Enough Already!

I want to share a story that my water delivery lady told me randomly the other day. She got stranded in the middle of the night one time, in a part of the city known for being "dangerous". She had to walk alone on the side of the road and hope to catch a taxi or a motorcycle (this is the Philippines; hopping on the back of a bike is like catching a cab). There was another couple walking at a distance behind her. Soon a bike came up the road. She was hopeful, since she was ahead of the couple, that the bike would stop for her first. But it didn't. The driver passed her and picked up the couple. Then it started to rain. Soon after, another bike came and stopped for her. She told the driver where she needed to go, and he took her right to the door instead of dropping her off at the corner, which was more convenient for bikes. And he didn't charge her a penny for the ride. Gave it to her totally free. She told me that the bikes represented opportunity. The first one passed her by, even though "by right" it should have been hers. But God had something better coming that was just for her. Something special. Little did she know when was telling me this that only a couple days earlier I had gotten a little backdated surprise. This is embarrassing to admit, but I just learned about a certain feature of Facebook Messenger called the "Other" inbox. Apparently, I have been receiving messages from non-friends for a couple years now, but I never got any notifications and never thought to check the tab labeled "Other". I never even noticed it. I unintentionally have been ignoring people for years. Among those shunned are some faces of the past who had attempted to reach out and connect with me, some random "Hey Baby" messages from names like Deezel or J Cool, and some encouraging messages about this very blog. One of those encouraging notes was from an editor at a well-known women's magazine asking if I wanted to talk with her about contributing something to the magazine. The message was dated last year. Oops. I'm sitting on the side of the road, watching that ride pass me by. Except it passed by last year and I didn't realize it until now. I'm not upset about it anymore. Clearly, my life was meant to move in another direction. At least for now. I'm okay with that. Still, it's hard not to feel a little envious when people I'm close to are doing things like recording albums, starting businesses, and publishing books. I know a lot of people look at my life and say "Come on--you have two great kids, you have a Masters degree, and you moved overseas!" I know I'm privileged and that my life is not dull. But lately it feels...insignificant. I came here attached to my husband. It's his dream that brought us here. He gets to live his dream. Other people I know are living their dreams. I...don't know what my dreams are yet. At 33, I still don't know. I go into places like bookstores and banks and I think "See, this is all I would need. A 9 to 5 job at a cute little desk, very clear expectations, a little world to organize and control, and once in awhile a fun or challenging interaction with a customer". For much of my youth I dreamt of being a librarian. Maybe I'm not living my dream right now because my dreams tend to be on the small side. But if I dare to dream a little bigger, like imagining myself as the director of a community ESL center or having a talk show on issues of beauty and confidence, I almost immediately write them off as impossibilities. "That's just not me", I say. I could never do those things because my past has been marked by disorganization, fatigue, and fear. So instead I try to find significance in other ways. Like being pretty. Since losing my hair, I really had to step up my game in terms of appearance. I started accessorizing. I put on make up. I matched. And I got noticed. A bald girl will always get noticed, but I didn't always feel like people were looking at me strange. I often felt like people, male people in particular, were noticing me with appreciation. It helped to live in a city where head scarves (and even baldness) could be as much fashion statements as indications of a health issue. And then I started getting a lot of comments. I was told outright that I was beautiful. I began to think that's what I am--a beautiful woman. And that's all I am. If I can get men to notice me, I have accomplished something significant. This was especially important to me after going through so many painful adolescent and teen years desperate to be noticed but too shy and awkward to make it happen. I hit those developmental markers really, really late. But I'm bored with it, quite frankly. I mean, I'm still way too gratified by looks and comments. But I'm tired of constantly wondering if people think I'm beautiful. There's got to be more to me. A few years ago at my church, a speaker was giving an encouraging message to our dwindling congregation and was giving shout outs to people who were really doing a lot to help our church be a vibrant, hospitable community. The speaker named folks who were giving their time and energy in all kinds of ways. When my name was called, I expected to hear that I had put a lot of time into the children's ministry, or that I was leading the music team with excellence. But the speaker said that I was "an elegant member of the community". Now, I know what this person meant. I know this person meant that I was living with a very visible health issue in a way that spoke truth about human dignity and finding good in challenging situations. I know the person meant that I carried myself in a way that gave God credit for his beautiful creation. But I only know that now. What I heard at the time was "Wendy is good at being pretty even though we all know she is bald." (Dear friend, if you are reading this, I hold no ill feelings. You know I leaned on you and your family and I love you!) Well I want to be good at other things. Remember the movie Clueless? For some reason, I chose that movie to be the movie I could quote from start to finish in high school. Now, I still love the novel it was adapted from (Jane Austen's Emma). Anyway, Cher, the main character in Clueless (played by Alicia Silverstone), decides at one point that she needs a makeover, but this time it would be a makeover of her soul. Very dramatic and inspiring. I want to be more than how I look. I want to start something and actually finish it. I want to be smart about things and hold intelligent conversation. And...still be pretty. Because let's face it, being a bald woman is tough. I still need the puffing up bit. I believe that God is trying to draw me out. The real me, the one behind all the fear and the victim complex and the anticipated failure. I believe God has me on a path that is just for me. And my ride is coming. Maybe I'm not ready yet. But good grief, what is it going to take? Something drastic, like a move overseas and a battle with intense anxiety and people staring at my bald head like they've never seen anything like it before. Hmmm. I'm journaling now, trying to discover patterns from my life to see where I've been and where I might be going. I'm trying to listen to God. I'm trying to believe that He really loves me no matter what. Sounds so simple, doesn't it? But it's not a truth that is embedded in my core yet, for some reason. I don't get it yet. I'm still looking for validation from men (this time I mean "humans"). But it's not enough anymore. And that has to be a good sign that I'm on the right road.

Baby, It's Me

 

Don't label people.

