I don’t know what it is about music that is so transcendent,
but nothing is better at drawing me out of my own head than words set to song.
When I’m crazy, on-the-verge-of-losing-it, I like to drive
in the car with the audio at full blast. Somehow when the music is obnoxiously,
almost painfully loud, it helps soothe me. (It’s less soothing when I have passengers
with me, but thankfully, that’s been rare.)
I think the music makes me feel smaller, in a good way. The
way I feel when I’m watching waves crash onto the shore, or stars alone
lighting an otherwise black sky.
When I remember I’m a small part in a very grand universe,
it becomes a lot easier to let go of the weight of the world. And I’m thankful
for that.
Last week was hard, in a lot of different ways, like turn
the volume all the way up and yell at the radio, instead of singing along,
hard.
I felt isolated with my worries, and powerless to change
anything, much less fix anything.
But it was punctuated by something really amazing, something
I needed much more than I realized as we loaded up the car.
My sister and I drove (she drove, graciously!) 4 hours last
weekend to see a music festival in the tiny town of Guthrie, Oklahoma.
There
were tons of bands there, only a handful of which we actually got to see, after
parking nightmares and eating our weight in barbecue.
But even as a backdrop on our weekend, listening to Pandora
in the car, and to local bands perform as we explored antique stores downtown, I
was reminded how much a part of my life music is.
More importantly, I was made aware how much of a bigger part I wished it played.
Day to day it’s much easier to listen to other noises
instead. The kind that come along, uninvited. The dishwasher running, and cars honking…
my work phone ringing, or me hearing its phantom ring taunt me in a moment of
silence.
It’s all NOISE.
And it’s all I hear most days.
But sometimes, when I remember to withdraw for a moment of
quiet, of solitude, I hear the music creating a subtle soundtrack to my life.
The conversation hits a lull, and I notice a song playing in
the restaurant. I’ve never heard it before, and may never hear it again, but it
seems familiar somehow. It makes me feel at home.
It invites me up into the bigger story that’s happening, the
one beyond hasty dollar store runs and hospital visits.
Yes. Letting the music bathe over me reminds me that so much
of the bigger picture I can’t always see is beautiful. And what a shame it
would be to let the tough or dark points overshadow all that good.
Did I mention that concert we drove to was Mumford and Sons?
Most people love or hate them, it seems. I don’t know many
bands so polarizing. And I get that not everyone is into alt-folk music; it’s
not everyone’s cup of organic tea so to speak.
But man are they good musicians, like world-class,
incredibly talented musicians.
That’s not what drew me to drive (ride) four hours to see them
though. It might have gotten me to buy their CD, but it wasn’t reason enough to
stand in a crowded field on a humid Saturday night, covered in red dirt and
sweat.
What drew me to see them was this.
Seeing moms and their teenage sons both delighting in a
single song … witnessing bonafide hippies and hipsters, all sitting on blankets
in the middle of a field… watching people raise their hands, and clap along,
and laugh, and cheer, and I’m sure cry… that is why I wanted to be there.
That is why I needed
to be there.
I needed to be surrounded by people that had driven in from all different states, each leaving behind troubles of their own, that wanted to
escape from the noisy world for a while.
People longing to be ushered into something beautiful.
Something bigger than car maintenance, and time cards, and Intensive Care.
For an hour or so we got to be part of a unified community.
We got to close our eyes, and be swept up into a bigger story,
one musicians tell us about with words and melodies.
It's the kind of story artists paint about. And novelists write
about.
And occasionally, good preachers preach about.
And the weary, worn-out dream about.
No one musician, or artist, holds the rights to it, because no one will ever fully describe it.
But all the good ones point to it.
And the really good ones invite us to be a part of it.
And I love them for that. I am sooo grateful for that.
'Cause I need it, so much more than I realize most days.
I need to be one, of thousands, lost in a moment.
Lost in a melody.
When I’m happy nothing’s better than humming a cheerful song
all day.
And when I’m sad nothing helps like a songwriter totally
commiserating, and articulating, my emotional experience.
Loud and upbeat, or soft and slow… music always makes me feel less alone.
And ultimately, I think that’s all any of us really wants.
And on her cheeks, while hooked up to all those monstrocities.
They’re doing the things a body should.
Things her body was able to do, just hours
before.
But now she lies there, paralyzed not by circumstance but by
fear of the pain.
With flushed cheeks, and strained movements, and a fear in her
eyes I’ve never seen before.
Red.
Why God? She loves you.
Never has a woman loved you more.
She talks about you, with the nurses, with her guests.
She talks about you, and your will being done, and how you
have the power to heal, but that she’ll accept whatever lot in life you give
her.
Right now her lot is a mechanized bed, one filled with
scratchy sheets, and so many tubes, and she doesn’t have to say it.
I can see in her face she’s angry.
Still, she praises you.
That
one little fall could land her here…
I'm frustrated for her.
She says she went short on her quiet time the morning it
happened.
She blames herself.
But I blame you.
Why God?
