"You've Got This!" (and I Do, Too)

Last weekend I ran into a fence on the way to a bistro in downtown Portland. Yep. I'm in Oregon, and I have been for two months.

And yes, I know I've been absent in blogland. Kind of MIA, really, for about two years. So the fact that I'm blogging again, that I plan to continue blogging, and that I'm in Oregon, is something that probably needs some explanation.

But I'm not MIA. Not anymore. And I'm not explaining.

I'm writing. From Oregon. Today, at least.

So back to running into a fence in Portland.

Don't worry; I wasn't injured, and I was on foot. Actually I ran into the barrier fence on the sidelines of the 2015 Portland Marathon, about 400 meters from the finish line. And then I intentionally stopped and watched for over an hour, even though I didn't know any of the race participants. I couldn't help it.

There are very few things that I have seen that are as beautiful as what I witnessed standing there next to family members of race participants; the courage I witnessed made me cry at times.

I saw race-veterans whipping through the portion of the course I was standing on the sidelines of, several folks with physical disabilities, elderly runners and my personal favorite, "first-timers," who had a certain look about them that I can't really describe, but who nodded "yes," sometimes with tears in their eyes and sweat dripping down their faces, when the charming marathon volunteer with a British accent and a microphone asked if this was their first time.

And of those "first-timers," the runners who tugged on my heart-strings most were the young parents, with parents, partners, spouses and kiddoes on the sidelines.

What was almost as beautiful as seeing these brave individuals was watching the faces of their families and friends as they screamed support, sometimes tears running down their cheeks, the pride and love absolutely transforming their faces. A young lady who looked about 12 ran behind me, along the sidelines, her long hair streaming behind her, keeping up with her mama who was lit up like a winning Olympiad as she tackled the end of a race she was clearly running for her daughter as much as she was running for herself.

I couldn't help but think of a my friend, Jennifer Luitweiler, who I met several years ago in blogland. She is a runner, an incredible mama and a gifted writer who writes about how "you can do hard things."

I had the privilege of being a cheerleader and friend as Jennifer wrote about her journey of running (and living) with courage that still takes my breath away. You can find her inspiring book, Run With Me, HERE.

I thought about the marathons that Jennifer has run, none of which I've been able to witness in person. I thought about the courage it took for her to write her book, too, and the brave woman behind that book that I got to know as I copy-edited her incredible writing. It made me wish I'd run a marathon with her, or at least stood on the sidelines with her amazing husband, Kurt, and her beautiful kidlets.

"You've got this!" the runner's families and friends yelled, and someone across from me had a sign with the same words hand-written on it. I imagined Jennifer's family standing there just like them.

In not much time at all, I was yelling the same thing, to total strangers, some of whom made eye contact with me, probably wondering why someone they had never seen in their lives was yelling support.

"YOU'VE GOT THIS!" I couldn't help but scream.

Sometimes-walking, sometimes-limping participants often picked up their pace as they saw and heard the support and celebration bouncing off the walls of historic and modern buildings of downtown Portland, sooooo close to the finish line. I high-fived some of them, and got to take a picture for a family whose husband/dad was running his first marathon and stopped to hug his family at the almost-finish-line spot where I was standing.

"You've got this."

I've been thinking about this phrase, as well as a companion phrase...

"I've got this."

This is one I've heard coming out of my own mouth more than a few times in the last couple months. It's what I've taken to saying to family members and friends who are concerned about my being homeless in Oregon. That's a long story, if you don't know it already. And a lot of people I've explained the story to are still massively confused about why I'm here and how I feel about it.

The universe brought me here. I'm not sure how else to put it, though I have tried to explain it to others, who either understand or they don't. I will be writing about this leg of my journey as the months go on, as it's been quite a ride, and I've grown and learned in ways I had no way of anticipating or even explaining well.

The point is, almost everyone has an opinion about how/what I do, as well as what I did/do before coming here. I just can't respond to that anymore. I have to listen to ME and trust that the answer is inside. Every time I do that, miracles/magic/incredible things happen. I'm floored. So the idea that those who love me would support and encourage me to be the fullness of who I am, and in that support, they would see that I needed/need a, "You've got this!" more than I need direction or advice, makes me nearly sob.