 

I don't know how else to begin except by jumping into this. Although the problem of "beauty in baldness" is my reason for this blog, I want to write about the problem that is really closest to my heart:

 

Mental illness.

 

If you suffer from a mental illness, you will be labeled. People will look at you and see nothing but your illness.

Everything will go through that filter. If you get angry, which you often will because any emotion you feel is attributed to your ill brain rather than your heart-felt experience, any action you take based on that anger will be seen as exaggerated, and if you really lose your temper as many people do, those actions will be seen as dangerous, threatening, possibly psychotic. Never mind that many people lose their temper; yours is to be feared.

If you cry, you are over-emotional. If you lose your temper with your child, who by the way is physically attacking you in a temper tantrum out of his or her control due to another illness, you are not to be trusted to care for your child.

No doubt, a mental illness (depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder) really does change how you view the world and your power within it. But people struggling bravely with mental illness have as much right to express emotion as people struggling with mere "normal life". In fact, I would argue that we "crazy" people are more in tune with ourselves than those who have no idea what mental illness feels like.

But labelling us and predicting that we will lose control? That gets into our psyche and tells us that we will, in fact, lose control. That we can't, in fact, be trusted.

I really have a hard time believing caring people who tell me that the struggles in my life and family are not all my fault. Instead, I keep trying to find new therapies, workbooks, projects and prayers that will finally "work" to get me well so that peace can be restored to my chaotic home and love to my dysfunctional relationships. But I've tried it all--individual counseling of all kinds, group therapy, prayer groups, girl's nights out, pills and more pills...and I still lose my temper and cry when I feel sad. Go figure.

So what else can I do? I don't know how else to make people see me and not my illness. Or my baldness. Or my teaching. Or any other one part of me. I am a whole. And my experience of life is real.

I feel like the tree in the picture up there. I am standing alone, looking at a world filled with life, activity, excitement, and potential for love. But I can't move from my spot, stuck by my roots. I will bloom and be beautiful, but then I will droop again when the season calls for it. And people will walk by, assuming I am bound by my nature.

This is how I'm feeling today, reeling after recent days of difficult circumstances and hurtful words carelessly thrown around by me and others. I have other days when I'm feeling like my spot near the city is sacred ground, where I have my shape and my purpose and my beautiful view, and that I provide a place where people can see beauty and gather and feel inspiration.

Both of those experiences are valid and part of me. Not to be feared, not to be labeled, not to be walled off. I, like everyone, want to be loved. I am learning to understand how I am loved by God. Understanding how to love myself so I can love others? Well, that's much harder.

But I will get there. We all can. That's the beauty of life--we are constantly blooming and maturing and changing. Even when the leaves fall to the ground, the process of creation is playing out how it should.





Birthday Blues

Yesterday was my husband's birthday. Not wanting to take him at his word that he didn't want to do anything special, I decided to put together a really special evening for him. 

And then I couldn't even get both candles to light. I spent the evening in tears. 

Let me fill in the middle of the story for you. I spent the whole day getting ready. I went all over town looking for the gift I had planned on giving him, but it was nowhere to be found. (Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating--I consider my two go-to stores "all over town".) I carefully studied the recipe for his favorite Egyptian dish and got all the ingredients--including a bag of wheat flour that really has no place in my gluten-free kitchen. For anyone who knows me, this is a huge sacrifice.  I got a balloon, I got out my blonde wig and planned nice, dressy outfits for myself and the kids, I got his favorite kind of cake...and these candles. 

I didn't time the cooking very well, failing to factor in the kids--pick ups taking longer than they should have, cries for attention, the whole bit. My attempt at Egyptian cooking was a colossal fail. I forgot which bag the cake was in and it smooshed to one side of the box. I didn't have time for any of us to get dressed up before he got home, I didn't have his Arabic music playing like I had planned, and I couldn't get both kids to make him a card. Besides that, I had a wicked headache and the kids were driving me absolutely crazy with their screaming. Happy screaming, but screaming nonetheless. 

And then one of the candles wouldn't light. 

And just like that, this selfless act of creating the perfect birthday where my husband would feel loved became all about me. 

Self-awareness can really be annoying sometimes. 

I am increasingly aware that, despite years of therapy for this issue, I still make everything about me. I still need affirmation like most people need water. I can only go three days without it. I know I set myself up to fail with this birthday dinner just so I could have a little "poor me, I tried so hard but nothing ever works for me" pity party and get loving attention and affirmation from my husband about everything that does work for me--or, more to the point, about me. I took on an incredibly difficult culinary challenge when I don't handle simple ones well; I actually thought my kids--my kids--could sit and make cards and dress themselves up; and I waited until the day of his birthday to shop for the gift. Somewhere deep, I think I knew I wouldn't pull it off. 

I'm pretty frustrated by the fact that I can't seem to accept who I am, inside or out. I see myself through the eyes of others, good or bad. And most of that is all in my head. 

Redefining my own beauty must involve setting realistic expectations for myself, even it means giving up all the attention I get when I fail. It must involve offering what I have, not what I wish I could have (like so-and-so does). It must involve looking at my mess of a meal and being proud to serve something that was prepared with so much love and such good intentions. 

The journey continues. 

It's a love thing

Well. Now that I've caught up (mostly) on midterm grading, I can get back on here and let some thoughts out of my head.

So, the seasons have changed, the temperatures have dropped, and the summer clothes have been packed away. I always love getting my fall and winter sweaters out of their boxes. They are so familiar. And yet, this year felt different somehow. I took my sweaters out and had one thought: "Borrrring." I really felt discouraged because I was looking forward to wearing nice, new outfits to work, but all I found in the boxes were...my clothes from last year.

Duh.

For whatever reason, I put a lot more clothes in the donation bag this year than I usually do. And then, of course, I bought a lot more new clothes for this season than I usually do. (But hey--I shop and thrift stores and, when I feel like treating myself to "new" clothes, Target. I'm not exactly breaking the bank.)

