foundation yet. I know I'm not in a place where I can comfortably go into a Victoria's Secret store and feel beautiful. But I hope to get there someday once I have exposed myself to more realistic images of beauty and come to accept, love and flaunt my own shape. After all, if Audrey Hepburn could remain one of the icons of beauty with her distinctly un-Victoria's Secret-like chest, then maybe I can learn to appreciate my own little "chiquitas" too!

Picture Day

Yesterday was the dreaded Picture Day at my daughter's school. I say "dreaded" for two reasons.

One is that my daughter is solidly "anti-grooming". She never lets me touch her head with a brush or comb. She doesn't let me wipe crumbs off her mouth, and it never seems to bother her that they're there. She picks outfits by how they feel on her body, not necessarily by how the colors go together (or don't). So yesterday's pictures were taken with her wearing a beautiful white sweater that I picked out--underneath a T-shirt that she picked out--and the remnants of a granola bar stuck to her bold smile. And the hair? Well, at least it was clean. That's all I can say.

The other reason I dread Picture Day is, of course, all about me. Oh, the memories of ill-fated picture days that come flooding back...like the time as a junior in high school that my eyes were half-closed in my yearbook picture, which many people gladly pointed out to me...or worse yet, the day I forgot I was having my senior pictures taken and had to run out the door without makeup (which I had no idea how to wear anyway) and a frumpy outfit I pulled from my mother's closet. My senior picture was so embarrassing to me that I almost didn't buy a high school yearbook. The other girls in my class looked like models, or at least looked their age. As usual, I was the extra-late bloomer who looked like a twelve-year-old in my picture. I looked like a Quaker, actually. I had some pantsuit on with a big white lace collar.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

So, naturally, my daughter's experiences are forcing me through the wormhole, back to relive my own school days. The shame of bad school pictures. The pressure to "look nice" on picture day.

As we waited in line outside the school yesterday morning before the bell, I saw the other girls in my daughter's class with their bows, curled hair, and shiny shoes. I wondered if my girl would feel the same inferiority and lack of femininity that I felt on my picture days. She did comment on their hair, but it was more like "Wow, that's different", instead of "Why don't I look like that?".

Once we got in the classroom, after fighting a losing battle with her over her unkempt hair and face, I almost threw my order form in the trash. I wasn't going to pay money for pictures of her if she didn't look nice and cute. (Again, we come back to the issue of "cuteness".)

But then an unbelievable sense of shallowness and shame actually stopped me in my tracks. For real. Why wouldn't I pay money for pictures of my baby? She's growing so fast, and whatever she ends up looking like in the photo, it's a chance to get a close up of her sitting still. And years from now, when she has learned to brush her hair, I will look back at these pictures and laugh over her quirkiness and boundless energy, her untainted sense of self, and her fearless way of living.

Why do we get all dressed up for pictures, anyway? Why don't we want to capture real life? Why do some people refuse to have their picture taken on Christmas morning because they are in their pajamas? (Okay, maybe I get that one. I guess it all depends on the type of pajamas, and the intended viewers of the photo...)

Who are the pictures for, after all? Do we only allow the best-dressed and prettiest to grace our mantles because others' opinions of the photos will reflect on us and our worth? Or am I thinking too hard about this? Is it just that we like, and deserve, special moments where we put on our best and capture a bit of magic?

Personally, I hate getting dolled up for photos. If you don't like how I look, that's your problem. I am who I am.

BUT...once I get them back I always wish I had take better care of my appearance. If I can't see the face I want every day in the mirror, at least let me have one picture, frozen in time, where I looked like a princess.

You see how conflicted I am about this. I don't want my daughter thinking that she has to change who she is for other people. And yet, I want her to feel lovely. Same old dilemma I have written about over and over.

At any rate, I ordered the pictures. I have no idea what I'll get, but I know they will be the most beautiful pictures any parent has ever seen.

"Cuteness"

This weekend, my husband and I added to our family. We chose a child to sponsor in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Her name is Lydia. She is our second sponsored child. It was an interesting process for me, looking through the pictures of children on the website.

I asked my husband, "How are we supposed to choose?"

I figured I would see the picture of a child we were "meant" to sponsor, and I would feel...something. I imagined looking at a pair of eyes that seemed to speak just to me. A connection.

As we scrolled through, I saw several little faces that melted my heart. Chubby little cheeks, puppy dog eyes, lovely features that looked somehow familiar. But in the end, I couldn't bring myself to choose a "cute" kid. Cynically, I figured these kids would have no trouble getting sponsored. You can't help but get attached to some of these kids. They are little angels.

No, in the end I was struck by an older girl whose face was not the cherubic image that is usually featured on mailings and commercials. This girl is not what I would describe as "cute". She looks about as different from me as one can get. Except for her head--she has a beautiful head, unencumbered by lots of hair.

I saw her, and she looked so unhappy. None of these kids look happy, but she looked world weary already, at the age of 8. I read her bio, and apparently she is an orphan who lives with her uncle. My husband had wanted to find a child who was an orphan, so I wrote her name down as a possibility. We kept looking through pictures, but I couldn't forget her. Truthfully, I was immediately mistrustful of the fact that she lives with her uncle. It's horrible to admit, but I tend to assume the worst about male family members in certain parts of the world. I hope to be wrong enough times in the future to change my view on that. But her eyes--they have something in them besides hunger, sadness, or fear. They have hard edges, perhaps formed by bitterness or anger. I can't tell. All I know is that my thoughts kept returning to her. No other child seemed as urgently in need of help as she.

I know, I know. Here I am, the "white savior", assuming a plight that may or may not really exist. And I know she and her uncle are fully rounded human beings. At least, I am trying to intentionally remind myself of that. But whatever her reality is, whether there is abuse in the picture or just the daily grind of poverty, I have resources that she desperately needs.