If you're a part of my life, in "real-life," or in this beautiful blogland, you know my Mama Heart. You know that my kids and their dad's arrival on Saturday for a fun-filled, much-anticipated weekend with Mama is the thing that gets me through some really tough moments.

Currently, only a couple people in my life are saying, "You've got this." And that's o.k.

As I stood there on the sidelines, though, watching families and friends unabashedly celebrating as their loved ones finished something HUGE and brave they worked hard for, some of my tears were not unlike those of the exhausted, PROUD marathon finishers who didn't give a damn whether or not anyone understood how hard they worked to get to that moment.

Whether anyone else understands it or not, I know that what I'm experiencing right now is just as real a celebration of my own courage as those runners were experiencing. My beautiful 14-year-old daughter is proud of me. A few of those close to me know how brave I've been, how strong I've become and how grateful I am for the opportunity to discover how strong I really am.

It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. I know, "I've got this."

And guess what?

YOU'VE GOT THIS. Whether you know it or not, and more importantly, whether others around you know it or not, it's true. You do.

I'm not sure there's a better expression of love than those words spoken aloud from someone who sees your courage, and is calling it out. I've come to believe that Love means saying (or screaming!), "You've got this!" to someone who is being brave, whether that's a family member, partner or even a stranger.

Sometimes love means saying (or murmuring in an ear), "I've got this." It's telling the other person that you see their courage, AND you are willing to pick up the thing they are bravely shouldering, or afraid of dropping, on their behalf.

I'm learning that love isn't "fixing your life," or you "fixing my life." That's not love; it's disempowerment, or it's co-dependency. Sometimes "fixing" or "giving advice" means I (or the other person) is really saying, "I don't think you can do this without help," or, "I think you are doing it wrong."

That's not love.

Love recognizes courage, even if the loved-one (or stranger) looks to me like they could be doing it better.

Love says, "Hey...you are awesome, and I see you, and acknowledge that you are doing the best you can."

Love even means that if I see you and say or think, "This doesn't look like your best," I really should shut up.

Love means saying, either, "You've got this!" (empowerment), or "I've got this!" (support).

Love celebrates the other's courage, no matter how big or small it looks.

Yesterday my Dutch Bros cup had this on the lid. So appropriate.

"I've got this." I do.

But when you say, "Cheryl, I've got this," I sometimes tear up, out of sheer gratefulness. I can't help it. I DO "have it." AND it's tough to be brave. And whether it's encouragement, support, a hug, a "good job, Cheryl," or a lovely meal, I'm in a season of my life when those "attagirls" are like oxygen.

Let's love today. Let's encourage. Let's support. And let's be brave.

no words necessary

Bits of "Threads"

"...'Today as I pulled thread through fabric, and then held the fabric out so that I could see the project I’m slowly stitching on in its entirety, imagining what someone else might think if they saw it, and if they would see the beauty I see, I realized there is something about creating a beautiful thing, something that no one has ever seen before, but that pulls on the viewer's heart or appeals to their soul in some new way, that has always had a curious power over me."

I looked up and met Ellie's eyes. They were intent in a way that surprised me. I was expecting her to be listening, of course, but I hadn't expected the silent 'answer' in her eyes, or the deep feeling of connection her eyes communicated, and not just me to her, but her to me. She was really listening in a way that made me wonder if anyone had ever been listening to me before now. She nodded, encouraging me to continue.

"There are only a couple things besides that that have such power over me," I went on, looking up at her to see if she was still tracking with me. Her brown eyes told me she was.

"One is ... knowing I affect someone else, that something about me draws them in. I am undone by the knowing that, in someone’s eyes, I am uniquely beautiful, and that under their gaze I glow or shine.  I guess this is not that dissimilar from my desire for my art to be appreciated. One is a craving to be seen by someone and found beautiful; the other is a desire for something I’ve made to be beheld by someone and found beautiful."

I stopped, realizing I'd been staring into my coffee cup as I spoke. I looked up again and was surprised to see her eyes were watery. My words had moved her in some way.  

"What does this mean, Ellie?" I asked her, not really expecting an answer. "Perhaps this makes me uniquely insecure and needy. Perhaps it means I’m an artist. I’m sure it means I’m human.'"