I've been thinking a lot about why I felt so bored and discouraged by my wardrobe this year. Even a week after buying some sweaters at the thrift store, I feel like I need to infuse my closet with more color. I want form-fitting pants. I need black boots.

Never before have I been so concerned about what I'm wearing. This has almost reached the point of obsession. The theme of all this is: How can I look more feminine? How can I feel good about myself as a woman?

I thought it was because of my hair loss, that I'm compensating for being bald. But now I think it's much, much deeper. I think I really struggle with feeling worthy. I feel unworthy of attention unless I'm "pretty", undeserving of care unless I'm sick or struggling with some burden, and unworthy of love based on who I am and not how I behave.

I'm not quite sure where this comes from. I grew up in a home with two parents who loved me. We had a lot of issues, true, but I was loved. And I was told that I was loved.

Still, the more I feel unloved inside, the more I try to make the outside look as appealing as possible. By purging my closet and then refilling it over and over, I am actually running away from the real issue: I need to learn to love myself. The outer confidence will come from that inner love. I found this blog that has some tips for ways you can practice thinking of yourself in terms of a person who can be loved:

"How to Love Yourself" from glamdolleaston

The only thing I would add is this:  Inner love will come when I see myself as God sees me--and when I accept that God loves me no matter what.

Secret Selfie

I wore hair the other night. And then I posted a picture of it on Instagram, which also ended up on Facebook:



A friend told me that I was obviously insecure and looking for affirmation.

The funny thing is that I did get a lot more "likes" on this picture than I usually get. Maybe I was just looking for an ego boost because I'm insecure. Or...perhaps I was just playing by the rules.

Facebook is such an interesting world--at least the way I use and experience it. A post about a new hairstyle blows up with 50 likes in a minute, a new baby gets over 100 in the same amount of time, and a homemade flower arrangement gets 17-20. A post about an organization rescuing young girls from the sex trade gets...a few likes. Maybe one share.

I used to get upset about that, but I think now I just accept the fact that Facebook has its uses. For me, it's not a place to get a message across. I've tried--it doesn't work in my circle of "Friends". No--I mostly use it for keeping my mom and sister up-to-date on my latest style (given that I had no style in all my years living at home) and getting sympathy and attention when I need a quick fix. I can get those things either by posting a vague yet clearly distressed status ("Days like this make me want to hop on a bus to Texas, change my name and become a bartender") or, as in the case above, by posting a carefully-crafted picture of myself that I know looks really good. I just pretend I don't know it looks good.

Is that bad? I think about friends and family who have posted "selfies". I recognize that they are putting themselves (or one version of themselves) out there, on display, in a show of vulnerability. They/we are looking for acceptance and confirmation of the beauty we think we see in ourselves. When I post a selfie, I know I will get lots of comments. People are always anxious to tell me how good I look because, well, I'm a bald woman and need a lot of encouragement. So I post a nice-looking picture to get a few oohs and aahs. Sue me.

When we make a change that we feel good about or accomplish something we're proud of, we want to share it. People have always done this--now the audience is just bigger. Rather than asking your man if you look fat in your newest mall purchase, you can ask 400 people at the same time. And they will answer you, because they are looking for meaning in the world of appearances as well.

So yes, it is shallow. But it also speaks to something that runs pretty deep, actually. Something that I write about over and over again. If there were no audience, would we still be posting selfies? Why not? Why do we need to know that someone else will be looking at our picture before we decide to take one? Why not take a selfie just for myself?

That's my challenge for you tonight/today/this week. Take some selfies and don't show anyone. In fact, take your best selfie ever and don't show anyone. At least not for awhile. Appreciate your own beauty without the need to measure it against any standards. Fill yourself with contentment that does not come from outer praise, but from inner recognition of your place in creation (Hint: you are the crowning jewel).

If you come to this place of self-love, then you can post your picture if you want. We will all love it. No one will judge you for posting a picture of yourself just to get attention. We all do it. We all want the world to know what we look like whenever we do something that looks good. Nothing wrong with that...as long as it's not identity-forming.

What A Mess

I had a mommy moment tonight. I had to run out to the pharmacy this evening, and as I was strutting along in my electric blue scarf and T-shirt (my best color), I was feeling pretty good about the looks I was getting. Yes, I thought, I'm one hot momma.

Well, I didn't think that exactly. But I did feel pretty, confident, and young.

Then I happened to look down at my shirt (okay, I was trying to gauge how much I needed to suck in my chili-and-cornbread-belly so people wouldn't think it was a baby bump)--and I had to laugh.

I had big splatters of chili all over it. No wonder I was getting looks....

I have had more of those moments recently. I will be feeling good about how I look, and then I'll go into the bathroom and see that my scarf has gotten all crooked, or I accidentally rubbed the eyeliner off half of one eye, or I only have one earring...or, worst of all, I have some little tiny crust of something right at the tip of my nostril. And then I'm deflated.

But I think moments like these are incredibly important. When I saw what a mess I was tonight, I was reminded of the evening I spent watching my kids try something new for them (but an old family tradition I grew up with--cornbread in a glass of milk), and I knew where my place was. My place is not out in a singles bar or turning heads at a grocery store. It's in my home, eating chili and cornbread with my kids after a day of apple picking and wagon rides.

My place is walking along the lake shore on a blustery fall day, even if it means walking into work with a crooked scarf and crusty leftovers in my nostril.

We are real people. We are not poster images. When we walk to the pharmacy, we are telling the world a story about who we are and how we lived our lives that day. Tonight, I told people that I ate a big meal and didn't feel the need to change my messy clothes in order to please them. I told people that I spent the day outside and got a funny tan line from my scarf and sunglasses.

I bet people envied me.