So back to the night we chose her. When I told my husband that she was the one, we tried to go back and find her picture, but we couldn't! The pictures didn't appear in the same order as the first time we had scrolled through. We did a search for her name, for kids her age, everything we could think of--for about 20 minutes. I was so frustrated, but we had decided that by 8:50 pm we had to choose a child. It was 8:49. We settled on choosing the next child who was an orphan. We clicked to the next child, and the story came up before the picture loaded. I saw the word "uncle", held my breath, and Lydia's face appeared. The clock turned to 8:50. She was for us.

My husband wanted to share her photo on Facebook, which he did, but I was hesitant. Not really for security reasons, I don't think. After all, World Vision has these photos available for anyone to see. No, I think my hesitation was because she is not "cute". I could imagine people looking at her and not feeling anything, because she doesn't make you say "awww...". Maybe I was embarrassed. That would be awful, but I think it's probably the truth.

Lately I have noticed that this value we place on "cuteness" in children is really pervasive and harmful in a lot of ways. My six-year-old daughter has been lapsing back into baby talk and whining, which I think has to do with the fact that her two-year-old brother really is stinkin' cute. He knows it, we know it. When he does something cute, we "ooh" and "ahh" and laugh. When she tries to get the same reaction from us by doing the same thing, we find it annoying. Or, at the very least, just not new and cute anymore.

I have to really be careful to give my daughter affirmation for things she does that I know she wants me to think are "cute". I want her to grow up too, but right now I think it's really important to her that I still fawn over the things she says and does. Because to her, "cute" means "important".

This post has maybe been a bit rambling, but I really need to process my own complicity in a society that values "cuteness" and figure out how to open myself to different kinds of beauty and sweetness. Of course, "cute" kids deserve every bit of the love (and sponsorship) they get. And of course, not everyone doles out favor according to "cuteness". But I recognize the tendency in me to be attracted to it and repelled by anything else.

Gerber shouldn't get to trademark "cuteness" and define it for us. Recognize the beauty of every face, the innocence of every child, and the sweetness in every age.

Look unto others...

Life is funny. Four years ago, I held my breath as I took off my scarf to reveal my bald head to my two-year-old daughter for the first time. I was so worried she would start screaming and that we would both be traumatized. But I kept it light, and she was fine. Curious, but fine.

Last Saturday night, I decided to wear my favorite wig to a dinner I was going to with my husband. It's a cute wig, but very bold: jet black wedge with purple in the bangs. I put it on and went out to say goodbye to my kids, and my two-year-old son started backing away, frowning. "I don't like it, take it off", he said. Far from being traumatized though, I simply chuckled and took it off, donning it later in the car.

I used to worry and worry about how my kids felt about having a mommy with no hair. Now, as I toy with the idea of getting several cheap, funky wigs that I can have fun with more often, I worry about them getting confused or shaken as they witness their mommy, the person who should always be rock solid, changing appearance so drastically.

I haven't gotten to the point yet where I can comfortably throw one wig off and another one on. For me, it highlights the fact that I am able to change hairstyles so quickly--in other words, the fact that I have no hair. But I am thinking about it, and I am faced with this question of responsibility for the feelings of others versus personal choice and fulfillment.

As a mom, do I have a responsibility to appear to my kids in a form they are comfortable with and feel loved by? Or is my responsibility to teach them about true beauty and acceptance, no matter how freaked out they get when they see me in "costumes"? Is there a certain age when it's more okay to make bolder choices with my appearance (I mean the ages of my children, not me)?

This brings up a whole host of other questions: Do I have a responsibility to make my adult ESL students feel comfortable around me? How can I dress professionally while also helping myself to feel confident in the classroom?

Do I have a responsibility to my husband to tailor my appearance to his desires? Does he have that responsibility toward me?

I just think it's interesting that, by the time I get comfortable with my own appearance (not an easy thing to accomplish), I begin to worry about whether others are comfortable with it.

Let Them Be Little Girls

I took my six-year-old daughter to Target tonight to pick out a Halloween costume, among other things. We left the store with a lot of fun Halloween goodies from the dollar bins, but no costume. Once we got to the costume aisle, I just cringed and immediately wished I had never left the house with her. All I saw were half-opened plastic bags spilling out thin, chintzy fabrics--for the average bargain price of $35.

But I had promised her we could get a costume.

Not being a seamstress by any stretch of the imagination, I suppose I can't be too picky when it comes to costumes. I've actually been lucky: every previous Halloween I have either been able to use hand-me-downs or have my kids' costumes made for me (thanks Mom!).

So what happened in the store that made us abandon our quest for a princess costume?

I was actually proud of my daughter. She walked around "ooh-ing" and "ahh-ing", but she clearly wasn't that thrilled with what she saw. She decided not to get any of the costumes on the shelves, to my immense relief.

It wasn't just the disconnect between the price and the flimsiness of the material that got to me. What really disturbed me was the sexualization of young girls that was so blatant. I have tried to avoid buying my daughter's clothes at Target for that reason, so I guess I wasn't surprised at what I was seeing. But I guess it's been awhile since I was really confronted with it. Here are a couple examples:

I just found these online. They are not the worst of what I saw in the store. What do you think--am I being too prudish? Am I overreacting?

I'm so glad my daughter chooses outfits based on her mood, or the colors and designs of the fabrics, rather than on how cute they make her feel. I think it's a subtle difference in her case, because she does often ask me what I think of her outfit. But she doesn't parade around in it and look in the mirror. She looks down at her shirt or skirt because she likes how it looks. She doesn't strut in her skirts because she thinks other people are looking at her.

I think we need to take much more responsibility than we do for how young girls view themselves, their bodies, their roles in society, and the definition of "beauty" (rather than "cuteness"). Some might accuse me of being a stick in the mud, but I think the carelessness we show toward a serious issue of sexual identity is actually very dangerous. Even when we're just talking about Halloween costumes.

