Blind to Beautiful

This morning, walking my dog down Sydenstriker, I watched a little girl learn to use a white-tipped cane. Nine-thirty in the morning, most of her friends were in the school building she practiced in front of. An older lady stood protectively between her and the street, holding her own white-tipped cane.

Like metronomes in perfect sync, their canes scanned the sidewalk 10 inches before out of sightthem. The little girl had wild brown hair. Her profile was slight, a little beanpole dressed in a hot pink t-shirt and blue jeans. With her left hand she clung to the older woman’s shirt sleeve.

I passed them in seconds and just as quickly they passed through my thoughts and into catalogued, insignificant memory. Until this afternoon.

My husband and I sped along Braddock Road, grumbling as the golden, spring sun gave way to April showers. I was thinking about my yoga practice this morning, how I feel different, more whole after yoga than after other workouts. I like that feeling of knowing I’m alive, feeling graceful, collected and yet free at the same time. But I wondered, did I work out hard enough? I don’t feel especially fatigued or sore like I do after other workouts. Did I do enough?

These fears harken back to 15 years of pushing all my physical limits: Too little food, too much exercise. I did it all in pursuit of a goal – to look beautiful, to look competent, to look powerful, to look in control.

Recently, I read an article by one of my favorite people, Amy Dardis, referencing another of my favorite people, Esse Johnson. She spoke of knowing her body. My thoughts skipped.  How do I know my body? I do know that it can hear and feel and taste and see and touch and smell and walk and sleep and love and care and hurt and bleed and write and cook and listen and…

So why am I so much more worried about what I see than all the other things that my body is and does? Would I dare tell that little girl that she is missing the essential gift of life because she cannot see whether she is thin or beautiful or young or old?

What would happen if I didn’t worry so much about what I look like and instead, learned to focus on what I sound like, feel like, smell like? Beauty can be expressed those ways too.

Do I speak gently and joyfully, encouraging others and laughing at the lighter things and praying for the harder things?
Do I smell fresh and delicious to my husband?
Do I feel strong and capable?
Do my hands feel comforting to mourners?
Does my voice sound like praise?
I never smell Amber Romance, or Santa Fe perfume without melting into sweet thoughts of my mother.
I can’t contain the joy in my heart when I hear my niece tell me that a duck says, “Kack, kack”.

So why is what I look like so much more significant to me that all the other aspect of who I am? I wonder.

Our culture has…

Our culture has become obsessed with rules. Natural health is now a religion with violent opposing denominations. Some swear that whole grains are the bane of human health; others say they save lives. “Caveman” dieters say vegetarians are nuts; vegetarians promise they aren’t nuts they just eat nuts, and paleo isn’t a diet but an evil virus. In order to promote one “super” source of nutrition, media denounces another.

The world is blessed to hear Esse’s voice from a variety of directions! 

Haven Journal

Be Well

Outgrowing an Eating Disorder

Few women want to wait tables on Valentine’s Day. Warm fuzzy feelings aren’t usually kindled by pouring red wine into other lovers’ glasses. It’s no fun watching a young man spoon feed his girlfriend a bite of his favorite bourbon glazed chicken, as she scooches closer to him on one side of the booth. Most women swoon to split a sundae with their beau, or pop one of his chocolate gifts between his puckered lips.

Whatever you do, please don’t ask me out. Please do not invite me.

Please finish reading this post here, just visit me at Haven Journal.  

Believing Beautiful, being a part of it

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I could sing of your love forever!
It rises, steam from snow soaked clay,
Warmed by soft rays of day.
Light dapples my lowered eyes,
And plays a joy-theme across my face.

What hell would be not to know,
From whence, from whom
This precipice of perfect emerges.
The crease between dawn and day,
Here I sit, here I am raptured.
How frail my worship seems.
It is drunk by your love, drunk by your presence.

And pleasure is found prostrate here,
In the crease between, in the budding light.
In the singleness, oneness of moment, morning, me and you.

Believing Beautiful at Haven Journal

That’s What He Said.

There are few hungrier, predatory lies today than those that prey upon marriages and families. To that end, I recently wrote an article at StartMarriageRight, called, How to Get a Man to Talk.

That article got quite a bit of attention, rousing virtual dialogue among men and women, both those couples starting their marriages and those who have been practicing marriage for many years.

As I have been formulating and praying about a response, I stumbled upon (well, I stumbled upon, God was intentional) an article by Rev. Dan White. White wrote a piece called, What a Man Wants – Help! — Nagging, for HavenJournal, a highly relevant Christian ministry to women.

Rev. White takes a no-nonsense approach that might tempt women to balk. You know you’ve done it ladies, hands on hips, “How dare he,” “You don’t know my husband,” “I’ve tried that.” The trouble with that line of thinking is that this author is a man, so he likely knows the inside of your man better than you do, from experience. Also, he dares because Scripture backs him up. And, you may think you’ve tried what he’s suggesting, but what’s the harm in trying again?

In my article, I confessed that for many years, one of the reasons my husband didn’t talk to me much was because I filled all the extra airspace. Many of those words were perceived as nagging.

Remember Thumper? “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” Try it. Either shut up, or change up your words and your tone of voice.

And go read Rev. White’s article.