Are you as angry as you seem?
So spiteful you would pick on someone already small, and
frail?
I don’t want to believe it.
I don’t want to feel it.
But I look out the window at a sea of cityscape and back in,
to nurses scuttling, and people struggling, and my heart aches.
The world is not as it should be.
Why, why God, don’t you intervene?
Please tell me you’re not a vengeful God, that strikes old women
down because they prayed for 30 minutes instead of an hour.
Tell me you’re not a tyrant, doing as you will, with
no regards for all the lives you’ve created, seeming pawns in a cruel cosmic game.
Tell me you see her, and hear her faint prayers as she
drifts into a medicated sleep.
Tell me you hear me, and the words unspoken, behind my own
tears and worries.
I am pleading for justice. And mercy.
But most of all for grace.
And I’m begging you to tell me you’re not at all the God the
televangelists have painted you to be.
Nor the meek shepherd hanging on so many wood-planked church
walls.
Tell me you’re more than the light we’ve seen you in before.
Tell me you’re greater, and gentler, than the Old Testament
stories used to bash gays and push political ideologies.
Tell me anything, God.
Say anything, God.
That I might not walk away from another hospital room, so
angry with you.
- 30 -
I haven't been able to write much lately. And what I have scratched out I've lacked the confidence to post.
I've had a hard time articulating to friends and family how I feel too, so these weekly free-writing exercises have been something of a life-saver, forcing me to examine my thoughts, instead of running from them.
I'm thankful they've forced me to ask the questions ever tiptoeing on my tongue, instead of keeping my mouth shut, silently choking on all that is unsaid.
This, apparently, is a raw season for me. A season of painfully slow growing and struggling to move forward, out of the stagnant waters I've been wading in.
For my praying friends, I hope you'll keep me in yours, and more importantly my family as my grandmother - ever a fighter! - begins rehabilitation after a hip replacement surgery.
It's gonna be a strange, winding road. But I hope to share it with you.
Not all of it, mind you, but just enough that those of you on the same dark path might know you're not alone.
My dad, very subtly, left a book for me this morning.
The chapter titles weren't appealing, but one did catch my eye.
Chapter Twelve: The Wisdom of God.
I'm still digesting what it said, but I'll leave you with the words that jumped out at me as I had my daily cup this morning.
"Wisdom, among other things, is the ability to devise perfect ends and to achieve those ends by the most perfect means. It sees the end from the beginning, so there can be no need to guess or conjecture. Wisdom sees everything in focus, each in proper relation to all, and is thus able to work toward predestined goals with flawless precision.
All God's acts are done in perfect wisdom, first for His own glory, and then for the highest good of the greatest number for the longest time. And all his acts are as pure as they are wise, and as good as they are wise and pure. Not only could His acts not be better done: a better way to do them could not be imagined. An infinitely wise God must work in a manner not to be improved upon by finite creatures."
- A.W. Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy (italics mine)
Since my sister introduced me to Pinterest about two years
ago I have gone through spurts of using it like an addict, then avoiding
it like the plague. (Thanks Jessie.)
In theory it is a perfect tool for keeping my desktop from
becoming a dumping ground of screenshots of things I’d like to purchase (when I
win the lottery I don’t play) or blog links for recipes I will try (if I ever get
less scared of working unsupervised in the kitchen).
But in reality, instead of neatly corralling my own
inspiration, I’m far too often guilty of using it almost exclusively to stalk
the things filling other people’s electronic “inspiration boards.”
In reality, I gorge on ideas how to make my home pretty, while overlooking practical things like keeping it clean.
I watch, like a hawk, to see what other people are deeming
trendy, stylish, helpful, important, from fashion fixes to pallet furniture, and
food facials to family advice.
And as a result I OD on the inspiration, instead of doing anything useful with it. I pin and pin and pin, 'til I'm exhausted and disapointed that I've wasted yet another evening, without trying any one of those "genius," even "life-changing" tips I pinned.
It’s gotten so bad – at points – that my husband has
threatened to schedule a “Pintervention.”
And I couldn’t blame him if he tried, OCD as I’ve been about making it through the latest “Popular” posts.
But his concern, and my disappointment, haven't stopped me from logging on and loading up on ideas, ideas of what I think my life should look like.
Even when I realize I’m seeing the same three pins over and
over, or perplexed at how obsessed people are with Olivia Polermo (wasn’t she
just a backup star on The Hills?)… I have a hard time pulling away from the
draw that is Pinterest.
The time-suck alone should be cause for alarm.
But there's an even bigger problem that lurks beneath the 8,000 pins and 20,000 likes I've accumulated. A problem bigger than the time I've lost, and the overwhelmed feeling I get when I overdo it, combined.
It's the lie I buy into when I fail to realize what Pinterest really is.
It's not a peek into other people's lives. It's not an honest look at anyone else's existence.
It's a goal sheet, a shopping list, a bulletin board at best.
And, at its worse, it's a smoke screen hiding real life behind expertly lit photographs.
