I visited the Houston Center for Photography today and saw a thought-provoking exhibit that hit home for me. Beauty Knows No Pain features images by O. Rufus Lovett and Leah DeVun that examine the expression and perception of femininity in contemporary American culture. Lovett’s work follows the Kilgore Rangerettes, a well-known drill team that dresses in boots, hats, and cowgirl-style skirt sets typical of Texas cheer or drill teams. DeVun has photographed young girls dressed up in Hannah Montana gear, complete with the blond wigs, flashy jewelry, and black leggings girls beg their parents to buy them at Wal-mart.
I first made my way through the Rangerette photos, a group of images dating from 1989 to today, and the smile would not leave my face. The joy in those girls’ expressions combined with the unbelievable contortions some were performing reminded me of the strength within all of us. Although some might say that the short skirts and even the entire idea behind drill teams in general pigeon-hole women into a negative female stereotype, I found the images satisfyingly wholesome. I could tell these girls worked hard and did their best to put on an amazing show.
I also connected with what I imagined might lie behind those pasted-on smiles. It was obvious that the girls loved what they were doing. Nonetheless, what they do is ultimately a show, and the performers have real lives beyond the kick-up-yer-heels routines. In those photos, I saw real girls demonstrating their strength, teamwork, and beauty in a forum acceptable to our society.
I have little doubt that eventually drill teams like the Rangerettes will be phased out as old-fashioned. But places where women can work together as a team and show their strength while being appreciated for their beauty will always exist. These elements are critical to almost every woman’s maturation. Entities like the Rangerettes provide a place for women to express their femininity, and they serve as one portrayal of femininity in our culture.
Is this portrayal positive or negative? Probably a little of both. The main thing is not to see it as a whole. The Rangerettes and the images of them represent one version of femininity (although that version may be multi-layered and different for every girl depicted in the photos and every person who sees them). Viewing possibilities for women through a narrow scope limits everyone in our culture. There are many more ways to be a woman.
Speaking of those many different ways, I moved on to DeVun’s portion. I expected my smile to continue. I usually adore seeing happy little girls playing dress up. Instead, I walked through with a slightly troubled feeling in my stomach. The girls didn’t seem happy, and they didn’t seem like they had chosen their outfits to dress up in. Society had chosen their outfits. Their very self-expression had arrived pre-packaged in a cardboard box labeled “Hannah Montana.” No doubt these girls are finding their way through girlhood in America, doing the best they can to express themselves with the tools given, but in their wigs and bangles, they seem prematurely adolescent. Seven year olds draped in scarves and already projecting the slightly bored expression worn by too many fashion models makes even a cynic long to gift these girls with a childhood—a childhood not branded with Disney.
Granted, I have a slight resentment against Disney. After I worked for them, the Walt Disney synergy so overwhelmingly diffused throughout American (and global) culture became too downright creepy to enjoy anymore. I still haven’t completely rid myself of that “ick” in my belly.
More than that, though, the juxtaposition of these two ways of expressing femininity (the Rangerettes and Hannah Montana) made me consider all the other ways women are portrayed and how I want to portray myself. What tools are given to me for the purpose of self-expression? Do I use those tools? Do the portrayals society gives me affect or distort how I view myself as a woman? Have these images limited me? Did they at one time? How can I transcend popular representations of women and assert my true self, loving every bit of it? Can I dissect those popular representations and determine the truths they hold from the lies?
In any case, the exhibit is certainly worthwhile. And at the astoundingly reasonable price of FREE, Beauty Knows No Pain serves as yet another example of why the Houston Center for Photography is one of my favorite places to go.
In this same vein, photographer Shelley Calton will be giving an artist talk at the Houston Center for Photography on March 25th at 7pm. She’ll also be signing copies of her new book Hard Knocks: Rolling with the Derby Girls. This collection and her last one, Invisible Thread, offer more images that remind viewers of feminine strength and the things that tie us all together as women. She’s worth checking out.
Best wishes, love, and strength to you all! Men and women alike.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Who Else Needs a Vacation?
I’m having a difficult time getting out of my routine. For a long time, I walked according to my “live differently” philosophy, which suggests doing something different or differently every day. Usually, this was easy, and I accomplished it without thinking. Nowadays, I wonder how often I really get out and do something out of the ordinary.