Just my thoughts for now. I welcome your opinions, as always.

Short odes to Purple

Personally, I think a blog about beauty MUST include a post about the color purple. So here's mine.

If my soul had a color
it would be purple.
Childish, yet deep and alluring.

The place I escape to,
the only place I melt into
and stop the world from spinning,
is purple and hazy.

A face with purple accents
speaks of inner beauty
and mystery,
a quiet love for adventure,
a romantic imagination.

Purple on a woman is
endless.

Purple on the road
is a portal
to the place where you will love
completely
and be loved
deeply.

A purple sky is
an invitation to magic.

I need purple in my home,
my soft place to fall into.
I need purple to wear,
bringing romance with me.
I need purple to gaze at me
with the promise of more.

God gave me purple.

Purple, you will be my color this fall.

What We're Really Missing

Today I was at the park with my kids, and my daughter told me that my long scarf made it look like I had long brown hair. She then proceeded to "braid" it. I could have sat there for hours with her patting, wrapping, and tugging on my scarf. It reminded me of when I had hair and my sister or a friend would play with it and fix it up. Or when I would get to be pampered in a stylist's chair.

Of course I started feeling sorry for myself. I had a very strong sense of loss in the fact that I didn't have hair for anyone to play with or run their fingers through. "He ran his fingers tenderly...all over my bare scalp..." Doesn't do much for you either, does it?

I also felt a sense of loss on behalf of my daughter. Shouldn't every little girl get to experience the sweetness of brushing her mama's hair? My daughter won't.

But then I realized how much fun she was having pretending my scarf was hair. She was having just as much fun fixing it up as she would have had if it were real hair. And I was enjoying the physical sensations and the emotional bonding just as much, too.

Maybe my sense of loss actually stemmed from the feeling that my kids are growing up too fast and I haven't been as present with them as I'd like to be. Or maybe I had a moment of missing my mom. Maybe it didn't have to do with my hair at all.

For everything I thought I had lost after developing alopecia, there has been a "replacement" that seems to satisfy the deeper need or longing that hair provided an easy fix for.

Are you feeling cheated out of anything right now? My advice is to get down to the real issue and look for opportunities where a replacement might satisfy.

Dawn

A sister's reflection--

extension,

model and metaphor,

connection

and grace--

the beauty

in this family line

redefined.

She is

the calm I seek,

the smile

that's true,

the truth about love.




My sister is strong, generous to the point of sacrifice, compassionate to great and small, bursting with talent so preciously guarded it has yet to find a worthy stage.

She loves me in all my unloveliness.

Her eyes are silver like a winter sea. Her smile is catchy, drawing you in like a clever jingle without losing the integrity of the heart behind it.

She is a giver. Her gift is finding the perfect one.

And today is her birthday. Drawing to a close now, I offer these thoughts as my humble portrait of her beauty on the day we celebrate her life among us.

Happy Birthday Dawny! I love you.

Do you have a sister? What poetic lines might she inspire you to write? How is her beauty?

(Photos by, of, or about my sister.)

The Art in Me

Today I was listening an old Jars of Clay song from the 90s, "Art in Me". It was a good day to hear that song. I was feeling pretty low today after some harsh run-ins with people (once with a teacher because I was ten minutes late picking up my daughter from school, and a couple times on the road) and I didn't feel anywhere close to the beautiful masterpiece I have been taught to believe I am.

The song speaks to the beautiful mess we all are, the hidden art that we usually don't see. I was struck by this today. When I mess up, I feel messy on the inside and out. And the opposite is also true--when I have a day of minor successes, I feel pretty well put-together in my appearance (regardless of whether I actually am or not, sometimes to my embarrassment). The way I view my behavior, accomplishments and failures actually distorts the image of my physical self that I carry in front of my eyes as I live and move.

Again, as I have written many times before, this all hinges on my own perception of myself. I suppose if I were to imagine myself as a work of art, I would be the type of critic who thinks impressionism is the only true art form, and all else is lacking. Or realism, cubism, or whatever that "ideal" form may be. I obviously have some standard in mind when I judge my own actions, thoughts and appearance.

When I look outward, I am very accepting of all forms of art and beauty. Well, most. Why can't I apply that same generosity and openness to my own reflection? I keep coming back to this question. Why can I show grace to others but not myself? How can I be so affirming of the beauty in others and so harshly critical toward what I myself have to offer?

I may never figure this out. But maybe, instead of looking at the whole picture, I can start by appreciating certain strokes of the brush, a particular combination of colors, or the movement of any given line. I can look at my life in pieces and find beauty in moments, conversations, decisions, responses, prayers, tears, and on and on...until eventually I come to see how they all come together in, yes, a masterpiece. An original, unique yet on par with every other master work in the gallery.

Dysmorphia

A few days ago I went to a free Zumba class in a dance studio. Have you ever been into a dance studio? The entire front wall is a giant mirror. Can you see where I'm going with this? A GIANT mirror.

Every move I made (or attempted to make) was reflected back to me. There I was, popping and locking (not really...) and trying to avoid eye contact with...myself. And still all I could see were arms and legs flailing. Now, I'm not the best dancer ever, but I'm far from being the worst. But I couldn't stand to watch myself--I looked so...disproportionate. That's the only word I can think of. My head and chest looked so small and compact compared to my enormous legs!

I write this in the hopes that you will read it and laugh at the ridiculousness of my thoughts, which you might find familiar in some way. We all look at ourselves and think some pretty strange thoughts:

"My nose is crooked when I smile."

"Look at that shoulder! It's higher than the other one!"

"One of my eyes is always half-closed."

These are all things I have said about myself when I look in the mirror or look back at photos. Chances are, no one else would notice these things. But we notice them about ourselves.

But how many of us would allow thoughts like these to keep us from going outside, drive us to get surgery, or sink us into a deep and lasting depression?