Life is...YOU ARE...

Watching/listening to this incredible video from Akin Salawu over and over again.

As you watch it, pay attention to how your spirit responds to this.

It feels to me like a loving parent is looking into my eyes, fully seeing and knowing the REAL me, and loving me in such an extravagant way that I can hardly keep from laughing and crying all at once.

If you are like me you will feel courage, strength and intention to be 100% REAL YOU because you know that you MUST, and that if you don't, the world will be missing out on you as surely as the rainbow (or the earth for that matter) would be less than itself with the color blue missing...

"These Are a Few of My Favorite Things..."

As a little girl, one of my favorite movies was The Sound of Music. I still love it. One of my favorite songs from the film is "Favorite Things."

So yesterday when I found this incredible cover of the song by a...wait for it...KOREAN JAZZ MUSICIAN named Youn Sun Nah, I was absolutely delighted. So I'm including a youtube video of her charming rendition of "Favorite Things."

This morning I've had this song, plus some other new ones I put on my ipod lately, playing on my itunes while I work. And I decided to make a photo collage about the song, which is below the video in this post.

Hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Photo credits:


1. Make Me Smile, 2. Apfelstrudel, 3. Cabled natural white handknit woolen mittens, 4. Brown paper and String..., 5. February 20 - Day 51, 6. Blue Ballerina, 7. Cream Colored Pony, 8. Vintage European Copper Tea Kettle, 9. Whiskers

A Vision

A recent "waking vision" I had...still working on writing about it in words, but here are some images that capture it for me....


























1. Looking for Treasures ..., 2. Loneliness, 3. With ravaged limbs and wet souls., 4. look, 5. Reflections by the Looking Glass River L1110558, 6. Day 103: I'm not good enough, 7. New Babies, 8. Peak District, 9. Seeing Forever From Olympic Mountain Tops

Untitled

A couple years ago I learned that the "tulip tree" in my parents' yard is actually called a "saucer magnolia." I'm not sure who started calling it a tulip tree, but I know why: the blooms each February around this time look a lot like tulips...big giant pink blooms with petals that are strong and almost fleshy. Even gangly at times. These are the sort of blooms that a storm can knock off the tree, but once on the ground, it takes a lot to destroy the actual bloom itself. They definitely aren't delicate, that's for sure. They are gorgeous, strong and always seem a bit on the un-tamed, earthy, wild side.

I don't know if I love the tulip tree because it's just beautiful in a unique way that pleases me, or if it's because it always blooms near my birthday, February 26th, or both. Probably both. There's something comforting about it. Every year it blooms. It isn't phased by what's going on in my little life. It blooms, like clock-work, no matter what, every year.

It bloomed the first year we lived in that house, when I was turning 14 and trying to learn to love the United States again after two years of running free in the green hills, snap-shot-fast storms of the eastern highlands of Papua New Guinea.
It bloomed the Spring I broke up with my first boyfriend while we sat looking at an impossibly-pink sun set over the little lake.
It bloomed the Spring leading up to my wedding in a small, stone church in the country town we would eventually build our own house in.
It bloomed the February my second daughter was born, only 6 days before my birthday, her eyes huge and calm, even then.
It bloomed the February that my heart broke in two, or felt like I did, the shards mixing with old and new hurt, making a poisonous cocktail I would only be able to drink for six more months before it finally ate away a hole that I had no needle or thread to mend, or even fingers to carry them in.
It bloomed last year, the February that I lived in an apartment as a single mom, oblivious to the hurricane coming mere weeks later that would turn me upside down, shake me like a rag doll and leave me, almost lifeless and barely breathing with only a faint pulse.
And though I haven't been to my parents' house recently, I know, without needing to ask, that it's blooming this February, right now, in the days leading up to my birthday, even as I sit and write in my former-but-now-mine-again house, my husband in the next room, trying not to long too much for redemption but knowing I won't stop wanting it any more than I will stop wanting food.

So much has changed in my life in a space of only two years. There has been tremendous joy. There has been devastating heartbreak. There has been brilliant, shining hope. There has been deep, thick-as-mud depression. There has been startling love I swore I'd never allow myself to feel again. There has been throbbing, aching pain I hoped I could keep at bay by staying in safe, calm waters. Call me a masochist (or a romantic realist) but I find I've wandered off into those dangerous waters in spite of my vows not to and, sure enough, been turned upside down by a wave that wants to steal the bloody, beating, apparently-still-too-delicate heart out of me.