I get so tied up in my routine, thinking that it keeps me safe or in control, when, in fact, it does none of that. I can do everything to the best of my ability, making sure I accomplish every piddling task I can think of, and things can still go wrong. I cannot singlehandedly control the weather or the economy or even my moods sometimes! Although my schedule makes me feel safe, it’s an illusion. And getting out of it is often the only way to remember the safety and beauty beyond the boundaries I have constructed.
The "live differently" philosophy never stipulates that the “different” thing has to be anything grandiose or exciting. It can be driving to work a new way or visiting a restaurant I’ve never been to. It could be doing laundry in the morning instead of the evening or wearing an outfit I might never have picked out for myself.
At this point, however, I question whether I even want to put out the effort to do something new. For today, I am challenging myself to make small talk with anyone who crosses my path. It’s been a rather interesting endeavor and has provided an outlet in an otherwise solitary day. I wonder if it’s really satisfying this urge for newness, though.
I’m busy at work and am doing quite well at it if I do say so myself. However, something in me longs to get COMPLETELY out of my routine and away from work, too. Doing just one thing differently per day would be nice, but I desire a true getaway. I’ve never taken a vacation for myself purely in the name of relaxation. My excursions have always been to visit someone or see some new site or perform a specific task—never a complete pampering.
The few roadtrips I’ve taken have been fun, but they weren’t exactly relaxing. Things are always a bit harried on the road, and you never know what could happen. Still, I’d take a road trip with a couple of friends. I’ve always wanted to head up the west coast, from San Diego, through San Francisco, through Oregon (where I’d see some family), and up into Canada. It’s not well-thought-out, but these are the sorts of travel dreams I have. That… and Italy ;)
For about a year now, I’ve been trying to pick a place to go on vacation, but I come up empty and can’t seem to make a definite decision. This shouldn’t surprise me; I tend toward decidophobia. Still, everyone needs a vacation now and then, even if it’s just a vacation from the ordinary. Getting out of one’s routine can drop a person back off in her life with renewed creativity to live life the way that is best for her, not strictly according to pattern.
That’s what I want: a shot of the different. A one week escape from all things usual, just to remind myself that things can be wonderful without the steady flow I’ve set up for myself. That steady flow is nice…but can also bore me to tears.
Anyway, I suppose this is simply a plea to get out and get back to living differently. For today, I’m content with making conversation with strangers, but I will put forth effort and visualization towards an escape in the near future. It’s about time…
I get so tied up in my routine, thinking that it keeps me safe or in control, when, in fact, it does none of that. I can do everything to the best of my ability, making sure I accomplish every piddling task I can think of, and things can still go wrong. I cannot singlehandedly control the weather or the economy or even my moods sometimes! Although my schedule makes me feel safe, it’s an illusion. And getting out of it is often the only way to remember the safety and beauty beyond the boundaries I have constructed.
The "live differently" philosophy never stipulates that the “different” thing has to be anything grandiose or exciting. It can be driving to work a new way or visiting a restaurant I’ve never been to. It could be doing laundry in the morning instead of the evening or wearing an outfit I might never have picked out for myself.
At this point, however, I question whether I even want to put out the effort to do something new. For today, I am challenging myself to make small talk with anyone who crosses my path. It’s been a rather interesting endeavor and has provided an outlet in an otherwise solitary day. I wonder if it’s really satisfying this urge for newness, though.
I’m busy at work and am doing quite well at it if I do say so myself. However, something in me longs to get COMPLETELY out of my routine and away from work, too. Doing just one thing differently per day would be nice, but I desire a true getaway. I’ve never taken a vacation for myself purely in the name of relaxation. My excursions have always been to visit someone or see some new site or perform a specific task—never a complete pampering.
The few roadtrips I’ve taken have been fun, but they weren’t exactly relaxing. Things are always a bit harried on the road, and you never know what could happen. Still, I’d take a road trip with a couple of friends. I’ve always wanted to head up the west coast, from San Diego, through San Francisco, through Oregon (where I’d see some family), and up into Canada. It’s not well-thought-out, but these are the sorts of travel dreams I have. That… and Italy ;)
For about a year now, I’ve been trying to pick a place to go on vacation, but I come up empty and can’t seem to make a definite decision. This shouldn’t surprise me; I tend toward decidophobia. Still, everyone needs a vacation now and then, even if it’s just a vacation from the ordinary. Getting out of one’s routine can drop a person back off in her life with renewed creativity to live life the way that is best for her, not strictly according to pattern.