Pictures that tell half truths, the best parts, of other people's stories.
While highlighting the negatives in your own existence.
Seeming to pinpoint all the places your life should be, and could be, so much better.
When I log on to Pinterest I’m not actually
seeing people’s practical small kitchen storage solutions. I’m seeing a
stylized shoot put on by a woman with unlimited resources, like diva Martha Stewart.
I’m not actually learning how to affordably update my fall
wardrobe. I’m being bombarded with “Must Have” buys, many that bloggers are
endorsing (in spite of astronomical pricetags) because those items have been
C/Oed to them.
And I love Martha's tips. And I think it's great - incredible - when bloggers are able to earn a living - or fabulous shoes! - doing what they love.
But for readers (like myself) it becomes dangerously easy to confuse a highlight reel of other people's fashion choices, home decor, and dinner offerings... for what life needs to look like in order to be good.
What's a girl without Coach shipping her free sunglasses supposed to do?
It's not like the idea behind Pinterest is new. Or that this dilemma - of wanting what other people have, but really just wanting your own life to look prettier, neater, easier! - has only existed as long as the internet.
HARDLY! I'm sure there were cave women discussing who wore the tiger skin best.
But I do think the more accessible, the more pervasive "inspiration" becomes, the harder it becomes to be present - and content - with where we are and what we have.
The more time we spend overloading our brains with ways to make our lives "better," the less time we spend enjoying, and being grateful, for how good they already are.
Please don't get me wrong. I really like Pinterest, and I know some people use it incredibly well (the way it was intended I'm sure).
I LOVE getting ideas, like how to maximize under-the-bed
storage. It’s why I have a four-foot tall stack of home magazines I just can’t
seem to let go.
I LOVE finding ways to rework my favorite shirts, and
dresses, into fun new outfit combinations.
I LOVE learning how to turn crayons and a hair dryer into unique art to fill my home, or how to transform dishwashing soap into an awesome, affordable Christmas present.
But the percentage of time I spend actually doing those
things, compared to how much time I spend envying the lives I think other people lead – based on
carefully curated pins – is sad. And really quite scary.
Because even though I know way better, I too often buy into the
lie, that what I see on Pinterest is real life for everyone but messy, frazzled
me.
And then I start worrying that my life is not as good as I once thought, because I don't own a Cost Co-sized tub of coconut oil, or because I have to improvise and use a fruit basket as a drying rack after baking one of the 90 bread loaf recipes I pinned.
With Pinterest, but really anytime I choose to start the nasty comparison cycle, the best of what others are presenting becomes the standard
to which I compare my whole life.
And I become obsessed with finding fancier ways of storing extra toilet paper, instead of doing practical things, like washing my clothes (with store bought detergent) or putting away my off-trend dishes.
The ironic thing is that Pinterest itself will tell you, and I’ve told you before,
as I've told myself many times…
I think deep down we all know it, that no one wins in the comparison game.
But it doesn't stop us from playing, or from getting carpal tunnel syndrome from pinning. So what will put an end to the madness? What will finally stop the vicious cycle?
Last week a bit of a revelation happened for me when I realized that the reason I often feel sad when I’m logging off of
Pinterest isn't because I’m sad to say goodbye to an “App” (one that too often
monopolizes my life).
It’s because after perusing so much "inspiration," I’m no longer satisfied by the wonderful things
in my life. I’m too distracted by all
the things I feel l need
to be truly happy, like all those other people must be.
No wonder the days I avoid it altogether I’m often happier
and more content with where I am, whether it's eating at a much-loved downtown restaurant, or enjoying a cheap frozen pizza on an ugly
couch with my very cute husband.
Even knowing it, though, it's hard not to open that app. The pull is strong, with that one. Pinterest, you don't know what you do to me.
As a sometimes recovering, sometimes full-blown, neurotic perfectionist, I know all too well how hard it can be to kick a bad habit. And I think it is particularly tough when the product itself isn't inherantly bad, as is the case with my love-it-hate-it Pinterest.
But that's why in this case I feel the solution isn't to go cold turkey, or accept my addiction.
Instead I'm trying really hard to rethink how I use it. And I'm training myself to use it as a tool once again, instead of a distraction, or a vice.
If I’m honest with myself - and you - the reason I haven’t written more
lately isn’t because I haven’t had things to share, or the time to do it.
It’s because I have been embarrassed that my blog isn’t expertly designed, or supported by sponsors like Ruche and J.Crew.
I've loaded up on inspiration from other bloggers, and ended up feeling inadequate, unworthy.
I've worried that because my voice isn’t succinct, or hysterical,
I must not have anything of worth to say.
I've worried that because I lead a very simple, small life, my story might not matter.
So I haven't said much. I've given in to the fears. The fears created by comparing. Fears that do nothing but keep me from being my best, boldest self.
And it saddens me so, that I've wasted so much time. Comparing. Cowering. Critizing myself.
Not because the world can't live without another blog, but because I need what I have tried to create in this space.
I need a chance to sort through feelings, and celebrate small victories.