And yet every February, irregardless of what is going on, still water or storm, the tulip tree blooms. The only thing that changes is that the tree gets a bit taller every year and the number of blooms it holds multiplies. Those same blooms fall to the ground, eventually. And every year the gardener comes along and rakes the dying blooms into bags to dispose of. When I lived there still I would beg my parents and the gardener to leave the blooms for as long as possible. After a couple of weeks, a portion of the yard is covered in a blanket of pink that is almost as beautiful as the tree heavy-laden with the blooms weeks before when they were new and still attached to branches.

A few years ago I thought about planting a tulip tree here, in my yard. Maybe more than one. It only makes sense. Then I can enjoy it every day, all February, every year. It never happened.

Then last year I thought I would never live here again and I remember once thinking I was sadly glad I hadn't planted one here, as that would be painful to see when I drove up in the driveway to pick up my kids for my every-other-week with them. One more reminder of a dream that died. One more pang of disappointment that my love story didn't turn out as I planned.

And now, here I am, back in the house. There is still no tulip tree. Not yet. I can't buy a tulip tree for the same reasons I can't look at my wedding photos still, despite the fact that my husband and I are back together and want to be. These are things that rub against the wounds still, I expect for both of us. Sure, we are slowly healing. I have come so far in such a short amount of time, when I think about it.

And yet, that doesn't mean the pain is gone. It's no one's "fault." If I try to look around to find someone to hold responsible for this pain, there is no one face I settle on. Certainly not my husband's.

I look for the tell-tale bloody hands that reached into my chest and ruthlessly yanked my heart out before putting it back on my sleeve; I want to return that still-hemoraging heart back into those guilty hands that deserve to carry it around and listen to its soft-as-silk mewings of weak but still painfully-alive sorrow. I don't see bloody hands except for my own as they helplessly swaddle this heart of mine, its wounds still spitting blood every so often. I anxiously hope that, wrapped up in soft, handmade blankets it will drift into a deep, healing sleep and wake in the morning with bright eyes and a hungry, rooting mouth that I can hastily put on my breast to relieve the aching engorgement in my life. It seems, once again, I'm left to tend to my own heart with the tenderness of a mother. So I have. So I do. So I will.

After all, if we've learned anything this last year, it's to finally, sincerely believe that the other person has done their best, at every point along the way. And in spite of doing our best and in spite of, at each juncture, trying to make choices that will hurt everyone involved the least, we still walked away, wounded. It's like a car wreck; even when it's no one's fault, when all parties are doing their best to drive responsibly, accidents occur. People walk away wounded, or worse. Needing hospital care. Afraid to drive again. Shaken and haunted.

"Sadness is but a wall between two gardens," wrote Kahlil Gibran. That's a bright stone I find myself turning over and over in my hand, rhythmically, until it almost sounds like a prayer. Perhaps where I am today is standing in front of a wall that looks impossible to make a hole in or scale, even with the tallest ladder I can find in the back shed.

When I walk around in this garden, there is a sting when I see hard earth where I fondly remember laying (trustingly...innocently) back in a fairy ring of flowers. There is a twist of whatever that is that twists in our guts when I see a once-green, fruit-bearing tree toppled over, its roots askew the way a dead body's limbs lay in unnatural positions that you have never seen a human in even during dance, love-making or gymnastics. Dry, crunchy leaves still try to climb the garden walls in some last, desperate attempt to escape over and out. There is only the vestiges of what was once vibrant, green, buzzing with bees and fairly humming with the low, almost-indecipherable sounds of  insects walking in orderly lines, the slurping of roots underground as their always-thirsty mouths take what they need for growing, feathered bird wings flap and plump earthworms slowly turn earth over, seventeen pieces of dirt at a time.

Now the wind whips through empty air. Un-used oxygen catches the soonest plane out of town. Birds turn their downy heads away, skipping to some other richer earth in which to drop seeds and build nests and sing. They're not telling this garden's secrets; they're too well-bred for that. But that doesn't mean they are going to raise this year's batch of infants there, either.