That’s what I want: a shot of the different. A one week escape from all things usual, just to remind myself that things can be wonderful without the steady flow I’ve set up for myself. That steady flow is nice…but can also bore me to tears.
Anyway, I suppose this is simply a plea to get out and get back to living differently. For today, I’m content with making conversation with strangers, but I will put forth effort and visualization towards an escape in the near future. It’s about time…
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Still Growing
To expand upon my previous post and the numerous metaphors that can be drawn from my experience with the narcissus plant, I would like to draw your attention to the rocks. You can plant narcissus bulbs in a garden or in your lawn, and they spring as daffodils or one of their many varieties (mine are paperwhites). But they can and will grow in ROCKS.
So – no matter if it looks like circumstances would make it impossible for you to grow or succeed, you can. You can grow in the rocks. Beauty can spring up from the hard places, and that beauty is no less valuable than the kind that grows in perfectly manicured gardens. Let some miracles happen today!
So – no matter if it looks like circumstances would make it impossible for you to grow or succeed, you can. You can grow in the rocks. Beauty can spring up from the hard places, and that beauty is no less valuable than the kind that grows in perfectly manicured gardens. Let some miracles happen today!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Grow, Plant, Grow!
A few weeks ago, some lovely friends gave me a narcissus bulb. I smiled and accepted my parting gift, feeling a combination of uncertainty, burden, and dread. Did I want to attempt to grow this plant? Never before had I tried to grow a living thing within my own home. I’d cared for cut flowers and watered roommates’ and employers’ ferns and ivy, but I had never in my adult life planted a flower and seen if it would grow. For whatever reason, I always had a sneaking suspicion that plants and Michelle did not make for a pleasant combination. “Surely nothing in my care could grow and flourish!” I thought.
Well, I kept the bulb in its paper sack on my kitchen counter for a while, eventually taking the little strip of growing instructions out and reading them. Hmmm, I’d need a pot, some rocks/pebbles, and some water. No pot, no pebbles, but water I had… Considering that this job would not require anything as messy as soil, I began opening up to the idea of nurturing this thing to life.
Then, one night at the store, I opted to go by the gardening section, where I picked out a smart red pot. For a few days, this sat beside the bulb on the kitchen counter. Eventually, the bulb made it into the pot along with some water. (I started worrying that the bulb would die if I didn’t do SOMETHING with it.) And I stared at it, wondering if I really wanted to do this thing.
That weekend, I ventured into a flower shop where I bought, yes with money, a bag of rocks. To my surprise, at this point, regular rocks I could find just wouldn’t do. I wanted smooth, round, multi-colored stone for my dear narcissus bulb. I had grown attached to the idea of this plant and the possibility that it could be something other than the brown, onion-like creature languishing on my countertop. Perhaps it wouldn’t rot from too much water and lack of early care if it liked its surroundings.
That very day, I arranged the rocks, bulb, and water in the pot as instructed, feeling doubtful that the bulb would still be in the mood to take root and grow after having been put off for so long. And it seemed highly unlikely that anything could grow with nothing more than a small pot and some pebbles. I mean, I don’t know many things that grow in rocks except for moss and other, less appealing creepy crawlies.
Despite my misgivings, a few days later, I walked past the bulb, and it was opening. A funny, little sprout poked through the top of the shell. I was shocked. Completely shocked. I don’t know how long I examined that first hint of life or how many other times I revisited the plant that day, but I was obsessed with the fact that something could grow with the relatively minimal effort I put into it.
As the days have passed, I confess that it is the delight of my day to pass by that plant in the morning and evening. Every time I see it, I marvel at how tall and elegant it is becoming. It seems to shoot up another two inches or sprout another bunch of leaves every twelve hours. I am mesmerized.
I ask myself, “How am I growing this?” And suddenly, a surprising answer returns. I’m not growing anything. I helped. I did a couple of things that were within my power to do; I bought a pot and some rocks and put it all together. Sure, I talk to the plant and change its water, but I’m not growing it. Growing is just what it does.
And so it is with me. Growing and maturing is just what I do. I go through life; I do things and don’t do things. I make choices and may even do a few self-help-type activities along the way. But I’m not making myself grow. I’m not making myself age or acquire knowledge. It’s just what I do.