What story will you tell when you walk out the door tomorrow?

Poor Miley

Okay, I have to say something about Disney Princesses.

Not these:



...these:



...and this one in particular:



I just get so sad looking at her.

Why do Disney child actors, girls in particular, "grow up" by becoming icons of sexual indulgence? They inevitably go to the extreme when it comes to proving their emergence from innocent childhood and appealing to an older audience...although I'm afraid this audience is getting younger and younger.

Growing up means so much more than opening yourself up to sexual activity. Why can't these actors and pop singers prove that they are "all grown up" by demonstrating mature decision-making and intellectual development? I get so disturbed watching the latest performances by Miley Cyrus and Selena Gomez. They are nothing but objects of the media. It's a sick kind of social slavery. They (the singers and the media) know what sells, and unfortunately this ends up perpetuating male-dominant/female-abused behaviors.

I can't place all the blame on the celebrities themselves. We, the consumers, demand the supply of racy, shocking, disturbing, and outright sick displays we see. And the agents working with the stars tell them what to do in order to sell albums and get publicity. Sadly, that's what "talent" means these days--doing whatever is necessary to keep your face in the Twittersphere. (For an even darker explanation, check out this article ("MTV VMAs 2013: It Was About Miley Cyrus Taking the Fall")--but read it critically. I don't actually buy into the specifics of what the author says in this or other works, but I do think the general trend is true.)

I know I'm not saying anything new, and I know there is a lot behind this issue that I haven't addressed. I just want to do a small part to further the counter-cultural message that we, the consumers, don't have to buy this crap. Set Miley free.

Impressions

If you are not a fan of impressionism as an art form, I suggest you go back and take another look. The effect of color, lines, boundaries, shape, light, etc. on our senses is fascinating. It's especially fascinating to discover how different people respond to the same painting or photograph. We often come away with these different impressions because of past experiences, desires, moods, or even distractions. When I look at the works of impressionist painters, I always wonder if the impression I'm getting is the one the artist was hoping to produce.

What impression do you get from the picture above?

It's an edited photograph. It's one of my favorite pictures that I have ever produced. I took it with my iPhone and edited the colors a bit, but the impressionist feel was produced by the mere fact of looking out a rainy window.

I want to tell you the effect I hope this picture has on people, but I won't. Because in the end, it doesn't matter. I enjoy this picture in a particular way, but who am I to impose that on someone else? Neither would I want someone to tell me how a particular song is supposed to make me feel.

You know, I have been thinking of myself as an impressionist lately. I often ask myself, "What impression are you hoping to make on people today?" I might choose a more severe and dramatic set of eyebrows for the day, or a certain pair of shoes. There are countless ways I construct my "look" to produce some kind of overall impression of who I am...or who I want to be. At work, I like to give the impression that I am composed and mature. I find that the clothes best suited for this are buttoned blouses, turtlenecks, shoes with low heels and pointed toes, bracelets, and my scarf in a bun. When I am walking in my neighborhood and want to give off the impression that I belong in the 'hood, I like anklets, a scarf with a long tail down the back, big earrings, maybe a cap over my scarf, and a fairly tight T-shirt.

The gist is, I try to arrange colors and textures in such a way as to give an onlooker a certain impression of reality. I don't have one "look"; I have as many styles as I have moods, fears, hopes, or purposes.

The thing is, I can't totally control what impression people have of me at any given moment. I may try to give off a certain vibe, but it often backfires. I might go into work thinking I look professional, when coworkers end up making comments about how "fashionable" I look, as if I valued that. I might try to look like the consummate sports fan at a Cubs game, but the die-hards around me probably sense my boredom and ignorance as the game goes on.

The lesson in all of this, if there has to be one, is that impressionism is about the artist as much as it is about the onlookers. It is about reflecting some sense of reality that is true for the artist and may find resonance with some viewers. If not, then a new sense of reality can be constructed between and among differing impressions. Not to philosophize fashion, but perhaps we should consider that the act of choosing how we will dress and arrange ourselves every morning is an act of impressionism. And impressionism is simply (or brilliantly) a way to boil details down into the most important sensory experiences.

If you want to make an impression on someone, give them something to experience. Let them see colors that reflect how you see yourself that day. Let your impressionist art be about communicating the core aspects of your "person" rather than the stereotype you are actually trying to stuff yourself into. Allow yourself to be released into a community of onlookers (who are also artists themselves, don't forget) whose impressions of you, no matter how varied or deviant from your intentions, will enrich your human reality and produce empathic responses all around.

So, what impression are you trying to make today? I challenge you to ask that question every day this week.

The Many Faces of Me

My dear uncle-in-law recently gave me the gift of sight.

At a recent family gathering, I saw people huddling over something and pointing, so naturally I was curious. As I got closer, I saw a picture of my face. And then another one. And another.

I took a minute to scan the page, and realized that every one of the hundred or so pictures I was looking at were of me. A dabbler in photography projects, my "uncle" had put together a collage of sorts out of head shots he took from my Facebook page. It was overwhelming at first. Also overwhelming was the fact that everyone had been looking at the page and picking out their favorites before I had even had a chance to see it.

But the more I looked, the more special it became to me. I have often cringed at the sight of many of these photos, but seeing them altogether was different. I was looking at a portrait of a young woman who has a good life. Each picture is a separate memory, but as a whole the pictures come together in this beautiful harmony of features. Rather than pick out my flaws, I'm forced to appreciate the many ways my face can look. I feel as if I can see myself the way others see me. This is a huge breakthrough. I don't know if this makes any sense, so I highly recommend doing a similar project to any of you who have a hard time looking at self portraits. I think you'll find beauty in "you in the context of you".

Here, I share it with you now.

Emergence of a Mean Girl?

I am terrified of my daughter becoming a “mean girl”. Her dad and I have blatantly tried to impose our values upon her, ceaselessly providing opportunities and challenges to appreciate beauty from non-traditional sources. This used to work just fine.