There are not tulip trees here. And you know? I wouldn't want there to be. They have no place in this cemetary of dreams. They would find no rich earth with the worms having moved on. They wouldn't grow properly without a nest to weigh one branch down while another branch takes its turn growing. The tulip trees couldn't bloom without the muffled lullaby of fellow growing things escaping through ant tunnels and soothing them into a sweet slumber, dreams of growing teaching it which way to reach and when to stay in the bud and for how long.

Some days I press my ear against the wall of this garden and I swear I can hear life in the low murmurs of voices passing through stone. If I inhale while standing in the far corner of this nearly-lifeless garden, I swear I can almost smell Spring. I know there's life on the other side. A place where my tulip trees can be planted young and naive, properly nursed into adolescense, prompted into the quick adulthood and then endless twilight of tulip trees years.

Is this the year I find the gate that leads into that other garden? Is it finally almost time for me to pull back a dead, hanging vine to reveal the rusty doorhandle I've been looking for...well, nearly all my life, if I'm honest?

I'm reminded of the way things are in this day by the soft moans that come from that swaddled, still-bleeding heart that I so tenderly nurse. Will it ever heal and grow into the babbling, always-in-motion toddler that would run through the doorway and plop right down in the middle of a tulip tree blossom blanket?

There's no guarantee. Not with growing things. You can't get an insurance policy that covers hidden doorknobs or lazy earthworms. You can't numb yourself enough that finding the swaddled babe I'm sweetly suckling for now has died in the night won't level you for another day or month or decade. Growing things must be trusted to read their DNA with aptitude and eagerness. They must be allowed the space that a little blind faith makes for them to fatten in. Green leaves aren't greener because they were told to be. Doorhandles, as well, seem to be rather like growing things in that they present themselves when the time is right, just as surely as a peach becomes ripe and dripping with peach-sugar not a day early nor a day late.

Maybe I will sneak over to my parents' house some night and gather the blooms before the gardener can. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will tearfully ask my mother to pick some from the tree so that I can float them in a bowl of water and candles when no one is watching. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will drive out to a nursery early Saturday morning and buy a baby tulip tree for myself. Maybe I won't.

Each would require various amounts of faith...the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen...because they all say, in different voices, "She still wants a tulip tree."

I pull the still-breathing form at my breast a little closer and whisper into its left ventrical something no one else can hear. It seems to understand and begins beating a little quicker. After all this, it still wants to try again; it still keeps hoping to take its old place in my body...amazing, even after all its been through.

A door. Another garden. A hand-planted garden. A tulip tree. Maybe more. I inhale sharply. Hoping hurts. And yet...I can't help but hope. Maybe that's the piece my friend calls "God." Maybe it's not. I chuckle.

"God, the tulip tree." How silly. And yet that thought causes one tear to slide quickly down my cheek before I can brush it hastily away.

Binding the Feet of Our Instinctual Selves

In Clarissa Pinkola Estes' Women Who Run With the Wolves, she talks about the "Wild Woman" who is not "wild" in the sense that we'd call a teenager who is running around doing reckless behavior and is a whirlwind of excess and has no sense of self-control. No, this is a "wild" nature that is closer to the word, "natural," "instinctual" or "original." The best way to understand the nature of this "wildness" is to think about another example that is a little further away from ourselves before we turn and look at our own natures.

In early Chinese culture there was an insidious practice called foot-binding. When a girl was born to middle or upper-class parents, they would break her toes, bend her feet backward, wrap her feet with cloth, wrapping it around and around, her toes tucked under. This process began in early girlhood. By the time she was a woman, her feet would be actually folded in half; the bones grew bent back and up. A woman with a "lotus foot" was one whose feet were 3" long. The tinier the foot, the more desirable she was. The more desirable she was, the more hope she had of being married to a rich man. Of course this is eerily like the practice in our culture of starving women until they are thin as possible, but this isn't that discussion.