I need to make my voice heard, the best way I know how, which right now is through this blog, this imperfect, maybe design-dated, but very personal, and very special to me, blog.
You may or may not care to know that I’m writing this post from a quaint little coffee shop, that
happens to be located in the nearest grocery store, and isn't actually quanit at all.
I thought being here would
make me feel more creative, more inspired, than doing it from that ugly couch I
mentioned before.
But honestly, the elevator music they’re playing sucks. And
I have a horrible view of the Mohawk-ed barista actin’ a fool behind the
counter.
This isn’t at all what I’d hoped for, when I left the house today.
But I’m so glad to be here, with a pretty good latte and the
time I needed to do this. Because, I needed to do this. For myself mostly, but
maybe for you too.
I needed to say enough with the comparison. It’s time to get
real.
And I think it's fitting I'm doing so in the greener grass I thought this coffee shop would be, only to realize all I really want is to be home. All I really want is to be back in my home, a place I belong, and frankly, a place I don't have to ask a stranger to watch my laptop in order to go pee.
Honestly, friends - and people who may have stumbled here from a technorati link (I still don't know what those are) - I’m a 29-year-old woman who gets most of my clothes when I
have the Kohl’s cash to cover them, or when Target goes red-sticker clearance.
My favorite meal of late is a turkey bacon sandwich. It’s
not fancy, or complicated. But it is delicious, and it’s not a Double
Cheeseburger (which for me is progress).
I work for wonderful people at a job that sometimes drives
me crazy.
And I still haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up.
But today I feel great knowing, finally, that I don’t want to be the bloggers I read
everyday, though I admire them so.
I just want to be me. Cheesy as that sounds.
I just want to be who I am, who I really am.
Less apologetically.
I am a woman that hates drying dishes, and my hair.
A daughter to parents that I don’t call often enough (Hi!).
A
sister that reaches out mostly to talk about Lifetime movies.
And a friend that
buys wonderful birthday gifts then forgets to mail them (text me Wyndi).
A wife that isn’t a ton of help in the kitchen, but
likes laughing through the learning.
And a writer still finding my voice, after years and years of trying.
Basically, my name is Jennifer. I’m a Pinterest-aholic. It’s been about
two hours since my last pin. And I’ve never been happier.
This is another in a series of post inspired by the Love Yourself Linkup founded by Anne the Adventurer. I'm so grateful for the challenge to dig a little deeper, and accept myself - and my life - more wholeheartedly.
Thanks ladies for inspiring me with your words and your bravery. But thanks even more for the push to join in on the movement, instead of watching from the sidelines.
Several weeks ago I shared why I love What Not to Wear. And I
do.
And I hope others will watch the show, ‘cause it sends a great message to
women, about self-acceptance.
But this week it’s time to get a little more personal.
(After a long time of being a wuss and sharing absolutely nothing at all.)
If I’m ever going
to grow into the woman I want to become I have to start somewhere.
And this seems small and silly. But it is still a start.
This is my start.
I have never had great self-image, like ever.
I have never had a lot of self-confidence in general. But
I’ve always been particularly insecure about my looks.
Since the tender age of ten or so, I’ve been self-conscious
and awkward in my own skin.
I’ve been quick to pinpoint every perceived flaw, and dwell
on it. With vigor.
I’ve also been extremely slow to find the beauty with my own
body, this flesh vessel I’ve been given, (the only one I’ll get).
Instead of trying to make the most of it, I’ve taken it for
granted or full-out-loathed it for much of my life.
I’ve longed to be different, thinner, prettier. (Which is unfortunately pretty common I think.)
What I haven’t done is accept myself for who I am.
Or, take steps toward overall health, instead of unreasonable expectations.
I’m a perfectionist
by nature, a trait that’s served me well at school and work.
But this same trait that’s driven me to do my best in many
aspects of life, has been completely debilitating in other areas.
It makes it hard for me to tackle any project or goal I
think I might fail at, for example.
Worse, it makes it hard for me to accept any imperfections,
most especially when it comes to myself.
From admitting I needed glasses (thick ones I might add) in
first grade, to realizing I would never be able to achieve Victoria
Secret-esque cleavage, or squeeze my hips into a size 5...
I have always felt like I fell short of the standard, the
ideal of beauty, be it the prettiest girl in school or the models seeming to
mock me from the pages of Seventeen.
By sophomore year of high school I was as thin as my frame
would permit (thanks to keeping busy with things like basketball and tennis).
But even then I wasn’t happy with my body.
My hips were too big, my boobs too small.
Thus began (really continued) the negative self-image story of my life.
I also started dressing better that year (meaning not in oversized
sweatshirts clad with cartoon characters). But I still felt slobby and
unstylish, especially compared to my designer-wearing peers.
Even wearing makeup, (Bonne Bell lipgloss and the like) did little to improve how I felt about myself.
Not only were my blemishes still apparent. My flaws were pretty much all I saw, when I looked in the mirror.
I felt plain on my good days.