That’s a load off. I can relax and enjoy life a little more, knowing that somehow, I am like my gorgeous narcissus plant. I am taller and more vibrant than anyone could imagine. The universe looks at me and marvels at my progress and the beauty that I am. And the universe understands that that’s just what I do, like every other person, equally engaging, equally surprising, ever-evolving, and growing into creations nothing could have imagined before now.
It also comforts me to know that all the things I think I need to work so hard to preserve can be left alone for a time. They will grow or decrease and change on their own. I can rest, knowing that I can contribute and take credit for giving of myself to things, but it’s a stretch to say that I alone made something evolve into whatever it has become.
Bottom line, we are all powerful beings, so powerful that by merely existing, we create and are miracles. Take the effort to put some rocks and water together, and you might experience more than you could ever have dreamed.
Well, I kept the bulb in its paper sack on my kitchen counter for a while, eventually taking the little strip of growing instructions out and reading them. Hmmm, I’d need a pot, some rocks/pebbles, and some water. No pot, no pebbles, but water I had… Considering that this job would not require anything as messy as soil, I began opening up to the idea of nurturing this thing to life.
Then, one night at the store, I opted to go by the gardening section, where I picked out a smart red pot. For a few days, this sat beside the bulb on the kitchen counter. Eventually, the bulb made it into the pot along with some water. (I started worrying that the bulb would die if I didn’t do SOMETHING with it.) And I stared at it, wondering if I really wanted to do this thing.
That weekend, I ventured into a flower shop where I bought, yes with money, a bag of rocks. To my surprise, at this point, regular rocks I could find just wouldn’t do. I wanted smooth, round, multi-colored stone for my dear narcissus bulb. I had grown attached to the idea of this plant and the possibility that it could be something other than the brown, onion-like creature languishing on my countertop. Perhaps it wouldn’t rot from too much water and lack of early care if it liked its surroundings.
That very day, I arranged the rocks, bulb, and water in the pot as instructed, feeling doubtful that the bulb would still be in the mood to take root and grow after having been put off for so long. And it seemed highly unlikely that anything could grow with nothing more than a small pot and some pebbles. I mean, I don’t know many things that grow in rocks except for moss and other, less appealing creepy crawlies.
Despite my misgivings, a few days later, I walked past the bulb, and it was opening. A funny, little sprout poked through the top of the shell. I was shocked. Completely shocked. I don’t know how long I examined that first hint of life or how many other times I revisited the plant that day, but I was obsessed with the fact that something could grow with the relatively minimal effort I put into it.
As the days have passed, I confess that it is the delight of my day to pass by that plant in the morning and evening. Every time I see it, I marvel at how tall and elegant it is becoming. It seems to shoot up another two inches or sprout another bunch of leaves every twelve hours. I am mesmerized.
I ask myself, “How am I growing this?” And suddenly, a surprising answer returns. I’m not growing anything. I helped. I did a couple of things that were within my power to do; I bought a pot and some rocks and put it all together. Sure, I talk to the plant and change its water, but I’m not growing it. Growing is just what it does.
And so it is with me. Growing and maturing is just what I do. I go through life; I do things and don’t do things. I make choices and may even do a few self-help-type activities along the way. But I’m not making myself grow. I’m not making myself age or acquire knowledge. It’s just what I do.
That’s a load off. I can relax and enjoy life a little more, knowing that somehow, I am like my gorgeous narcissus plant. I am taller and more vibrant than anyone could imagine. The universe looks at me and marvels at my progress and the beauty that I am. And the universe understands that that’s just what I do, like every other person, equally engaging, equally surprising, ever-evolving, and growing into creations nothing could have imagined before now.
It also comforts me to know that all the things I think I need to work so hard to preserve can be left alone for a time. They will grow or decrease and change on their own. I can rest, knowing that I can contribute and take credit for giving of myself to things, but it’s a stretch to say that I alone made something evolve into whatever it has become.
Bottom line, we are all powerful beings, so powerful that by merely existing, we create and are miracles. Take the effort to put some rocks and water together, and you might experience more than you could ever have dreamed.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
A Dozen Roses
I think many of us have pondered the notion of flowers as gifts. On some level, giving a flower says, “Here is a beautiful object. Now, you have to take care of it, but even if you do, it will still shrivel up and die. Oh, here’s a tiny packet of magic powder that will make it last a couple more days at least!” If this is a metaphor for love, who wants it?