There are people who suffer from an over-abundance of these obsessions about bodily flaws and irregularities, real or imagined.

The disease is Body Dysmorphic Disorder and it's very real.

Check out this vid from You Tube.


It's very touching, but reading the comments on the site is incredibly sad and painful.

I guess I just want to create an awareness about this disorder, this struggle that we can all identify with and yet probably can't legitimize as an actual diagnosis. We need to speak with compassion towards each other. Words that are meant as playful teasing could be cutting right to the core of a serious illness or beginnings of an illness in someone predisposed to the disorder.

If you think you may be a person whose quality of life has been compromised by uncontrollable anxiety over your body, please seek help from a mental health professional. None of us should take lightly the negative thoughts about our bodies or our "selves" that often enter our minds without welcome. Yes, we can laugh at our silly thoughts in order to regain perspective, but it's no laughing matter when the thoughts won't go away and cause us to act in ways that are destructive.

Have compassion on others, and have compassion on yourself. That's all for now.

Wrinkles? No--Story Lines

What do you think when you see this man?

(http://www.breakingonlinenews.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/TomSelleck.jpg)

Rugged? Handsome? Sexy? Yes. Tom Selleck is all of those things. Always has been, always will be.

What about this woman?

(http://ospoetry.homestead.com/Grease2/Pfeiffer/1/pfeiffer-5639315.jpg)

You probably thought "wow, she looks good for her age". That's what I thought. And I also noticed the crows' feet around her eyes.

Did you notice Selleck's wrinkles, too? 'Cause he's sure got 'em.

I use these pictures to call attention to the pressure women face to maintain youthful looks, more so than men. Correct me if I'm wrong.

Just look at the shelves in the grocery store. How much space is reserved for anti-aging creams and potions for women? Why don't men have anti-wrinkle night cream? (And why, by the way, is night cream so expensive? Not that I was looking...)

Confession: I have been horrified to discover lines around my mouth and eyes. And my neck--horrid. Now, I am only 31, so I know some readers will be laughing their heads off at my "signs of aging". Still, for a woman who was always told she looked way too young to have kids, the wrinkles are forcing me to face up to the reality that I'm not as young as I look from a distance. I guess none of us are.

Concession (no, that's not a typo. I am about to concede another point to the critics): Different mirrors and different lighting can either magnify or conceal the lines and spots on any person's face. I know that.

I'm simply acknowledging the very beginnings of the wonderful outward aging process. And admitting that, while I have not yet bit the bullet and purchased expensive night cream, I did buy some anti-aging daytime protective face lotion. Just to make myself feel better.

Now, I know men face their own age demons. Balding, for example. Weight gain. Hair sprouting. Not pretty. But if you men stay in shape and keep those hairs trimmed, you can still look great.

Woman have to work harder to hide wrinkles, sometimes even giving in to surgery. I would never do that, although I totally understand it. We women feel this pressure to maintain our youth. I can't entirely blame men or media, although I want to.

I don't want to focus on blame. I want to redefine aging.

Aging is not something to fear, or "defy" like the cosmetics industry pushes us to do. Age should be something to welcome. I talked with two different women just this morning who said they welcomed their 30s, because the 20s are just too tumultuous. Experience, maturity, wisdom, appreciation--these are such gifts. The state of our skin should not even be on the radar compared to them.

And yet we look at the wrinkles in the mirror and we become afraid that our youth is gone, that there are missing days we will never recover, that we have left the best behind.

I have a challenge for myself and anyone else who feels they need to reframe the aging process. For every wrinkle I discover in the mirror, I am going to tell a story. This is like showing off battle scars, you know? Each one was forged in a moment of struggle, pain, rescue, or adventure.

Well, each of my wrinkles can tell a story. Maybe not as specifically as a scar would, but I can still attribute them to moments of laughter, grief, performance, outdoor adventure, and experience. I want to see my wrinkles as maps of where my face has felt most comfortable during my life. And I want to create new lines in places that speak of smiles and joy, rather than frowns and anger.

Guest Blogger: AliMarie Photography

I am so excited to introduce you to the woman who captured my bald head so beautifully a few months back: Alissa Miller. I asked her to share her thoughts on beauty and how she sees her role as a photographer of beauty that is uncommon. Here's what she has to say:

"A warm hello! What a treat to share my thoughts in such a transformational slice of cyber space. Photographing Wendy was a joy and inspiration that continues to change me. As an artist and divinity student, I strive to combine my love of photography and passion for seeing healing in the world. Wendy's shoot allowed me just such a privilege.
So, what is it about photography that cultivates healing? Certainly, photography has the power to cultivate pain in our world. We are bombarded with images that few of us measure up to, which often nurtures a gut-wrenching dissatisfaction with our internalized hopeless inadequacy. This quietly instills a tragic self-hatred within many of God's beloved.
And, more, we're given a monolythic portrait of humanity. This simplistic perspective of our actual complexity, creates a divide between what is normal and what is not, what is acceptable and what is not, what is beautiful and what is not. We find our eyes squinting into critical glares that blind us to God's true and messy beauty.
The fracturing of the human spirit in the wake of unattainable perfection suffocates the life abundant that Jesus came to give. A life of abundant embrace of all that doesn't fit the norm. A life of abundant love for all... including ourselves.
I am drawn to a ministry of challenging these monolythic norms of perfection, a ministry of redefining beauty. My goal, as I pear through my camera lens is to capture the profound, divine beauty that radiates from each of us.
I find myself called to be a minister outside the church: loving people where they are, giving them the space to share their stories and capturing their unique beauty as a reminder of their unquestionable worthiness. It is through this ministry that I hope to bring about God's healing, love and courage to those who find themselves on a beauty margin.
Lofty, dreamy hopes, yes? I know. And I'm a lofty dreamer. But, I have seen the way that being given the space to unabashedly embody all that you are in front of a camera changes lives.
As each of us strive to unabashedly embody all that WE are, let's search in the mirror today not for our supposed short-comings, but for our deep, irrevocable beauty, a beauty that each of us bears differently and hearkens us back to the beauty of our Source.
Thanks for letting me steal your ear... or eyes... for a moment with my chatter. I'd love to continue the conversation with you on Facebook at facebook.com/alimariephoto.biz. Or wander my website at www.alimariephotography.biz. "

