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.