And downright ugly on my worst days.
What I never felt, and desperately desired to, was beautiful.
I wanted to believe I was beautiful.
But I didn't.
Instead I tortured myself with "ifs."
I would be cute IF I lost ten pounds, or IF I could find a true miracle bra.
I would be pretty IF I found a better foundation. BUT still not as beautiful as my best friend, or Britney Spears.
I just wanted to be beatiful. Period. Without any qualifiers.
I wanted to hear that. But I needed to feel that.
Instead, I was my own worst critic, scrutinizing everything about myself I wished was different. (And turning down any compliments that came my way.)
It's a wonder I don't look like Eyeore in all of my yearbook pictures, as hard on myself and void of hope as I was.
I just couldn’t see anything in myself worth paying
attention to, anything that would cause a boy to turn his head, or my peers to
want to put a crown on mine.
And really, that perception of my outside reflected the fact
that inside I didn’t feel much better about myself.
Because I wasn't perfect, whatever perfect looked like at the time (probably Jennifer Aniston as Rachel on Friends, but a devout Christian who knew the New Testament by heart, wore a purity ring, and more modest clothing).
Because I didn't fit that bill, I didn’t feel like there was much about
me worth noticing, much less admiring.
And because of that, I started to feel like I didn't have a lot to give the world.
(I felt like that for a very long time.)
Because I was disappointed with what I saw in the mirror, but also fearful of trying to improve my looks and still falling short of anything less than perfection, I wasn’t apt to try too hard at improving my appearance.
Why bother, I figured.
The only thing worse than being unattractive, is looking like you're trying not to be, I reasoned.
In fact, trying, in my mind, was almost synonymous with failing.
So in a lot of ways, my formative years, were about teaching myself to give up.
I wanted desperately to be noticed, to be deemed beautiful.
But I was also terrified of being found out.
If anyone looked too closely I was convinced they’d see all
the ugly imperfections I saw.
So I resisted the urge to stand out, to make any real attempts at feeling beautiful.
And instead I
resolved myself to live in the background, to be content with hiding out in the
shadows (or the ill-lit halls of my high school at least).
If people did pay attention to me, I tried my best to keep them at arm's distant. I didn't want them looking close enough to see all the flaws I focused on daily.
If someone paid me a compliment, I prepared myself to be the butt of a cruel joke, or bet (see every Teen Movie made in the 90's).
And because I felt alone with those feelings, and because I
thought things would never get better, I developed methods of coping with my insecurities (instead of digging
to the root of them, the way I should have done).
I learned to be funny (or to try to be funny anyways). I found
people were grateful for my attempts at good humor.
I learned to be sweet, soft-spoken and low-maintenance. Since I knew I’d never be the pretty friend, I figured I
could at least be the one with the “good personality.”
Mostly, though, I learned to hide.
I hid first under layers of clothing, and then makeup, and then busyness.
I hid by being quiet, or telling jokes.
I hid by being adaptable, always letting other people
take the lead.
And in teaching myself how to hide, I learned, sadly, to be less of myself.
Less secure. Less opinionated. Even less
confident (which I wouldn't have thought possible).
I learned to fade into the background, which was what I had wanted.
I thought I would feel safe there.
But becoming nearly invisible didn't accomplish what I had hoped.
I didn't feel any safer or happier in the hiding, than I had in the open.
I only felt even more alone. Even more unworthy. Even less lovable, than I had before.
This is where I would LOVE to tell you I woke up one morning, at 20, or even 28, and
resolved to think differently.
And did.
I would love to tell you that I’m currently living happily
ever after, and that I only have positive, self-assuring thoughts when I gaze in a mirror.
I’d love to end the story saying it turns
out I was a beautiful swan all along, and that I haven’t had a bout with
insecurity since then.
I'd love to tell you I'm actually writing from a castle, or a studio in Hollywood, right now. And that I'm featured on hair commercials late at night.
I'd love to tell you I found some Pinterest secret to flawless skin. Or a miracle fruit that made me shed all kinds of pounds.
Or that a talk-show host inspired me to love my curves, once and for all. And that I'm now a plus-sized model in constant demand. Who speaks to teens on the side, about how to love themselves like I do now.
But that’s not the truth.
It’s not even close to the truth.
The unfortunate inconvenient truth is I'm 29 years old, and I still struggle, on a daily basis, with how I
see myself.
I’m still tempted, most every day, to focus on my flaws
instead of looking for the positives.
I still don't LOVE my body, or my blotchy skin.
I still don't LOVE what I see in the mirror most days.
But, what does make this a happy-ish “ending” to this post, (and a positive start to a new chapter) is that I am finally starting to make a change.
And I’m not doing it by starting some fad diet. Or taking experimental meds to improve my skin.
I'm starting by completely rethinking the way I see
myself.
By painstakingly destroying all the misconceptions I've believed for so long.
I'm starting this journey to beauty, not with new mascara, but by retraining my brain.
By learning to be kinder. More accepting. More patient. And more realistic.