Measuring Up

Time for another post about Barbie. She's just indomitable. Now, we've all heard the argument that Barbie's measurements are not anatomically possible, but have you ever visualized it?

http://mightyhips.wordpress.com/barbie-doll/

There you have it. :)

Now, I don't actually think this is what Barbie would look like as a real person. I think she would look more like what's represented here:

Still, looking at that top image is a great reminder about the importance of proportion. We feel uncomfortable when we see things that are out of proportion. Or we laugh. We get camera lenses with hilarious distortion effects, or we hang out in front of fun house mirrors.

Regardless of our reactions, we know what an acceptable human form is. Diseases that cause people to have over-sized features or diets that shrink body parts down give us the heebie jeebies.

Most of us, though, don't see these anomalies on a daily basis. We do, however, constantly size ourselves up, literally. "My (fill in the blank) is too big/small." Says who? Have you actually measured the part in question and compared it on a medical chart? Do you honestly think people are looking at you and seeing a distorted image that defies human proportions?

Usually, the answer to the last two questions is "No". That first question goes to the heart of what this blog is all about. Who decides what is beautiful, or even what is normal?

When I look in the mirror or at a photo of myself and complain about how small my head is, what is actually bothering me? Am I really upset that my head doesn't take up as much space as the person's next to me? Or am I comparing my head size to the "ideal" version of me that exists in my head?

Here's a better example: when I complain about my flat chest, what am I comparing myself to? That's easy: Barbie. Marketing and media have determined the most beautiful proportions for women. If I don't measure up (ha!), I feel less womanly, and less human.

Head size hasn't exactly been marketed, but clearly I have some idea that heads should be a certain size. Whenever I watch the newest Pride and Prejudice, I can't help but laugh at how small Keira Knightley's head looks next to Donald Sutherland's.

It comforts me to know that a beautiful, well-loved actress appears to have a pretty small head.

So you might be wondering, "How small is her head?" Well, here it is. This is a picture of me with my students last fall:

There I am, on the bottom row, second in from the right. It's a small head, right? :)

Why am I so self-conscious of my head? Can we allow ourselves, and others, more room for varying measurements without getting squeamish? Even though that life-size Barbie doll looks ridiculous to us, what if there were really someone in the world who looked like that? Could we make room?

Proportions are useful inasmuch as they are functional. If a person is up and walking around, smiling and breathing, why should their measurements matter?

Lots of questioning and disconnected thoughts here. Care to weigh in?

Perfection

It never fails. Just when I was gaining confidence and stepping out proudly with my bald head...

Last week I bent down to pick up the laundry in my closet, and I hit my head on the sharp corner of the shoe organizer my husband had just put in there. Oh, the drama. I yelled and cursed, I rolled on my bed howling, I ran to the mirror to assess the damage. It would have been hilarious as a scene on "Modern Family" or something.

The absolutely UN-funny part, though, is that I now have an L-shaped gash on my head, marring (perhaps forever) my beautiful, perfect head.

In this heat wave I have wanted nothing more than to strip off my head coverings and let my skin breathe...but I haven't wanted the world to see my scar.

Who knows, maybe it won't actually scar. Maybe it will heal, nice and clean. But I find myself reciting my old mantra every time I look in the mirror: "Of course, this would happen to me. God must have thought I was getting too vain." I really don't know why I automatically go to that line of thought, that any physical imperfection is there to keep me from being vain.

But I do. I see these imperfections as punishments, blemishes that keep me from looking the way I want. I still remember that on my wedding day I had a couple of scabs on my arm from some bug bites I had scratched too hard. I tried to cover them up with makeup, but they showed up in some of the pictures. I wasn't too bothered by it, but I did feel a little sorry for myself, regretting that I hadn't taken better care of my skin (for my wedding photos).

Yes, I am a perfectionist. I can't stand to have my kids wearing clothes with stains on them. I donate my clothes once they get stains on them that won't come out. If I paint my nails and then one of them chips a little right away, I want to hit something. If I have just mopped and a new little dribble of milk ends up falling to the floor afterward, I turn into a crazy lady.

I don't know why I can't handle little mess-ups. A child therapist I know recently gave me an accidental insight into this. Speaking about a child, he said that some kids really like to organize toys because it helps them to order their thoughts as well.

I suppose there is some mental equivalent to my need for a pure canvas, an unscratched table, an unstained shirt, or a zit-free face.

The solution? Redefining perfection.

Is perfection the absence of flaws? Or are flaws indicative of being perfectly human? (Deep thoughts with Wendy...)

When I look at my head, now scratched and scarred, I will try to see it as a story I am in the middle of telling. Who wants a story with no conflict? A happy ending means nothing without the conflict. So that's it. My head is a story waiting for its happy ending. And aren't we all?

Whose Opinion Counts?

I promised a post about this awhile ago, so here goes.

How do you feel when you see this picture:

(http://improveyouraim.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/construction.jpg)

Disgusted? Disapproving? Cynical? Do you think it's cute? Does it make you laugh?

I was never one of those girls. I didn't turn heads as I walked down the street. Ironically, once I lost my hair I began to get comments from men in public. Mostly when I wear scarves or wigs, but occasionally I have genuinely been complimented on my bald head.

I ask about the picture because I don't always know how to feel about these men who approach me in the grocery store or call out to me in the park.

For the record, this is not something that happens all the time. I am just struck by how often a bald woman like myself actually does get "catcalled". I never expected my confidence to be boosted by losing my hair!

