Tag: beauty

Holy Water

It’s late. The babies are finally sleeping…nested snugly into their cribs. I am at the kitchen sink, arms deep in hot soapy water. The dishwasher runs beside me but there are always those stragglers I end up cleaning by hand.

Dishes. I hate washing dishes. It was my chore growing up and in a household of seven it was the chore than never ended.

Tonight though, I am more reverential about washing cups and plates. I think of the millions of women around the world joining me in this act. A gift really for our families. And in that moment I realize that I’ve dipped my hands in holy water. Cleansing water. Perhaps even healing water? After all, to serve others often patches up one’s own soul and can soothe the wounded places.

This holy water tears down party lines. There is no stay-at-home Mom versus working Mom. Mother of six versus Mother of one. Wife versus single woman. There are only women. Weary from a long day and yet cleaning up the remains of a meal. They scrub the grime off, rinse and dry. They create order out of seeming chaos. They love through their hands. Holy water unifies.

There are also distinct marks that come from touching holiness…from participating in sacred acts. I think of Moses aging after he caught a glimpse of the tail-end of God’s majesty. Holiness marks us. I pull my hands out of the sink, wrinkled like prunes and know that later they will be dry and slightly chapped.

Holy water, not reserved for special occasions or important people. Poured out. Sprinkled over. Young, old, here and far away. Beauty and blessing in the small and repetitive moments of an ordinary life.

And suddenly I am thankful. Grateful for my children, my siblings, my  husband. Even thankful for the dogs. This holy water that I dip into also empowers me to pass it on. I am priestess of the suds. As small silverware and sippy cups pass through a rinse, on their way to the drying rack, I bless the tiny lips and miniature fingers that have touched them. I send up a blessing for the baby sister whose juice glass I swish in the soap. I pray for the husband as his dinner plate is scraped clean. Here, at this piece of counter beneath a fogged window in a small kitchen, much has been granted to me. The weight of this responsibility is sobering.

Still, more than that is the joy. This. This life. This little sliver of the mundane has been given to me. An indescribable gift. I smile. Run more water. There are more dishes to come.

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Thankfulness

I turned 29 this year. However, the way I count I am actually in my 30th year and when this September rolls around we will be celebrating the close of my 30th year and marking the beginning of my 31st. Birthdays are a big deal to me. I love celebrating them. Even more than January 1st, I view my birth day as a new beginning.

This past birthday was momentous in my mind as I was entering my third decade of life. I spent almost the entire month mulling over my life (I know, sounds pretty melodramatic). In the week before my actual birthday I decided to mark this year with a word.

Thankfulness

At the time it sounded so great. It was a word near and dear to my heart. I wanted something that I would fashion this year around. I wanted a daily reminder to stop and be present.

Well crap.

Being thankful is so easy when life is a breeze. When s**t hits the fan, being thankful is TOUGH. One thing led to another and the last four months have tested my ability and willingness to remain thankful. I have not done a good job. I’ve spent more time grumbling. Moaning. I can think of uglier words to describe my response to this season I am currently journeying through. The short and sweet of it is that I was(am?) being a real party-pooper.

Externally I’ve held it together. In hindsight I’m not sure that was a good thing or not. I guess I felt relieved that at least my family and friends weren’t subjected to my foul moods. My poor life partner was not so lucky. Let me tell you, hitching your wagon to some one else’s means there can be a lot of that s**t  to shovel. But I digress. That subject is worthy of a post of it’s own. I may have spared a few people the uglies but it also meant that the last few months have left me feeling very isolated. When you’re not honest with your community they can’t be there for you. My fault. I take complete responsibility for that one.

So now here we are, six months into my year of thankfulness. And I just wanted to take a moment. Pause. Recalibrate. I want to remind myself and those who feel the ripple effects of being in my presence.

I am thankful. Still. It’s an active thing. I am being thankful. I am trying.

So if you think of it, remind me gently to be thankful if it looks like I am struggling. Because I want to OWN this word this year. I don’t want to let any one or anything steal my thankfulness.

Am I out of the woods yet? Nope. The storm is still raging over here. However, the lighthouse works and by remaining thankful I have a beacon of light marking the course through rough waters.

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Where to begin?

Healing sometimes slips in quietly. Crawls into the bed and envelopes the body…leaving one warm and comforted.