Instead of being my own worst critic, focusing only on the
things I like least about myself, I'm learning to dwell on stuff that matters more.
I’m reminding myself that I am not defined by what is reflected in the
mirror. Or the number on my pants’ tag. Or the way I measure up against the
airbrushed faces in magazines.
I am reminding myself that I am greater than the sum of my
body parts, and that my worth and lovability don’t fluctuate like the numbers
on a scale.
I'm reminding myself that my looks pale in comparison to what really matters.
Which is my heart. My hope. And the unique traits I bring to this world.
I'm starting by looking in the mirror and smiling at myself. Knowing I have beauty and purpose, just as I am.
I will likely spend the rest of my life trying to
recover from my pesky perfectionism.
But it’s so nice to know I’m not alone on this journey.
I
think sharing our stories is such a helpful step to take; one I wish someone
would have showed me when I was at the tender age of seventeen.
It’s also nice to know that the finish line for this
particular journey isn’t a dress size or the result of a perfect facial.
The finish line is accepting myself, loving myself, as I am, each step of
the way.
And because acceptance, even appreciation for this journey, is the ultimate goal, failure isn’t all the
things I once feared.
Failure isn’t getting there slowly, or even in dead last
place.
Failure isn’t getting there covered in sweat, or dirt, or
bloodied knees from falling along the way.
Failure isn't getting there with acne scars and stretchmarks, crow’s feet and grey hair.
The only failure in this journey is giving up completely when
things get hard.
Failure is stopping altogether, instead of continuing (even
limping) on.
Failure is quitting, anywhere before the finish line, that moving target that keeps beckoning me to grow and change and learn with each breath I take.
Failure isn’t an option.
That's the truth I see now, as I train myself to smile at the face staring back at me in the mirror.
The entire series is filled with brave women's thoughts on true beauty and how we can become more confident, bolder versions of ourselves, namely by being kinder to our bodies and our brains.
Last
week's post about "Broken" (which I forgot to share on
FB) got me thinking about an old dream I had. One birthed in the linoleum-tiled
halls of Princeton High School.
I
was a senior and required to do an end-of-year project as part of the
Independent Study program. One of my best buds and I decided to
collaborate on a clothing line, since she was studying fashion merchandising
and I was studying marketing.
The
result of those studies was a brand based on upcycling vintage jeans with
hand-painting. We made samples to show the class, but never tried to sell
anything ourselves.
It
was just a project. A school thing. A grade.
But,
it was also the first time "DivineImperfections" made its way onto paper.
Over
the last eleven years so much of life has changed.
I'm
no longer interested in painting jeans (thank goodness) for one.
But
I've never let go of the idea behind our "brand." I've thought a lot
about those words…
The
idea of taking old things and making them new.
Taking
discarded things and giving them a new life.
Making
something beautiful out of something forgotten.
I
think it's pretty clear that's a concept dear to my heart.
And
that explains why seven years ago (or so) I started a little blog, where I
posted Weepies video links and the rantings of a
new college grad.
It
also explains why a few years ago I took the plunge and updated to a new
"website" but kept that same ol’ name.
'Cause
that name, those two words, mean something to me.
Together they're greater than
the sum of their parts.
Combined they represent life, in
all its lovely ordinariness. And God, in all His mysterious glory.
Together
they represent a life that is rich and beautiful, not in spite of so much
brokenness around us, but because of it.
And
that's probably a very heavy-handed way of leading into the news that comes
next.
But it's an important part of the story, my story, so I wanted to share.
It’d
be really easy to see this step I’m taking today as small, even insignificant.
To say, “It’s not that big of deal.”
And
in the past that’s exactly what I would have done. Tried to gloss over it,
because it seems silly.
But
this little step I'm taking today, is
not one I'm taking lightly.
Because
it’s part of something really important to me. It’s part of this dream. This dream I’ve been carrying in my heart for over a decade now.
The
one I tried to ignore, and leave buried in old journals.
A
dream to find my own unique way of sharing with the world what matters to me. Namely...
Divine Imperfections, and how they point to
grace.
I
relaunched my Etsy shop today. That’s the news. The single bullet point.
And
while I’ve tried this before, I’ve never done so with this clear a vision. Or
this much excitement!
Today
I’m opening a store I can be proud of. One more thoughtfully, and meticulously curated,
than in the past.
I
only posted items I would love to have in my own home, if storage weren’t an
issue (and I wasn’t at risk of becoming an A&E special… Hoarders!
Anthropologie-inspired edition.).
Every
item was lovingly picked by me, saved from a dusty future on overstocked thrift
store shelves. (Or from a trash bin after an unsuccessful yard sale.)
I
brought these discarded items home, and cleaned them up, then set them up for
their own Glamour Shots-styled
photoshoot.
Then
I settled in with a ruler, and a word processor, painstakingly describing each
item, cracks and all.
It’s
my hope that these items will now find new homes, where they’ll be put on proud
display, or go to good use. Serving as daily reminders that nothing is ever as
bad as it seems. Nothing is a lost cause, not when grace enters the picture.