But I don't always feel confident when a strange man comes up to me in the store and tells me I have a beautiful smile. Often I feel violated and uncomfortable.

I wish I knew the purpose behind these comments. Are these men trying to make me feel good? Are they hoping for some kind of reciprocal flattery? Are they exercising their perceived power and dominion over me, the opposite sex, who exists only to give them pleasure?

Whatever the case, obviously men feel they have the right (and maybe the duty) to tell a woman they find her attractive in some way.

(Women do this too, of course, but usually in our heads or to our girlfriends.)

Now, my therapist tells me that this issue of letting others' opinions of me determine my mood for the day or shape my identity is really an issue of how I feel about myself. If I dress up all cute and go out and don't get a single comment, why should I be disappointed? The only thing that matters is whether I am happy with myself, right?

Well, we all know this is not totally true. We live in a world where we are influenced by other people all the time. I personally feel a sense of responsibility to others to compliment them when I feel that they could use some encouragement. Nothing wrong with that. But I have some sense of the line between appropriate and inappropriate when it comes to who I talk to and what I say.

So, when we see someone who exhibits some kind of beauty that we appreciate, how do we decide whether or not to say something? If we all need to start focusing on our own opinions of ourselves and nothing more, should we stop commenting on what we see in other people altogether?

I'd love to get lots of comments on this one. :)

Form Over Detail

"I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree."
--Joyce Kilmer



Why are trees so lovely?

I happen to love their silhouettes against the sky. My favorite are the trees with bright leaves in fall and black bark, such a vivid contrast against a deep blue sky.



I love the shimmer of leaves as their silvery undersides are flipped in the wind. I love the shapes of the branches, always reaching upward but never able to straighten out in a perfect line. I love how leaves are at their most beautiful (in my opinion) when they are dying.

But what defines the beauty of a tree, really? The shape? The details of the bark? The colors? The fact that each tree provides life-giving oxygen? The shade?

Well, years ago a couple of artists challenged the nature of aesthetic beauty. They looked at trees, bridges, buildings, even coastlines and said "Where does beauty lie?" They decided to blur out the details of each of their projects, allowing the basic form to express itself and impress itself on the viewer. It was beauty without the answer key, so to speak. Beauty without a heavy-handed exhibition of features. I am fascinated by their work.

The husband and wife team, Christo and Jeanne-Claude, included in their "portfolio" a project of wrapped trees. The beauty of the artwork, for them, was to be found in the shape, movement and light of the tree coverings. But when I show these pictures to students in the ESL classes I teach, they usually fail to see the beauty. "Why cover something as lovely as a tree?" they ask.

I get it. The wrapped trees look a bit awkward and bulky, and you miss seeing the individual leaves and branches. But I can't take my eyes away from the photos. I wonder what they would have been like to see close up. Here, what do you think?







It's an interesting idea, where you cover something in order to get at its true beauty. Or at least to see beauty in the form without getting distracted by the details.

So naturally I have been thinking about my own beauty. Before I lost my hair I never wore makeup, I hardly wore jewelry, and I bought clothes from thrift stores, keeping me perpetually at least two decades behind the current fashion trends.

After I developed alopecia universalis, I suddenly had a need to accessorize! I wear makeup almost 24/7, I never leave the house (or walk around in my house, for that matter) without noticeable earrings, and while I still buy my clothes from thrift stores, I at least coordinate outfits to look fashionable. I think.

Details, details.

What if I were to go out one day with no head covering, no jewelry, no makeup--just me and the shapes on my face? I guess for me I would be totally uncovered, very un-Christo-and-Jeanne-Claude-esque. But I think the effect would be the same. Beauty in form, not detail. Beauty in shape, movement, and inner light rather than color, design and definition.

I doubt I will ever get the nerve to do that. But it's an interesting way to think about beauty, isn't it?

The Mirror Has Two Faces

I can't believe I haven't posted anything about my favorite movie on this blog yet! Have you ever seen "The Mirror Has Two Faces"? Get it. Watch it. Love it.

I saw it in high school, and I immediately fell in love with it. The actors, the cinematography, the soundtrack, the theme. Everything.



When I watch this film, I'm reminded that beauty is something we have to feel inside of ourselves, no matter what judgments we make about the image we see in the mirror. Mirrors, after all, reflect our feelings about how we look.

Yesterday I was in my bathroom, putting on my eyebrows and makeup like I always do. I felt good about the finished product when I looked in the mirror. A few hours later, I was in another bathroom, looking in another mirror.

My reflection had totally changed.

My eyebrows were crooked, my eyeliner looked patchy, my scarf looked lumpy...in short, I looked a mess.

Even later, in a third mirror, I was surprised to see that I looked really pretty. Hmmm...

Was the lighting different? Was the angle different?

Or was it my expectation, my attitude and emotions at the time, my sense of comparison with other people I saw, etc.?

Maybe a combination of both. The point is, the mirror actually has several faces. And the truest mirror is when we see ourselves reflected in other people. Someone gives us a kind smile and we feel the goodness of humanity. Or someone acts selfishly and we recoil, recognizing our own capacity for selfishness.

So, next time you look in a mirror, try to see the different layers of reality being reflected back to you. Your own impression of how you look, your personal standard of beauty and how subjectively you think you measure up, even your mood. The mirror shows it all. And it's all beautiful

Insatiable

Why do we get bored so easily? Maybe this is not a common experience, but I have been realizing lately how quickly I tire of things that at one time ignited me. At this time last year I had figured out a new way to tie my scarves and I thought "Yes, this really feels like a style that fits me. I think I look great!" Now, I just feel frumpy in my scarves. I have been trying to shake things up a bit by stepping out bald a little more often. But even that is getting old. Well, the looks and comments are getting old (strange comments from strange men--that's in the next post).

Even this blog--a couple months ago I felt like I was bursting with postworthy material. Now, in case you haven't noticed, I have total writer's block.