Besides the obvious discomfort that women endured as their feet were taught to bend backward, wrapped tightly in a position they were not meant to be in, there was the awful reality that this practice essentially crippled women. They could totter around but not walk fast or run. They moved around with tiny steps on their little nubs, but this was o.k. because if they were married to rich men, they wouldn't need to work or do anything physical anyway, except of course sit there and lie there and be the objects they were born and raised to be. They were simply ornaments and ornaments can be changed, revised, cut in pieces, tied up or any number of methods for making it into something that a man will want to consume, have, own and control.

When you imagine these women with their little nubs that they had to totter around on, you can picture them sitting in richly-decorated rooms, sipping tea with other nub-footed rich women, their every whim being indulged and no work required of them. It becomes a different story altogether when you imagine these women as young girls who wanted to run and play like their male contemporaries but physically couldn't. It becomes heartbreaking when you imagine a nub-footed young woman who is being physically victimized but can not outrun her attacker. Perhaps the worst image is one of a woman with bound feet, who knows the pain that it means, tearfully binding her own daughter's feet, knowing it is the only way she will find a husband.

It is easier to imagine that this happened in the early centuries and that the practice was obliterated long before modern culture. The awful truth is that foot-binding was finally outlawed in 1912 but couldn't be enforced in all cases. Lots of things are outlawed, but when women are the property of their fathers or husbands, the law takes a back seat to things like cultural traditions or financial gain. This story explains why a woman today, in her 60's has the tiny "golden lotuses" even now.

This movie is nauseating, sobering but imperative that we watch it:

*The narrator has the date when it was outlawed wrong, or at least it sounded like she said it was outlawed in the 1600's. In fact it was outlawed in the early 1900's.

This video is a woman's direct memory and narrative of having endured this practice as a young girl. These are very painful to watch, but that is why we must.

Contemplating the concept of the "Wild Woman" after the thoughts and feelings we have while watching and reading about the Chinese foot-binding process, the reality of the "cobbled feet" of our own wild/natural selves springs into stark relief. Modern woman don't have our feet bound, but we are bound, nonetheless. We come into the world with instincts intact, possibilities and potential as wide open as the ocean. We aren't repressed the way women used to be. That does not mean we aren't cobbled. This cobbling happens first when our instincts are repressed, bound up and allowed to rot away inside beautiful shoes.

Estes writes: "Sometimes it is difficult for us to realize when we are losing our instincts, for it is often an insidious process that does not occur all in one day, but rather over a long period of time. Too, the loss or deadening of instinct is often entirely supported by the surrounding culture, and sometimes even by other women who endure the loss of instinct as a way of achieving belonging in a culture that keeps no habitat for the natural woman....Most women have been captured at least for a brief time, and some for interminably long period. Some were free only in utero. All lose varying amounts of instinct for the duration." (p. 269)

The good news is that the feet of our instinctual, wild nature are not impossible to un-bind.

Estes goes on to explain, "Whether the injuries be to your art, words, lifestyles, thoughts or ideas, and if you have knitted yourself up into a many-sleeved sweater, cut through the tangle now and get on with it. Beyond desire and wishing, beyond the carefully reasoned methods we love to talk and scheme over, there is a simple door waiting for us to walk through. On the other side are new feet. Go there. Crawl there if  need be. Stop talking and obsessing. Just do it...." (p. 272)

A bit further on she tells the reader, "If our own wild natures have been wounded by something or someone, we refuse to lie down and die. We refuse to normalize this wound. We call up our instincts and do what we have to do." (p. 273)

Estes talks about how we can not wait for ourselves to heal completely before beginning this reclamation of our wildish nature. She says,  "The real miracle of individuation and reclamation of Wild Woman is that we all begin the process before we are ready, before we are strong enough, before we know enough; we begin a dialogue with thoughts and feelings that both tickle and thunder within us. We respond before we know how to speak the language, before we know all the answer, and before we know exactly to whom we are speaking." (p. 274)

There is a song that we all hear that our feet long to dance to. We may hear it only faintly. But we all hear it. It is that song that gives us the motivation to unbind our feet, hoping that someday we will be able to hear that song clearly and that when that time comes, we will have feet that can dance. Perhaps we don't know how to dance yet. We may not know another soul that dances. But there is still a kind of "muscle memory" of dancing; we KNOW deep, deep down in the knowing part of us that we hear the song. Just because the old woman with bound feet in the second video could never dance doesn't mean she wasn't made to. Her feet "know" they are meant to dance, not hobble around. We can plug our ears and tuck our feet under our chairs but we can always hear a note now and then, reminding us that there is "something more than this." 