Now, at age seven, our voices are not the only ones she takes in. The voices on the playground are, sadly, louder at the moment. I have been watching this transformation in her, from a believer in the Veggie Tales gospel that “God made you special” to an impressionable social seeker rapidly moving toward the lemming-like tween years. I see her trying to reconcile messages she gets from the trusted adults in her life with messages from friends whose approval means everything right now.
I thought I would have a few more years to prepare for this.

But, here we are. Her behavior is very unpredictable at the moment. One day I catch her speaking with openness and affirmation to girls in a park about her mom, who “has alopecia and that’s why she has no hair”, and the next day I find out that she has made hurtful comments to a dear friend about her appearance. One day she is genuinely befriending a girl with severe facial deformities at her school, and the next day she is playing the “that girl’s scary so let’s run up to her, scream, and then run away" game at the same girl’s expense.

It’s hard to know how her sorting out process is going. Which messages will stick with her? Which will define how she acts and views people around her? She has a kind heart, but she is also desperate to be a normal kid with friends who accept her. What is my role right now as a parent? Do I keep trying to impose a set of values on her as a foundation for the choices she will make later in life? Or do I take a deep breath and a few steps back, allowing her to glean her own wisdom as she witnesses the consequences of her own actions?

This little incident with our friend happened just the other night. Apparently, Esther said something hurtful, and then my friend addressed it by explaining that the comment hurt her feelings. Fine. This is to be expected at my daughter’s age, and I’m glad my friend was able to talk about how the comment made her feel and why it’s not appropriate to repeat.

What is absolutely not fine is that my daughter did, in fact, repeat the comment again, immediately after hearing how it had affected this friend. Maybe she was trying to see how far she could push; maybe she was more interested in watching and learning about our friend’s reaction than in the actual content of the messages; or, maybe she really couldn’t really identify with the fact that her comment had hurt this friend, whom she loves.

After hearing about this, I got my “I can’t believe you did this, because I know you are not this kind of girl” face on, and I let her know, without a doubt, that what she said was not okay. If the conversation had ended after the first comment, I would take a different approach—something like sitting down, asking questions, explaining why the comment was not something we would want to say again, etc. The fact that she said it again after our friend talked to her about it is what concerns me. So, after the lecture, the “mommy’s mad” eyes and the finger wagging, I decided I had better engage her in a different way. I want her to know the seriousness of verbal insults, but I also want to make sure she is developing a worldview in line with the ideals of compassion and justice.

So, I made her draw a picture of our friend. I told her to draw this friend exactly how she (my daughter) sees her. Then I asked her to write “(Name) is beautiful”. Drawing on notes I have taken in therapy sessions, I figured a picture would help to make concrete the abstract notion of using words to build people up rather than tear them down. I wanted her to create an image that she labeled as “beautiful”, not only to associate it with our friend, but also to own the feeling of being able to be a definer of beauty instead of just a judge of it.

This journey is just beginning, I know. The years to come will be filled with similar instances of reconciling two different sets of standards. I have hope in the solid foundation we as parents, along with family and community reinforcement, have given our daughter—and our three-year-old son. I must also look on my daughter with as much compassion as I am asking her to show others. And there’s the rub—because having compassion on my daughter’s emergent “mean girl” tendencies, real or imagined, requires me to have more compassion on the corners of my own self/heart wherein lie similar tendencies.

I haven’t decided whether or not to give the picture my daughter drew to my friend. That forced apology thing (“Now, say you’re sorry, and tell her she’s beautiful”) has never sat well with me. I do want my friend to know what I’m working on with my daughter, but I would like to wait until my daughter draws a picture of our beautiful friend without prompting before giving anything to her.

Raising daughters. Raising little women. Lord, help us.

Princess Overload

The obsession with Disney Princesses in our society is becoming more and more evident to me as I look for topics to write about on my blog. They are ubiquitous, both on the web and on store shelves. I get it. I mean, who wouldn’t want to wear extravagant, colorful gowns and have adventures with talking animals and roguish men all the time?!

What is really fascinating about the Princesses is how many people have tried to reimagine them. By that, I suppose I really mean “re-image” them. As in, give them a new image. I have seen the Princesses bald. Fat. Old. Bespectacled. Depicted as suburban moms. Dressed in historically accurate costumes. Placed in dark settings of human suffering.

Why are so many people spending so much time trying to insert the Princesses into so many different contexts?


(lookmatic.com)


(deviantart.com)


(weheartit.com)


(fanpop.com)


(Dina Goldstein)

No wonder it's so hard to get my daughter to think about something else--anything else--besides Princesses. They are no longer one-dimensional, fairy tale characters. Now, they have walked in our shoes. Or at least we like to think so. We like to imagine the Princesses in less-than-perfect situations--maybe because we so desperately want to believe that the perfection they exude in their original context is really unattainable. If we could see from all other angles, maybe we would realize that we don't have to keep hoping to escape into the world of a Disney Princess.

We want them to step into our lives for awhile, if we can't step into theirs.

Are these re-imaginings helpful? I don't think so. I think they only serve to keep us fixated on these "characters". I appreciate the idea behind all these efforts to humanize the Princesses. Just as I appreciate how the latest Princesses have starred in stories which are about more than just love and marriage. Still, these stories and these new images are all pointing to a particular definition of "beauty"--whether by modeling it or depicting its antithesis.

Lately, I have heard some words coming out of my seven-year-old daughter's mouth that disgust me. I'll just be honest. And I have threatened to take Princesses completely out of the picture for her if I feel they are distorting her perception of others around her. I have allowed Princesses to be part of her life to a certain extent, but I'm discovering how quickly they can become an obsession. An obsession promoted and capitalized on by our culture.