I realize that, in my case, this boredom is often actually a type of fatigue. When I find a new interest, I go hard after it. I obsess, I ruminate, I max it out. I don't have sustainable outlets. My outlets end up draining more than I needed to "get out".

But sometimes I really do just feel bored. I mentioned in a previous post that I have been doing Instagram. For awhile I was on it all the time, in awe of the tiny scenes I was holding in my hand: amazing sunsets on the beach, black and whites of the streets of Paris, close ups of delicate flowers, blah blah blah. After a few weeks every photo has started to look the same. How can it be that the same pictures taking my breath away weeks earlier are now making me yawn?

How can someone married to, say, Jennifer Lopez, ever get tired of seeing such a perfectly beautiful face? Sadly, we all know that husbands and wives sometimes act in ways that appear to indicate boredom with their spouses. If not boredom, then a breakdown in their ability to see the beauty they used to see.

It's a shame, really. It's like we're never satisfied. Is it because, deep down, we know we're made for a lot more beauty than anything we've yet seen? Or is it because we try to handle overwhelming beauty in ways we can control, thus cheapening it?

Food for thought tonight. I challenge you to think of something that used to be a source of beauty and is now collecting dust, figuratively or literally. Take another look and see what has always been there.

Sometimes "beauty redefined" is simply beauty remembered.

And the winner is...

MamaSoProud!!!

Thanks, MSP, for a lovely comment about the beauty you found in a flea market:

 "I was at a flea market where all the items were tarnished, cracked, bent and broken in some way; yet my eyes took in the beauty at each and every item while my heart filled with a certain peace of times gone by. The wooden rocking horse with a missing ear had me wondering what fun the child must have had riding this toy when it was new. I picked up a clay pot that was chipped along the edge, but I could smell the dirt that had once been there and in my mind saw beautiful flowers. Several years passing had caused the newborn baby bib to turn from white to yellow, but the ladybug design still made me smile. The old shoes now tattered and torn had once held a person while they traveled, laughed and loved. I look out at the world today and see hunger, financial fear, lack of faith and belief... I wish for the world to step back and take a tour thru the flea market around them. Take time to see the beauty in all things around us, and bring back memories of those cherished moments as we're taken back to better and more peaceful days. After that walk thru history, I was able to open the door and step into the world of Now - and I still find beauty!"

Also thanks to Lee for a moving story about the beauty of hope:

" A coworker spoke with tear filled eyes of a daughter who had left home in a drugged stupor and hadn’t returned. She had heard that I worked as a 12 step recovery facilitator for many years and she wondered if I had ever had any positive results. She was grasping for a straw of hope in a very devastated environment. 

Outside her office window was a young man who she had pointed out earlier as a model employee. He is always smiling as he works and goes out of his way to help others. 

I smiled as I remembered the broken lives that he and his wife had when they first came to me. They had been deep in the Meth culture for years and wanted out. And though it took a few years they are now both doing well, building lives that are full of joy and contentment. 

The hope of beauty that a parent sees in their child may be lost to poor choices for a time. Tragedy strikes in many forms that can cause physical, mental, or emotional scarring that will last a lifetime. Yet, that which mares us can also shape us into stronger, more caring individuals. None of it happens over night. Learning to see beauty in broken lives is difficult, but essential. We must see the beauty in them in order to move them past the brokenness to where they can see themselves as the beautiful person they were created to be.
And yes, when I pointed him out, more tears flowed even as hope grew."

Congratulations MamaSoProud! Your prize is on its way. 

Keep watching for those beautiful moments and letting me know about them. :) 

Ben's Thoughts

So that little contest of mine has produced some great and thoughtful comments, stories of people recognizing beauty in places where it often is overlooked or disguised. (The contest closes on May 26th--you still have time to enter!) One of the comments turned out to be a post in and of itself--so I am taking it out of the "comments" box and posting it here. These are "Ben's Thoughts"--a man's perspective on how beauty is defined. Enjoy--and thanks for agreeing to this, Ben!


“Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.”

This near-hackneyed phrase indicates that our environment shapes how we see beauty. Indeed, our state of mind influences our ability to identify beauty and our propensity to seek it. To demonstrate this, the Washington Post did a social experiment. They had Joshua Bell, a world class violinist, play for 43 minutes in a crowded train station in Washington DC during the morning commute. Over 1,000 people passed by. Only seven stopped for longer than a minute. The author of the Post article claimed that beauty in an unexpected place isn’t recognized as beauty. The presentation matters.

However important presentation is, the content matters more. In my life, I’ve discovered that, given time, content overrides presentation. When I first went to college, awash in hormones, I was confident I’d find a wife among my classmates. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was expecting, but it was more or less what the media had promised – a gaggle of cute, bright eyed young women to get to know and, eventually, choose a wife from.

But I must admit that after looking around the room during freshman orientation, I felt slightly betrayed and a little disappointed. Where were the beautiful women I’d anticipated? (Little did I know, my future wife was actually in the room at the time.) As it turns out, nearly every female classmate in that room became more beautiful the better I got to know them. And let’s face it, judging someone’s looks on a day after they’ve changed time zones, driven or flown many miles, and lugged heavy boxes up a few flights of stairs isn’t completely fair.

The beauty of these women grew on me because a large part of a person’s beauty is beyond skin deep. I had fallen into the trap our advertisement industry has been setting for decades – I judged based on the surface (what I could see immediately), not on what was deeper. (I’m working on overcoming that shortcoming.) Only time reveals what’s deeper, which as it turns out, is much more substantial and important. Wrinkles form, makeup smears. A person you can have fun with, one who looks on the sunny side of life, is irreplaceable. To me, beauty relies significantly on personality. Someone who stops to notice the violin player – that person is beautiful. A mother who diligently and without fanfare drives her kids to school every morning – she’s beautiful. A homeless man happily greeting everyone and genuinely trying to elicit a smile and not spare change – he’s beautiful.