For each woman (and man, for that matter), the binding of the instinctual, wildish nature is slightly different. Of course that means that the un-binding process is a unique one for each one of us. Our un-bound feet will propel us to dance different songs. We will each dance into a different reality. We may not know exactly what that is, this side of it. But we all know the edges of it. Why do I know that? Let's start with this...

*What would you do if you could do anything, no one would be hurt by it and no one would reject you?

*When you imagine a little, free-as-a-bird child "you" inside, playing as children do with utter lack of self-consciousness, stopping only when a hungry tummy growls, what is that little self doing?

*When you imagine finding that little "you," her chubby cheeks glowing from whatever busy-ness she was involved in, her bright eyes lit up with fun and pleasure and you imagine pulling her sweet little self up on your lap and telling her, "You are so good at _______" (whatever she was doing just then) do tears spring to your eyes? Do you feel a tightening in your chest? The song grows just a bit louder, doesn't it?

Our grown-up minds rush in with cautionary words about how we must be mature, we must be adults and how we don't have the luxury of doing what we want. If there is a stern, religious voice inside of us, it may say, "Your heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. You can not trust that little you or that 'knowing.' That is your sin nature and doing what you want is going to always end with you in wreckage. Your true nature is bad and must be redeemed."

But there is still that still, small voice. There is still the haunting notes of that song. Your feet tap a little, however hard you may try not to let them.


What would happen, if you unbound your feet? What would happen if you followed that song right into vibrant, soulful, rich-as-chocolate, thick-as-mud life? What if you danced right into the middle of that life, let your feet take over and your heart lead?

A Pound of Flesh

"A strange equation, and an altogether too-common belief: One's worth is exponentially increased with one's incremental disappearance." -Marya Hornbacher, Wasted

"It was horrific seeing those beautiful women reduced to sticks. [...] It's like we're killing these women in public. We watch while you die." -Russel T. Davies

*******************************************************************************
My first "real job" was as a copy writer/copy editor in the in-house advertising department of a locally-based department store called Gottschalks that has since gone out of business. It was a good job. I proof-read ads, wrote copy and worked with graphic designers to make sure the copy we wrote matched the graphics/photos they created. The photo studio was also in-house and I soon got used to beautiful people walking in and out of the office for photo shoots.

I was shocked, however, while standing in one of the graphic designers' cubicles, to find that photos of the already-thin, beautiful fashion models were being altered dramatically. Generous "slices" were taken off of all parts of their bodies right before my eyes. Small waists, hips, legs, arms and even faces were trimmed generously. It was not just this graphic designer; it was standard practice. Today I can still look at photos in ads and see the tell-tale signs of the chopping block: any outside lines that are blurry and not crisp have been altered. Try noticing this the next time you look at a magazine or newspaper ad. You'll see that the blurred lines are in all the places that normal, and even thin, women have curves.

I got mad all over again. You see, I had had an eating disorder that I'd gotten under control a mere two years prior, and truth be told, still did in my head (always will). Those women in those fucking ads had haunted me as I was growing up, taunted me and told me how much of a failure I was. To find out it was a lie, that they had had pounds of flesh removed with the drag of a mouse and a "click" while I spent days, weeks, months and years starving myself, running 3 miles even when I only consumed 600 calories a day, pinching pieces of myself between my fingers while I stood in front of the mirror, hating that I couldn't cut those pieces off. I remembered the A+ grades that were twice as hard to achieve because my brain was dulled and my head pounded. All those times I hung my head over a toilet, vomiting until there was nothing left in my stomach so that I could have a moment of feeling thin came back to me.

I'm not that unusual. 

The National Institute of Mental Health reports statistics that in real life mean:

-If you know 25 women, 5 of them have eating disorders
-4 of those are women between the ages of 12 and 25
-Of those 5, 1 will die of eating-disorder-related health complications
-Half of those 5 will never fully recover from their eating disordered behavior
-All 5 of those women are 12 times more likely to die than the other 15

And don't miss that these statistics are among women. That means if you are in a crowd of men and women, double the stats above.