And
maybe this seems like a silly hope.
After
all, it’s hard to believe an old coffee cup could change someone’s life.
But
I never dreamed I’d be where I am, as a seventeen-year-old in paint splattered
jeans.
I
never knew the impact brainstorming for a class project would have on my whole
life.
I
never knew how much healing would come to my own heart, or the ways I’d be
transformed (am being transformed!) by an unconditional love and an unbelievable grace.
So
you never know. Unless you try.
And
I’m really happy to be trying this.
Finally.
If
you’ve got a few minutes I hope you’ll visit my “shop.” Maybe someday I’ll have
a store front to greet you at, with iced tea and cheesy pop music.
For
now what I’ve got is this web link. And a dream.
That
and joy
at taking one more step on this journey.
I was quick to throw away, to replace, anything with a flaw.
Into the trash stuff went, at the first
sign of wear.
I wanted shiny.
I wanted new.
I wanted, perfect.
And I still struggle with wanting perfect.
That's not something I outgrew with my teens.
But the older I get, the more I catch myself craving
character instead.
I want the actual antique, with dirt and rust.
Not the shiny replica I can buy much cheaper from a big
brand store.
I want the real thing. Authentic. Vintage.
Cause there’s a story there. There’s beauty there, in the cracks and imperfections.
How I wish I’d developed this taste much sooner. Before so
many bruises and scars marred my own skin.
Skin I thought only held as much value as Glamour magazine
deemed fit.
Skin that was best if it was flawless.
Clear.
Void of any “imperfections.”
Only now am I beginning to see my skin, like all the stuff
contained within it, as better for the “imperfections.”
The stuff that makes me me.
The chicken pox scar. And the new one from the burnt
caramel.
The spot above my elbow, from when I fell off my bike.
And the scars you can’t see, from the broken hearts, and the
wayward years.
Those things make me unique.
Unlike any other.
All that brokenness I was so afraid of.
The stuff I tried to hide for so long.
It has shaped me into the person I am.
Just as future hurts, and falls, will continue to make me
into the person I was meant to be.
What I once saw as weakness. As faults that would lessen my
value…
I now see as character. As stories worth telling.
Each scar represents a necessary part of my journey.
Each broken bit is the result of some step I had to take.
Some were painful.
Some were scarring.
But all were necessary, every single step.
Brokenness is not a bad thing.
It’s beautiful in fact.
Because it reminds us we’re vulnerable. Just flesh and
blood.
It reminds us we’re human.
People.
Each of us.
In this together.
We all have our own scars. And our own stories.
And those broken bits are what send us all in search of healing.
The brokenness is what reminds us to keep searching for the Healer.
I haven't written in a very long while. And while I've missed it, I think it's been good for me to take a break.
I also think it's fitting that my "return" would be this, talking about brokenness, a subject dear to my heart, especially now.
I spent a lot of time trying to outrun my own brokenness. A lot of time.
But I didn't gain much ground.
Instead I kept running into the same struggles, which summed up simply, centered on my fallibility.
I've spent most of my life knowing a lot about how to be a good Christian. That's not to say I've been one, only that I've known the "how tos."
I felt secure in my knowledge of spiritual things.
Where I've struggled, and I mean really struggled, is with my humanity. My pesky fleshness.
I have hated how prone I am to wonder. To worry. To get caught up in all my limitations.
But this past month I've been learning a lot about what it takes to be a good human.
What is required to be a person, fully functioning, in flesh and in Spirit.
It sounds crazy, to be pushing 30, and only be beginning to learn how to live on this earth.
But that's where I'm at, in a nutshell.
Learning, how to bloom here.
Where I'm planted.
In dirt. And earth.
With flesh. And blood.
I have so very much to learn.
Maybe someday I'll come back and talk more about embracing my brokenness, as a way of moving forward, finally.
For now I'll say that I'm more and more convinced with each passing day, and each conversation, that we - as people - have far more in common than anything that separates us.
And I'm hoping that moving forward I'll be bolder in sharing my own stories, both the happy and the sad ones, as a means of reaching out and connecting with others.
Mostly because I know now how helpful it's been for me to hear the stories of courageous friends and frontrunners.
People that have gone before me, and people alongside me in this life journey.
Realizing you’ve lost your grip, your touch with the world,
and that there’s nothing you can do about it.
It’s scary, knowing you’re bound to face plant on concrete.
And that even when you do manage to stand again, you’ll never be the same.
There will be scars. There will be bruises.
There will be permanent reminders of that time you lost it.
That time you did the thing no one wants to do.
The time you fell.
But sometimes falling can be exhilarating too. It can mean
accepting your fragile state, your humanity, and accepting that you can’t
always have it all together.
It reminds you that sometimes you need a break.
And when you’re too busy, or stubborn, to take one, life
often throws one your way.
Giving up control is never easy.
Whether it be by choice, circumstance, or unfortunate
accident.