As our first quote reminds us, beauty is somewhat subjective. It’s not necessarily the same to me as it is to you. My friends became more beautiful the more I got to know them. I’ll apply beauty as an adjective to certain sports moments – others may find that desecrates the term. Perhaps knowledge of the underlying complexities of an ecosystem makes a forest more beautiful to a botanist. This is a paradoxical aspect of beauty I’m not sure how to wrap my head around. How can we talk about things that “everyone” says is beautiful? Can someone actually be in a state of mind that makes a sunset not beautiful? That they find a rainbow repulsive? I could certainly see depression lending itself to those feelings. Perhaps beauty also implies a sense of wholesomeness – again, something that is beyond skin deep.

I’ve heard it argued that beauty is a quantitative trait – something that can be measured and algorithmically improved. For instance, it’s been shown that the more symmetrical something is, the more we like it. The more complex something is, the more we like it. (Symmetry beats complexity, though). Patterns that reflect these traits can be predictably ranked according to “beauty.” In fact, prettier people tend to have more symmetrical faces. But counter to this, isn’t it the quirks we appreciate and find endearing? The dimple on just one cheek, the slightly crooked smile, the not perfectly straight teeth. I appreciate realism, an earthy, natural, this-is-my-raw-state type of beauty because that beauty cannot be manufactured, cannot be surgically improved, and cannot be fleeting. If you love the quirks, you will have a lifetime to appreciate them. If you love young, unwrinkled skin, you either fight a constant botox battle or give up and declare yourself (or your mate) less beautiful. Why can a person not be just as beautiful at 70 as at 17?

A natural beauty is more permanent and, in my opinion, more real than a manufactured one. The manufactured beauty has a shelf life. The iPhone4 is ugly as soon as the iPhone5 comes out. Pictures of supermodels without makeup or photoshop are a little startling. They look so average, mundane, uninteresting. But if teams of people work on their makeup, hair, wardrobe, lighting, touch-ups, air brushing, and put them on a billboard, men will drool. Are the women in the photo different than the women in real life? Would they be nearly as appealing with morning breath and bed hair? A fleeting beauty flimsily propped up is not something I’d like to build a relationship on. And if I compare my wife to supermodels, actresses, and people with plastic surgery, that’s not only unfair, but it’s setting me up for disappointment. If I look at her and see only her, seeing her beauty instead of her comparative beauty, that’s when I feel I have the most beautiful wife in the world.

In college, I wrote on my facebook page that there is no face so homely that a genuine smile doesn’t make it instantly beautiful. To me, the key word there is genuine. When joy is felt in one’s soul and is displayed in a way that make it evident to those around, that is beautiful. That’s what makes kids so beautiful – the wonder, excitement, and joy they see in the world is plainly written all over their faces.

Beauty is different things to different people. To me, beauty is impressive and authentic. And takes a lot of time to appreciate.

Instabeauty

Everyone's a photographer these days. Thanks to applications like Instagram and Photo Shop, we can all pretty much look like pros. Our phones take amazing pictures, and there is no end to the effects and filters we can apply. It's great fun. I have found Instagram to be a wonderful creative outlet. I can't draw, sculpt, or paint, I get bored with my own poetry, I can't sit still long enough to write a song, and I generally don't do well with handicrafts.

But I have visions of beauty, like everyone else. And I always assumed that "art", whatever that term includes, belongs to people with innate talent for creating it.

Instagram has changed that for me! Now I can recognize that art and beauty are not exclusive or elite. They are pervasive. They belong to all of us.

No, Instagram is not paying me to say this. I'm really just having fun with a tool that has allowed me to see beauty in the everyday. And I'm discovering that I see my world differently now that I am intentionally looking for opportunities to capture beauty.

When I first signed on to Instagram, I would chuckle at the photos of shoes, dinner plates, and other little mundane details of the photographer's life. I thought "Come on, we don't care what you're eating for dinner tonight". But then one day I made a breakfast sandwich for myself, and I looked at it on my plate. As I looked, it became more interesting. And I decided to share the image with people on Instagram.

Suddenly I had become one of those people. An amateur iPhone photographer who thinks her photos are so interesting they must be shared with the world.

As it turns out, I have changed my mind. I think we should all be photographers. We aren't all good, but we should all try. Not to get followers or feed our egos, and not even to create interesting works of art.

We should all be photographers because the search for a good photo forces us to stop and look at our world, to see beauty in the details, and to feel connected to what's around us. Instagram, and tools like it, are just ways of helping us to see the beauty that is all around us. I mean, who knew a sandwich could look so interesting? Who knew a plate of edamame could be so beautiful?

Interestingly, I have gotten more "likes" and comments on my picture of edamame than I have on pictures of trees or the lake, the scenes more commonly thought of as "beautiful". But truthfully, I think we are all excited about seeing beauty in everyday details. Colors, textures, shapes--I think it's great that we are seeing and sharing these elements in our human community. It's drawing us closer.

Professional or semi-professional photographers out there, we still need you. You have an eye for placement, framing, shading, energy, etc. You are artists. The rest of us are simply learning to capture and appreciate beautiful moments in our lives. There is room for all of us. There is space for all of our pictures to hang side by side.

There is, of course, another life lesson to be taken from Instagram. Seeing a photo opportunity and recognizing something interesting is just the beginning. From there, we literally decide what to focus on within the frame and what filter to put on the picture. We take an objective scene and choose how to view it. That's where our individual stamp comes in. Instagram photos (and any photo, for that matter) are interesting because we try to imagine why the photographer chose a particular finish for a photo. That process can be just as telling as the actual details the photographer chose to shoot.

What can you tell about me based on these pictures?

If you haven't tried photography yet, give it a try. It doesn't really matter what tools you use. Just look for opportunities to see beauty in places you would have taken for granted before. Enjoy.