Instead of reimagining the Princesses, I would like to refocus the lens on women (men too, but women in particular) who need to feel a little more brave, beautiful, deserving, talented, adventurous, and all the wonderful qualities celebrated in the Princess archetype. Let's get over the Princesses and the efforts to give them more and more "original" or "realistic" looks, and let's focus on actual reality.

I want my daughter to spend her time appreciating what she sees in real people, not surfing the web to see how many different kinds of Princesses she can see.

I want my daughter to see different body shapes, sizes, colors and ages as equally beautiful parts of a spectrum, not as novelty affectations on a Princesses body that make her giggle and/or sneer.

Most of all, I want my daughter to believe that life is valuable because it is given by God, not because the Princesses have endorsed certain aspects of it.

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 10

Last day of the challenge. How was it for you?

Today's challenge is to repeat this mantra: Everyone sees me, and no one is looking at me.

Assume that everyone takes notice of you. You are not invisible, you are not unappreciated. You have made an impression, however brief, on everyone in your path. People notice the colors you chose, the way you carry yourself, and the confidence you exude.

Also assume that no one is looking at the details you fret over all day. People see you as a whole package, not as the sum of the many flawed parts you tend to focus on. No one is scrutinizing you the way you do yourself.

I hope these daily challenges have helped you to at least acknowledge some of the hangups we all face every day as we go out into a world dominated by narrow definitions of beauty. Repeat them as needed.

You are beautiful.

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 8

We all have features we would rather keep hidden. Freckles we cover up, noses we fix, bellies we suck in. Most of us have one or two body features in particular that we just hate.

I hate my little toes. My pinky toes. The nails don't grow normally. They grow in a pile, on top of themselves. Gross, I know. I have always been very sensitive about my toenails, even waiting until age 28 to get my first pedicure! I have finally gotten to the point where I can wear flip flops without embarrassment, because I have realized that no one looks at or cares about my little toes.

I need to fall in love with my toes. If I can grow to love one of my "worst" features, it should hopefully be that much easier to love the rest of what I see in the mirror.

The challenge for today is to write a love poem to your worst feature. It can be an ode to your crooked nose, a sonnet to the mole on your cheek, a haiku in honor of the knobby knees you try to cover no matter how hot it is outside...whatever.

Here's mine:

My toes,
my toes,
the nails grow
like a rose
in folds
over folds.

My toes,
my toes,
cramped and hidden
in shoes unbidden
you get stuffed into
fittin'.

Come out, little toes,
you're cute like my nose.
Point and wiggle,
and I will giggle
at my toeses,
my roses,
my "I-help-you-goeses".

You're vital,
never idle,
shoes wide'll
be your home.

My toes,
my toes,
no need to change
or nails to rearrange,
for the range
of strangeness
is beauty
to me.

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 5

Someone asked me yesterday why I had changed my Facebook profile picture. I had been using a picture of a drawing my daughter made of me, but I was a little bored and decided to change it to the picture I posted on this blog yesterday. As I talked with this person a little more, we discussed motives for posting certain profile pictures over other ones. We tend to choose really flattering photos to post as the representational images of ourselves. There's nothing wrong with that--we all do it, we all want to put our best face forward, we all want to make a good impression.

As I looked at my photo, I began to see all the ways in which it's actually not very flattering. The bags under my eyes, those protruding lines of my neck, the general paleness...I'm laughing about it now, but catch me on the wrong day and that picture could actually make me cry. It's not my most flattering picture. If I wanted to impress people, I might post this picture:



I have a beautiful dress on, great hair, and shadows on my face to hide the bags under my eyes! Well, sort of...

But that's not always how I look, obviously. I'm afraid to post a profile picture that really shows people how I look "at home", which is not always so flattering. Here's one my daughter snapped of me while I was playing with my son:



Yeah, not so great. I would never post that as my profile picture.

But, it is a picture of me; therefore, it is beautiful. Every picture of every person must be beautiful. We are beautiful in design, beautiful in how we move, beautiful when we are living. I just can't always see that.

My challenge for us today is to find unflattering pictures of ourselves and look at them until we find them beautiful. I don't care if it takes ten seconds or ten minutes--get to know yourself from all sides and angles, see the beauty of any shape and pose, and redefine what a "flattering" photo looks like. You don't have to go so far as to post one of these as your profile picture, but it might be freeing to do so eventually. Find a picture of yourself that makes you chuckle when you remember what was going on when it was snapped, and post it as a representation of a life-giving memory rather than as the face you want people to see.

But that might take some leading up to. For now, just have courage to look at those pictures which you usually pass over or hide behind others in the album. Stay with them until they are beautiful to you. When you get to this point, chances are good that you will finally be seeing them the way others do: without judgment.

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge-Day 2

Today's challenge is going to be a tough one for me.

I cannot pass a mirror without looking at myself. I am so afraid I will have something in my teeth, hanging from my nose, or somehow embarrassing me in any number of ways that I am constantly checking and double-checking. I also like to see my pretty face, because I lived for a long time thinking that I didn't quite have what it would take to be the kind of pretty that people recognized. I live in the tension between being exceedingly vain and painfully insecure.

When I look in a mirror, I either waste time scrutinizing every detail to see what needs to be fixed, or I walk out waiting for heads to turn because I think I look so good. Either way, I am preoccupied with how I think others will see me. Really, I am preoccupied with trying to accept the way I look and reconcile that image with who I know myself to be.

I challenge all of us to go the entire day without looking at our reflection in a mirror, window, toaster, iPhone, spoon, or friend's sunglasses. After we get ourselves ready in the morning, let's go out and live our day with no clue as to how we look! Mirrors are distorted most of the time, anyway. I think this may free our minds to dwell on others a little more than ourselves. It will also free us to focus on our choices and relationships, rather than holding our head a certain way so that our hair, or scarf, stays the way we painstakingly arranged it that morning.