Well, I’ve decided that maybe I do. Sure, eternal love is a nice thought, but until I reach that level with someone, I’m okay with a flower-like love—beautiful, fragrant, gentle, and when it fades, it fades. Put some effort and sparkle into it, and it might last a little longer.
I mean, I almost feel like a fraud telling someone I’ll love him or her forever. Is that possible? Can I really say that? The cynic in me emerges when I hear other couples exchange vows of unending love and rapture. It’s not that I don’t believe that they currently feel that way. I simple know the truth of what I’ve observed. Forever love is possible, but it’s certainly not the norm.
Throughout all aspects my life, the temporary nature of most things comforts me. In the midst of my eating disorder especially, every decision seemed so weighty, every feeling so insurmountable, every challenge so unending. Nowadays, I can face feelings and know that they will end. I may feel sad now, but I may not tomorrow—or even in as little as an hour. Feelings are fleeting.
Situations are temporary, too. A heinous roommate, a broken-down car, an electrical outage—they are all situations that can be moved out of or changed. Most illnesses even fall into this category. Most of the time, we just need to keep taking steps, any steps, and we will get out of the muck much faster than if we lay down and cry because our options appear nonexistent. (Of course, lying down and doing nothing can be entirely appropriate, but doing nothing can be considered a step in itself. Life is contradiction. Deal with it.)
Knowing that things will change and move with or without my effort takes a weight off of my shoulders. If I don’t like the bouquet life has given me, it will die pretty soon anyway. I can even throw it away before it dies if I want to! Sometimes, I have to wait for things to change on their own; other times, I can help speed the process. The bottom line is, I’m never stuck. Things are always moving, and there’s always an opportunity for growth and a place for newness to slip in.
Now that I’ve defended a cynical disbelief in eternal love, I’ll turn to the small percent of love that verges on deserving the adjective “forever.” It seems to me that the love that lasts a lifetime is really a series of different loves strung together and evolving in and out of one another. Other languages have dozens of words for love, an idea for which the English language is sadly lacking. Those other languages explicitly recognize what we all know: There are many different kinds of love.
And I need different kinds of love. I don’t always need the kind of love that gives me things all the time. Sometimes, I need a love that shows me how to deal with not having what I want. Sometimes, I need admirers; other times, I need peers or even pity. Sometimes, a mother love is best, then a father love, then a friend love, then a romantic love.
Of course, emotional love is important, but so is love that takes action and does things that say, “I love you.” Some kinds of love are less actionable but no less deep. Some loves baby us, and other loves tell us to buck up and move on. Some love accepts us exactly as we are, and another love might encourage us to change. All of these kinds of love, and more, cycle in upon each other and take turns.
There may be times in a relationship when two people treat each other more as friends, then more as lovers, then more as colleagues. The pros at this learn to integrate all kinds of love. They appreciate the diverse methods of love-showing instead of getting stuck in a single idea of love. And most importantly, I think, forever lovers remain open to the idea that love could change, and they embrace that change and love in whatever way they are capable of at the time.
No love is perfect, or maybe that means it’s all perfect.
Anyway, my final conclusion is that flowers are, in fact, an entirely appropriate representation of love. As if it even needed to be said…
Well, I’ve decided that maybe I do. Sure, eternal love is a nice thought, but until I reach that level with someone, I’m okay with a flower-like love—beautiful, fragrant, gentle, and when it fades, it fades. Put some effort and sparkle into it, and it might last a little longer.
I mean, I almost feel like a fraud telling someone I’ll love him or her forever. Is that possible? Can I really say that? The cynic in me emerges when I hear other couples exchange vows of unending love and rapture. It’s not that I don’t believe that they currently feel that way. I simple know the truth of what I’ve observed. Forever love is possible, but it’s certainly not the norm.
Throughout all aspects my life, the temporary nature of most things comforts me. In the midst of my eating disorder especially, every decision seemed so weighty, every feeling so insurmountable, every challenge so unending. Nowadays, I can face feelings and know that they will end. I may feel sad now, but I may not tomorrow—or even in as little as an hour. Feelings are fleeting.