That’s probably why so few people ever do so with any
semblance of grace.
But along with the discouragement, the feelings of failure…
A fall brings a reset.
A chance to start again.
It brings an opportunity to choose bravery.
And bravery is always required to get back on the bike, or
the proverbial horse.
Stepping back out into the world, where more failure
undoubtedly awaits, takes courage that often goes overlooked.
But it’s so crucial to reaching for success.
Success, like faith, requires a willingness to fall.
A willingness to be made a fool.
A willingness to try again, even though you’re likely to
fail.
Not only because you want to succeed, which you do.
But because that’s the only way to learn anything in this
wonky life.
By trying. And failing.
By stepping. And falling.
And then stepping again. Wobbling as needed.
As you go through life, not gracefully, but surrounded by
abundant grace.
Standing, or falling, you
are accepted.
You’re more than fine.
Because you’re in unshaky arms.
You’re held in the steadiest of hands.
Hands that aren’t human, but know well what it’s like.
To be a girl, against the concrete.
Just a girl, stumbling along.
Afraid of the fall, but more afraid to remain still.
- - - - - - - - - -
This is what came out of my brain in five minutes of thinking about "Fall."
It's part of a writing group I've enjoyed participating in called FIVE MINUTE FRIDAY, in which a bunch of people freewrite about a new prompt each week.
Since I started working from home I have logged a lot of hours of TV watching.
And while a lot of the viewing has been pointless and stupid
(do not get me started on last season of Grey’s… a plane crash? Really?)… some
of it has actually been – dare I say it – beneficial.
I saw a few episodes of What
Not to Wear in college, but I never made it religious viewing.
But since reruns come on right about
the time I’m working on the mindless task of sorting emails, I’ve made it a
habit to try to catch it.
It’s funny, and a bit cheesy, but it’s also oddly
informative.
And yes, the show always starts with an ambush. Some poor
sap is singled out for her bad style, usually caught completely off guard and
absolutely mortified.
But, and this is what
makes me appreciate the show so much, whether they’re teaching a skinny
young mom how to look less skanky, or a plus-sized grandmother how to flatter
her figure, the hosts (while impeccably stylish and enviably thin themselves)
always keep the focus on making the style target feel her best.
They don’t tell women the key to happiness is to lose twenty
pounds, or to hide all their freckles.
They don’t tell a vintage-lover to chase every new trend, or
a tomboy athlete she should always be in heels.
They teach her, each individual (who they really seem to get
to know and appreciate) to feel her best.
To embrace her own beauty. And to reflect who she really is, by dressing
in a way that fits with her truest self.
The style remedies aren’t one size fits all. They’re as
unique as the women being made over.
Sometimes the focus is on finding great-fitting jeans and
sweaters and sometimes it’s cocktail dresses and stilettos.
But whatever the clients take home as part of their $5,000 new wardrobes, it
pales in comparison to the real gift the show provides.
Confidence.
The hosts, Stacy and Clinton (I like to pretend we’re on a
first-name basis now) force the women they help to take a deep, long look at
themselves.
And they teach them to focus not on what’s wrong, but on
what’s right.
When it comes time for haircuts and makeup, even some of the
most austere “victims” often lose control.
And while I’m sure there are impervious women out there, who
don’t know why a poor sap would start weeping about side bangs or lip gloss,
I’m always glad to see the meltdowns.
Not because I'm a sadist, but because I know (from having watched so many episodes of WNTW
now) that the other side of that meltdown is wonderful.
It’s a woman embracing her inner beauty, and letting that
shine for the world to see.
Smart and shy? They’ll teach you to come out of your shell.
Dressed like a hooker ‘cause you’re scared your man will
lose interest and leave?
They teach you to dress classy sexy (which I’ve learned does
not involve green Spandex as pants, or any amount of side cleavage).
Basically, they teach people to play up their best features,
and to look past the flaws they can’t change.
They encourage healing and moving past deep wounds, by
putting one’s best foot forward, in a stylish shoe no less.
And I know a haircut can’t fix all a girl’s problems.
A new jacket won’t make your career dreams come true.
But I think there is something to be said for a message that encourages you to
strive to be your best, while
accepting yourself where you’re at.
In a culture saturated with skeletal models, and with airbrushed movie stars looking down on us at every grocery store
checkout, it’s nice to see real women learning to appreciate their unique
beauty.
It’s nice to see real people accepting themselves, and
becoming braver in the process.
I've learned a lot about fashion from What Not to Wear, but it's the lessons in bravery that I value the most.
*You can click either photo above to visit its original source.
It turns out Stacy knows a thing or two about learning confidence the hard way.
This story about her past and future is super inspiring. Make sure to check it out!
By the way, the initiative to finally publish this post that's been in draft stage far too long came from Anne the Adventurer's blog linkup.
She's encouraging others to write about beauty and body image, their own stories and what's inspiring them.
The show and this blog linkup (and maybe my birthday) are just a few of the things inspiring me lately.
What's inspiring you to be more accepting of yourself?
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