Good luck! And don't be hard on yourself if you find yourself sneaking a peek--it's a hard habit to break. Just glance at yourself, get your bearings back, and move on.


(Image taken from: www.fengshuicrazy.net)

Stains

This is one of my biggest pet peeves:



Stains. Especially on brand new clothes. Especially after pulling said clothes out of the dryer with the sinking realization that the stain I treated so carefully in the wash is now set in the fabric forever.

Stains really, really bother me. When my daughter was a baby, I lived in an apartment where the laundry room was in another courtyard, across a parking lot. I usually skipped the trip and washed my baby's clothes by hand in my tub. I got that Baby Oxyclean powder(amazing stuff!!) and soaked her onesies in a bowl on my kitchen counter, then scrubbed them with detergent in the tub, wringing them out for what seemed like hours before draping them over the drying rack by the back door. If I saw that a spit up stain (or worse) had not come all the way out, I repeated the whole process over again, adding even more Oxyclean and soaking the garment for even longer.

Those days are over, thank God.

Now I have a washer and dryer at my disposal, right in my kitchen! I can literally do laundry while taking a carton of ice cream out of the freezer. Not that I've ever done it.

I find that the convenience of having my own washer and dryer has really dampened the energy and motivation I once had for treating stains. That, and the acceptance I've had to muster as I watch my kids paint every surface of the house, our furniture, and their clothes with mango juice, yogurt, BBQ sauce, ketchup, salad dressing...you get the idea.

Oddly, stains from bodily excretions come out way easier than BBQ sauce. Well thank goodness for that.

Now that my kids are older and more active, I have dirt and grass stains to deal with along with food stains. I quickly saw the futility of trying to keep new kids' clothes pristine for any length of time. So, stained they come in and stained they go back out.

BUT...not only do they stain their clothes, they also have the audacity to give me a hug during dinnertime and get some greasy, oily substance on a shirt I happen to really love. I know, serves me right for wearing anything of any value to a dinner table where kids are present.

My immediate reaction when I pull a stained shirt of mine out of the dryer is to throw it in a bag destined for the thrift store donation center. I can't look sloppy, after all. By some twisted logic in my head, there are people out there who wouldn't mind looking sloppy and buying my stained shirt for a couple dollars.

Why am I so repelled by stains? If my husband has a stain on his shirt, I get totally grossed out. He doesn't mind wearing the same shirt in the evenings at home for a week or two straight. He knows the shirt is dirty, and he knows that attempting to keep it clean is a total waste of time for him. He knows I am the only person who will see it. For him, the shirt signifies play time, a relaxing evening at home after a day in Corporate Land, perpetual snacking, and freedom to be who he wants and spend time on things that matter.

For me, his shirt signifies mess. Unkempt, slovenly mess.

Why?! Stains don't hurt. They have stories. They are like scars, except the getting of them likely caused less pain.

I heard a sermon once about living "disposable" lives. Some of us are used to trashing that which is broken and replacing it with something new. Like a toaster or a pair of shoes. How many of us take the time to mend what is broken and continue allowing that object (relationship, self image, etc.) to keep its proper place in the world and function as it was meant to function? I feel like seeing stains on my clothing wouldn't repel me so much if I were the type of person who was comfortable with imperfection and conflict.

Instead, I can't focus on anything else once I have seen a stain. I can't rest until it's either cleaned or taken out of my house. Do I do the same thing with people?

I certainly see my own "stains" all too clearly. And I try to conceal them, or I live in the angst of wanting to trade in one "suit" for a new one. If I see a stain in someone else, that mark (not without its own story, mind you) can grow in my mind's eye and come to characterize that person. It can be hard to see around the stain and take in the whole person.

Well, I am daring myself to keep my stained clothing...and wear it out. Some might say this is disrespecting myself. I'm not planning to go out in total filth; I just want to free myself from the false perfection I hide behind when it comes to my clothing. I don't want to be so careful about keeping mess off of me, because mess is where life happens.

Shapes

LOVE YOURS!! There's no changing it. Not really. The world is full of interesting and beautiful shapes. An apple may wonder what it's like to be a tree once in awhile. A pear may look at a Coke bottle with envy. But the shapes do not, cannot, will not change. Thank goodness. Shapes are wondrous. Your shape is your boundary, the space you carve out so uniquely. The images here are merely types. You are more than a "type". You are a shape with its own name, original lines and curves that defy "types". Love your shape.

The Creature Behind the Wall

This is what my life has looked like recently:



Literally, I had to re-caulk the tub in one of our bathrooms. I think I did an okay job, considering who I am. Not good with my hands, always rushing to do things without reading the directions carefully, easily frustrated, etc. But I managed to apply what I believe to be a nice seal around the tub. Not a perfectly straight line, but a nice seal.

Here's the problem:



This is the shower in my other bathroom. The one I use everyday. I took off the old caulk and found cracks in the stone around the base of the shower. So I stuck my blow dryer in there in an attempt to dry any excess water before I applied the new caulk.

After leaving the stall alone for two days, there is still water. Seeping out ever so slowly from behind that wall, insidiously wetting the very area I am trying to cover and protect. And, I'm afraid, ominously but quietly revealing a much bigger problem behind the wall. Can you say toxic black mold?

Who knows, maybe the problem is not as serious as I'm fearing. But...maybe it is. And I'm just waiting for the sealant in that first bathroom to come off as the water that's probably behind that wall makes its escape too.

Now that this is beginning to sound like a sermon illustration, you can probably guess that I'm not just talking about caulking. (Hee hee...)

This blog sometimes feels like the first picture: a nice patch job. A do-it-yourself remedy for feeling down about my looks. A feel-good sealant that gives me the illusion of wholeness and health, and looks pretty on the outside. I feel like I have done something productive, something that will stop mold from growing.