Situations are temporary, too. A heinous roommate, a broken-down car, an electrical outage—they are all situations that can be moved out of or changed. Most illnesses even fall into this category. Most of the time, we just need to keep taking steps, any steps, and we will get out of the muck much faster than if we lay down and cry because our options appear nonexistent. (Of course, lying down and doing nothing can be entirely appropriate, but doing nothing can be considered a step in itself. Life is contradiction. Deal with it.)
Knowing that things will change and move with or without my effort takes a weight off of my shoulders. If I don’t like the bouquet life has given me, it will die pretty soon anyway. I can even throw it away before it dies if I want to! Sometimes, I have to wait for things to change on their own; other times, I can help speed the process. The bottom line is, I’m never stuck. Things are always moving, and there’s always an opportunity for growth and a place for newness to slip in.
Now that I’ve defended a cynical disbelief in eternal love, I’ll turn to the small percent of love that verges on deserving the adjective “forever.” It seems to me that the love that lasts a lifetime is really a series of different loves strung together and evolving in and out of one another. Other languages have dozens of words for love, an idea for which the English language is sadly lacking. Those other languages explicitly recognize what we all know: There are many different kinds of love.
And I need different kinds of love. I don’t always need the kind of love that gives me things all the time. Sometimes, I need a love that shows me how to deal with not having what I want. Sometimes, I need admirers; other times, I need peers or even pity. Sometimes, a mother love is best, then a father love, then a friend love, then a romantic love.
Of course, emotional love is important, but so is love that takes action and does things that say, “I love you.” Some kinds of love are less actionable but no less deep. Some loves baby us, and other loves tell us to buck up and move on. Some love accepts us exactly as we are, and another love might encourage us to change. All of these kinds of love, and more, cycle in upon each other and take turns.
There may be times in a relationship when two people treat each other more as friends, then more as lovers, then more as colleagues. The pros at this learn to integrate all kinds of love. They appreciate the diverse methods of love-showing instead of getting stuck in a single idea of love. And most importantly, I think, forever lovers remain open to the idea that love could change, and they embrace that change and love in whatever way they are capable of at the time.
No love is perfect, or maybe that means it’s all perfect.
Anyway, my final conclusion is that flowers are, in fact, an entirely appropriate representation of love. As if it even needed to be said…
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Just As I Am
As I sit down to write this entry about the importance of being okay with where I am right now, the only sentence that flies to my mind is: Am I okay with where I am?
I don’t think that I am completely okay with me. I feel perpetually in-between. I’m never perfect but never in the gutter. I’m doing some of the things I want to do and not others. I want to be doing better than I am.
This reflects my consistent inability to stay in the moment. I’m always a few steps ahead, to the career, the love, the vacation, the success, the serenity, or the wisdom I will have “one day.” Shortly after I picture that imaginary future, all the things I have to do to get there pop into my head. The moment is interrupted by a barrage of things I need to do. I’ll have to write this many songs and meet this many people and go to this many places and wear these sorts of things and look this sort of way and learn these types of things and become, become, become…until I can’t remember who I am right now.
Am I okay right now? Is it okay to accept myself, even though I don’t measure up to so many standards I created along the way? Can I erase the potential futures from my mind and enjoy what I do have and, most importantly, who I am.
If I stop fixating on images of the person I foresee myself being, I may discover that I am not the sort of woman who really wants to match those images—or who even could match them if she tried. I may grow in a different direction. By accepting myself now, as I am, I open up the possibility that I could be completely successful in this very moment. Instead of dictating to myself who I should be and laying out maps to where I will go, I can discover who I actually am and let my feet do the walking.
It troubles me that I dislike so many of my behaviors. I like myself, but I don’t always understand the things I do. I seem so strange at times, so contradictory. When my behavior doesn’t synch with who I am, maybe instead of focusing on the behavior, I can focus on looking into myself. Maybe I have misconceived of myself somehow. I’m not saying that I’m not who I think I am, but there may be an additional part of myself in conflict with my current self-image. There may be something in me I have not explored.
I’m sure there are vast regions of yourself that you may have neglected, intentionally or not. I hope we all slow down and make it into a conversation with the people we really are, so that those selves can come out and live life. I bet that reality is far better than the ideals we strive so hard to attain.
I don’t think that I am completely okay with me. I feel perpetually in-between. I’m never perfect but never in the gutter. I’m doing some of the things I want to do and not others. I want to be doing better than I am.