It's no wonder. Every depiction of the female body in the media tells girls growing up that if they want to be beautiful, desirable, sexy, pretty, attractive and valuable they will be thin. These mind-boggling videos bring tears to my eyes when I think about my daughters and the other young women in my life.

An article which pictures Britney Spears in both "before" and "after" photos that she intentionally released makes the point that women have too much pressure put upon them to look not-natural. You'll see the arrows pointing to where the flesh was trimmed, cellulite removed and an already-beautiful shape morphed into what we would, without thinking, accept as an accurate-portrayal if we saw it in a magazine. Here is another pretty dramatic depiction of the "before" and "after" differences. Roll the mouse over each image to observe the differences.

Is there any hope? For years I didn't think so but in today's newspaper I found an article about some ground-breaking moves by the British government to curb the way the media's portrayal of women affects young women's view of themselves and their bodies in destructive ways. British government officials will be sitting down with members of the fashion industry next month and discussing ways to minimize the practice of airbrushing photos of women's bodies.

Fashion retailer Joseph of Montreal, Canada, will no longer be digitally altering body shapes in their advertisements. Read more of the story here.

These moves are not just important as they relate to the self-esteem of young girls who view magazines/advertisements/fashion shows. In November of 2006 a Brazilian fashion model died of infections caused by out-of-control anorexia and her family said she also struggled with bulimia. She was 5'8" and 88 pounds when she died. 

People are paying attention, it seems. Super-thin models were banned from Montreal's fashion week and encouraged to seek medical treatment. That story is here. A British study by fashion industry officials estimates that about 40% of models in the industry have an eating disorder, as compared to 3% of the general public (American stats are higher, it seems) and urge those with eating disorders be banned from London's fashion week. They are also calling for children under 16 to be banned from the catwalk. That story is here.

What can we do?

One of the things that is happening in the UK effort is advertisers are being urged to include a "disclaimer" similar to those that advertisers have to place on products like alcohol or cigarettes. This may be legalized, which would be fantastic, and will perhaps set a precedent the U.S. could be urged to follow. 

I called the FTC and the woman I spoke to clearly thought I was crazy to consider filing a claim against advertisers who airbrush photos. :)  She said she did not know of any such claims having already been filed but sent me to the website to type "airbrushing" into the search field. Nothing.

So I kept digging and found that, in fact, the FTC doesn't resolve individual consumer complaints. The upshot is that if they get enough complaints, they take notice.

Here's the list of things the FTC suggests if the consumer thinks a company is running an ad that is deceptive:

• Explore your legal options under federal and state statutes that protect businesses from unfair competition. For example, the Lanham Act gives companies the right to sue their competitors for making deceptive claims in ads.
• File a complaint with the National Advertising Division (NAD) of the Council of Better Business Bureaus, if your competitor's ad is running nationally or regionally. The NAD is a private, self-regulatory group affiliated with the BBB. It investigates allegations of deceptive advertising and gives advertisers a mechanism for resolving disputes voluntarily.
• Call your local BBB or file an online complaint with the Better Business Bureau if the ad is local. Many BBBs have procedures for resolving disputes between businesses.
• Contact the radio station, television station, or publication where the ad ran. Let them know that they're running an ad you think may be deceptive.
• Contact your state Attorney General's Office or your city, county, or state Office of Consumer Affairs. To get their phone numbers, check your telephone directory.
• Contact the FTC. By mail: Federal Trade Commission, Consumer Response Center, 600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, Washington, DC 20580; by telephone: toll-free 1-877-FTC-HELP.

So far, I've filed a complaint with the FTC, which was easy and quick. Here's the consumer complaint form: https://www.ftccomplaintassistant.gov/FTC_Wizard.aspx?Lang=en

I don't think dealing with the FTC is going to be the most effective method of combating this, but it's a start. Ultimately, the changes that are being made in the UK are changes that require people thinking beyond "what sells" to "what's right." I believe human beings are very capable of making such choices, even when they are physically or fiscally difficult. This action in the UK is beautiful proof of this.

I'm going to continue to try to figure out the best way to go about this. I'm hoping to stumble upon an already-existent effort/group/cause to this effect.  If you know of anything like that please email me at cherylensomdack@gmail.com.