But what's really behind it? When everything gets stripped away and I am faced with that second picture, I have to admit that this is not a quick fix. It's not even something I can do by myself, no matter how many "how to" books I read or tools I buy at the hardware store. The problem is not on the surface, though that certainly needs to be cleaned up. The problem is deep. That flow of water doesn't need to be dried with a hair dryer just enough for me to cover it with sealant. It needs to be completely evaporated from inside the wall, and I may even need to have someone come in and take whole sections out, replacing them with new and toxin-free material.

I started this blog as a way to process my self-image issues. But after all thus time, I still have deep-seated insecurities and sadness about myself as a person. And I have to admit that the problem is significant enough to require more help than I was prepared to ask for.

I was recently diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. Moderate, they're calling it. "Moderate" is just one level down from "severe". I balked at this diagnosis at first. Depression? Me? I know I have anxiety, but I don't sit around and cry all the time.

It turns out that depression can look different in different people. Who knew? For me, apparently it looks like constantly feeling inadequate, guilty, and deserving of punishment just for being myself. I see myself as a failure. This goes beyond self-image issues. This is something that requires doctors, medication, therapy...and prayer.

But I feel hopeful. This is like the good feeling I have when I peel away moldy caulk that I know is polluting my environment, even in a small way. It's disgusting, but it feels so good to strip it off and watch it get tossed into the garbage. It feels so good to rinse mold and mildew down the drain forever. It feels so good to wipe my kid's nose and know that he can breathe better. As gross as it is.

So I cringe at having to face this inner toxic mold, but I also know that I didn't cause it. We live in a world where mold grows and brain chemistry gets out of balance. It can be treated and often remedied, but it can't just be patched up.

(Not) So Easily Deflated

(Image from www.karipatterson.com)

Air comes out of a balloon so much easier than it goes in, leaving it crumpled and shapeless; stretched thin and fallen. It once floated, weightless with its own purpose, but as it loses its air over and over again, its skin wears thin, eventually giving way to a hole. Then it can never fly.

I feel like that purple balloon. Once in awhile I come to a point of inflation--a point where I fill up with positive feelings about myself and I soar upwards. But all too soon, a critical comment just sucks all the air out of me and I crumple.

I received some very subtle criticism in passing today, and I just withered. I'm sure the person who made the comment didn't think twice about it. He wasn't getting personal, he was just trying to be efficient (no, this did not happen in my home...this is a work thing). But I ended up feeling how I so often do when I get even a little bit of criticism: like an immature kid with no common sense. From then on, I doubted my work, my decisions, my ability to live well as an adult.

Why should one little comment, which some people would probably not even see as a criticism, do such a number on my self-image? Why can I only see myself the way I imagine other people see me? And I imagine that other people are either wondering how I have lived so long with so little brain, or are totally in love with me.

In the words of Beyoncé, "I got a big ego".

I need to deflate-proof my balloon; fortify it with truths about who I am, regardless of bad decisions I make or accidents I have. I need to see myself as unshakeable because I have been fashioned from material that is divinely planned, crafted and protected.

Actually, now I'm seeing the image of a hot air balloon, fed by a source that will keep me rising and traveling to places of new opportunity.


(Image from www.hotairballoonridescolorado.com)

May you, beautiful reader, not be so easily deflated.

Time to Go on a Diyet?

A friend of mine forwarded a link to me today, and when I clicked on it I saw this:



At first, it reminded me of another image I saw on another friend's Pinterest board:


So at first I though it was a hoax--a writer using child-like penmanship in order to illustrate a point and garner some attention about an issue.

But as I read on, I became convinced it was true. A seven-year-old wrote that list. And her mom is naturally very angry at society for upholding the values we do concerning appearance and beauty, which eventually led to this little girl making such a list.

Apparently the girl heard about this "diyet" from a friend at school. Who knows how the friend heard about it. Maybe she has a big sister who reads teen magazines.

I understand the mother's frustration. I, too, am worried that I will be forced to talk about issues with my young daughter that she really shouldn't have to deal with until she's much older.

I might try to look at it another way, though. Maybe these girls are writing about "diyets" because they have read about them and they seem like important, grown-up things to emulate. Like when a kid writes a "menu" and takes your order, or "writes a check" to pay for toys in their room.

But let's say these girls are taking this seriously. This mom did exactly the right thing and talked to her daughter about the beauty of her body just the way it is. I also suggest having the friend over and doing some activities that will get counter-cultural messages across.

But the real issue here is that little girls are taking their bodies very seriously. They are learning how to put on makeup, accessorize, dance and walk in ways that make them feel grown up. Because our culture tells them that their value lies in how much attention they can get for their looks.

This mom was questioning her choice to let her daughter play with a Barbie doll. I've been there, making the choice between giving in to my daughter's wishes for pretty playthings and trying to substitute her desired object with something less damaging for her self image.

I let her have a Barbie.

Because ultimately, I think balance is key. I let her have a Barbie, but instead of a Barbie video for Christmas I got her a Veggie Tales movie about true beauty. I think it's okay for little girls to learn from an early age how to take their of their bodies. I think it's okay for them to be affirmed in their desire for "prettiness". The problem comes when we limit the idea of "prettiness" to a Barbie doll or Disney princess. Another problem comes when we indulge them in their desire to grow up too fast. We womanize and sexualize our little girls because we think it's so cute that they look like little ladies.

Look at this swimsuit from Target:


It starts at size 4. Some moms probably think their 4-year-olds look darling in this little mini bikini. Let's face it, a woman's body is very pleasing to look at. Fine. But is the idea of a woman's body so alluring that we must project it onto little girls?

I haven't even addressed the issue of sports, dance, gymnastics and pageants for little girls. Again, balance is key. We as a society tend to keep pushing the envelope--maybe part of our "westward expansion" mentality. We could stand to sit back and let things be.

I'd love your reactions and thoughts.