This reflects my consistent inability to stay in the moment. I’m always a few steps ahead, to the career, the love, the vacation, the success, the serenity, or the wisdom I will have “one day.” Shortly after I picture that imaginary future, all the things I have to do to get there pop into my head. The moment is interrupted by a barrage of things I need to do. I’ll have to write this many songs and meet this many people and go to this many places and wear these sorts of things and look this sort of way and learn these types of things and become, become, become…until I can’t remember who I am right now.
Am I okay right now? Is it okay to accept myself, even though I don’t measure up to so many standards I created along the way? Can I erase the potential futures from my mind and enjoy what I do have and, most importantly, who I am.
If I stop fixating on images of the person I foresee myself being, I may discover that I am not the sort of woman who really wants to match those images—or who even could match them if she tried. I may grow in a different direction. By accepting myself now, as I am, I open up the possibility that I could be completely successful in this very moment. Instead of dictating to myself who I should be and laying out maps to where I will go, I can discover who I actually am and let my feet do the walking.
It troubles me that I dislike so many of my behaviors. I like myself, but I don’t always understand the things I do. I seem so strange at times, so contradictory. When my behavior doesn’t synch with who I am, maybe instead of focusing on the behavior, I can focus on looking into myself. Maybe I have misconceived of myself somehow. I’m not saying that I’m not who I think I am, but there may be an additional part of myself in conflict with my current self-image. There may be something in me I have not explored.
I’m sure there are vast regions of yourself that you may have neglected, intentionally or not. I hope we all slow down and make it into a conversation with the people we really are, so that those selves can come out and live life. I bet that reality is far better than the ideals we strive so hard to attain.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Come on, Beautiful People!
Jumping off of last week’s entry, I want to comment on another great, and very prevalent, tragedy.
When people do not believe they are beautiful, I feel sad. Sure, there are people who we consider more attractive than others, but the scale of attractiveness we use is only relative at best. Ugliness in some cultures is beauty in others.
To be honest, I have never met someone I thought was hideously ugly. Even when introduced to people who do not strike me as immediately attractive, I can think of a few simple things they could do that would increase their appeal. Yes, this is judging. I judge. I try not to, but it’s often instantaneous. Nonetheless, I’m being honest. The basic truth is that I cannot think of anyone who I would say lacks the potential for physical appeal. Of course, even the things I might propose to enhance their appearance might be completely unnecessary for another individual who thinks that the “unattractive” person is just fine without any changes at all. Beauty is relative.
Moving on, people can feel ugly for numerous reasons, but such feelings usually seem to be the result of a fixation on a particular imperfection, whether that “fault” currently exists or not. For example, adults who had severe acne as teenagers often still feel insecure about their skin. It’s only natural, especially if they were ridiculed or shunned in any way for it. I’ve known people who thought they had big noses or disgusting thighs, and they couldn’t see past that one element. That single hang-up blocked the image of the gorgeous person they truly were, regardless of whether that one flaw was real or imagined.
Most of us know how painful—and even boring—it is to hear a perfectly handsome individual tear him or herself down. We see the truth. We know the person is beautiful, but when they don’t see it, it’s tragic.
However, do we consider the way we speak to ourselves? Do I? Really?
Do I give myself the same benefit of the doubt as I give to others? Do I truly recognize that whatever weight I am, whatever acne may have erupted overnight, whatever the state of my hair, I can still look attractive? Maybe not everyone would think I was gorgeous, but no matter how my outward body may be behaving, I can maintain cleanliness, wear flattering clothes, and smile. Simply walking around confident that I am strong and beautiful, pulling out the joy within, can make a world of difference. Ultimately, the inner radiance is what sticks with people anyway.
Do I really believe this? I hope to get there. I hope to be even more fully accepting of myself, not just as I am now, but as I could be at any other time. I can get wrapped up in thinking that I must do everything possible not to let go of the beauty I have today, thinking, “I look fabulous today, but what about two weeks from now? What can I do to keep this good thing going?”
It’s a ridiculous cycle in which, although I embrace myself for who I am today, I weigh myself down with the burden of “keeping it up,” as if outward appearance were the most important thing. Many things go into how a person appears, and my sad, tired expression after trying to maintain too-strenuous workouts or too-restrictive eating patterns decrease my beauty far more than a few pounds would.