Healing is sometimes the result of hard work. Day after day of conscious choices to forgive. To let go. To move on. A little like climbing a mountain where the view at the top is ample reward for the backbreaking work of reaching the summit.

Healing sometimes storms the gates. It forces knees to hit the ground and rolls over the body. Causes racking sobs. Deep heaving. Loads of tears. And when the passion of the moment subsides it leaves behind a clean slate. Like the clear, still ocean water after a fierce downpour.

Sometimes we pray for healing.
Sometimes we want to run from it.
It can be freeing.
It can be scary.

And the truth is, even when the healing has taken place, there is still a scar. Some evidence of the pain remains and we carry it with us. Forever. No wait, I take that back. I believe in the next life I won’t bear the scars I carry in this one. I will be whole. New. Unblemished.

What a relief.

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For the Interim Time–John O’Donohue

For the Interim Time

When near the end of day,

life has drained

Out of light, and it is too soon

For the mind of night to have darkened things,

 

No place looks  like itself,

loss of outline

Makes everything look strangely in-between,

Unsure of what has been, or what might come.

 

In this wan light, even trees seem groundless.

In a while it will be night,

but nothing

Here seems to believe the relief of dark.

 

You are in this time of the interim

Where everything seems withheld.

 

The path you took to get here has washed out;

The way forward is still concealed from you.

 

“The old is not old enough to have died away;

The new is still too young to be born.”

 

You cannot lay claim to anything;

In this place of dusk,

Your eyes are blurred;

And there is no mirror.

 

Everyone else has lost sight of your heart

And you can see nowhere to put your trust;

You know you have to make your own way through.

 

As far as you can, hold your confidence.

Do not allow your confusion to squander

This call which is loosening

Your roots in false ground,

That you might come free

From all you have outgrown.

 

What is being transfigured here is your mind,

And it is difficult and slow to become new.

The more faithfully you can endure here,

The more refined your heart will become

For your arrival in the new dawn.

~John O’Donohue

To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

 

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So long Victoria’s Secret Model

Since I was about 17 I have had this “dream” of becoming a Victoria’s Secret model. There I was a quiet, studious young woman who dressed modestly and was more wallflower then center-of-attention and yet I wanted to prance around in frilly underwear for a camera. I went to college and still the dream clung to me. I liked to whip it out for shock value on occasion. My poor boyfriend at the time almost always cringed when I mentioned it…being the conservatively raised Christian man that he was a Victoria’s Secret model was not really on the top of his list of career choices for the person he hoped would be his future wife.

Funny thing is, the whole dream wasn’t too far-fetched. I was a classically trained ballet dancer with great bone structure, clear skin and not an ounce of fat anywhere. In fact, when I quit dancing and headed into the real world it came as a shock to me that my body type was fairly rare–most of my female peers were curvier than me. I was never serious enough to pursue any kind of modeling and ended up with a degree in English literature, married to that sweet man I mentioned earlier. The dream lingered however.

Then along came Emma and with her arrival any “dreams” of being an underwear model went up in smoke. When was the last time you opened a lingerie catalog that displayed women in lacy camisoles and fading stretch marks or small bulges in select areas (namely thighs and stomach)?
I lost all the weight gained during my pregnancy by the time Emma was four months old but my body had changed shapes permanently.

Funny thing is, I don’t care.

All of a sudden that “dream” of being a Victoria’s Secret model was exposed for what it truly was, my own feelings of insecurity about my body image. I may have been fit and trim as a teenager but I was also extremely tall and was often called “big” by family members. I would never fit into a size 2 pair of pants. I had an athlete’s body so there weren’t a lot of curves either, which left me feeling less than feminine when it came time to go bra shopping. The “dream” was really more about a way to express what I thought I wanted to look like and what I thought the ideal female body should look like.

I stand in front of the mirror today and I am happy with what I see. I like the new me. Could I be a little more in shape? Of course. What girl doesn’t think that losing a few pounds would be a good idea? Do I want abs that actually look like there are muscles behind that belly button? Absolutely. But I don’t want to look like the girl in the catalog who doesn’t actually resemble any of the real women I know.

And you know what else? I say bring on the wrinkles caused by hundreds of smiles and hours of laughter. I say bring on the gray, silver and white hair that marks me as older and wiser. I say bring on those weathered looking hands that have worked tirelessly to care for a family and for friends. These are the true marks of beauty and no underwear model can rival that.

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