Anyway, I’d like to refer you to the following blog entry that caught my eye:
http://digestiondujour.blogspot.com/2009/01/kate-says-that-shes-fat-and-i-believe.html
She’s a fellow Houstonian and one of my favorite bloggers. Her post echoes many of my sentiments on this subject in a more pointed way. She refers to an article by another writer, Kate Harding, that I also encourage you to read:
http://www.salon.com/mwt/excerpt/2009/01/24/kate_harding/index.html
Kate Harding’s site is also worth a look. Three writers dish on fat acceptance and all the nuances therein:
Shapely Prose: http://kateharding.net/
In any case, I hope you all love yourselves a bit more today than yesterday and that you look for the light in others, beyond appearance, knowing that life is so much more than we see. Our appearance can change drastically from day to day and year to year. What really counts are our personal journeys. The outer ultimately has little meaning. Most of us would agree with that statement, but do we believe it… down to our beautiful bones?
When people do not believe they are beautiful, I feel sad. Sure, there are people who we consider more attractive than others, but the scale of attractiveness we use is only relative at best. Ugliness in some cultures is beauty in others.
To be honest, I have never met someone I thought was hideously ugly. Even when introduced to people who do not strike me as immediately attractive, I can think of a few simple things they could do that would increase their appeal. Yes, this is judging. I judge. I try not to, but it’s often instantaneous. Nonetheless, I’m being honest. The basic truth is that I cannot think of anyone who I would say lacks the potential for physical appeal. Of course, even the things I might propose to enhance their appearance might be completely unnecessary for another individual who thinks that the “unattractive” person is just fine without any changes at all. Beauty is relative.
Moving on, people can feel ugly for numerous reasons, but such feelings usually seem to be the result of a fixation on a particular imperfection, whether that “fault” currently exists or not. For example, adults who had severe acne as teenagers often still feel insecure about their skin. It’s only natural, especially if they were ridiculed or shunned in any way for it. I’ve known people who thought they had big noses or disgusting thighs, and they couldn’t see past that one element. That single hang-up blocked the image of the gorgeous person they truly were, regardless of whether that one flaw was real or imagined.
Most of us know how painful—and even boring—it is to hear a perfectly handsome individual tear him or herself down. We see the truth. We know the person is beautiful, but when they don’t see it, it’s tragic.
However, do we consider the way we speak to ourselves? Do I? Really?
Do I give myself the same benefit of the doubt as I give to others? Do I truly recognize that whatever weight I am, whatever acne may have erupted overnight, whatever the state of my hair, I can still look attractive? Maybe not everyone would think I was gorgeous, but no matter how my outward body may be behaving, I can maintain cleanliness, wear flattering clothes, and smile. Simply walking around confident that I am strong and beautiful, pulling out the joy within, can make a world of difference. Ultimately, the inner radiance is what sticks with people anyway.
Do I really believe this? I hope to get there. I hope to be even more fully accepting of myself, not just as I am now, but as I could be at any other time. I can get wrapped up in thinking that I must do everything possible not to let go of the beauty I have today, thinking, “I look fabulous today, but what about two weeks from now? What can I do to keep this good thing going?”
It’s a ridiculous cycle in which, although I embrace myself for who I am today, I weigh myself down with the burden of “keeping it up,” as if outward appearance were the most important thing. Many things go into how a person appears, and my sad, tired expression after trying to maintain too-strenuous workouts or too-restrictive eating patterns decrease my beauty far more than a few pounds would.
Anyway, I’d like to refer you to the following blog entry that caught my eye:
http://digestiondujour.blogspot.com/2009/01/kate-says-that-shes-fat-and-i-believe.html
She’s a fellow Houstonian and one of my favorite bloggers. Her post echoes many of my sentiments on this subject in a more pointed way. She refers to an article by another writer, Kate Harding, that I also encourage you to read:
http://www.salon.com/mwt/excerpt/2009/01/24/kate_harding/index.html
Kate Harding’s site is also worth a look. Three writers dish on fat acceptance and all the nuances therein:
Shapely Prose: http://kateharding.net/
In any case, I hope you all love yourselves a bit more today than yesterday and that you look for the light in others, beyond appearance, knowing that life is so much more than we see. Our appearance can change drastically from day to day and year to year. What really counts are our personal journeys. The outer ultimately has little meaning. Most of us would agree with that statement, but do we believe it… down to our beautiful bones?
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