No One Looks Good in Brown: And Other Things That My Grandmother Was Wrong About

My grandmother once told me, between puffs of cigarette smoke that I would never be as beautiful as my mother. This wasn't the first comment she had made about my physical appearance. It was just one particularly harsh anecdote among many, many others, like: "No one want's to buy an ugly apple," and "No one looks good in brown."
My opinions on the subject of beauty did not begin and end with my grandmother, though, she was indeed the source of many feelings of inadequacy and confusion.
While, now, well into my twenties, I have come to understand that my grandmother was so very wrong about so many things, she was right about one. Yes, my mother was and still is very beautiful; tan skin, long brown hair, doe eyes, a killer physique, even at fifty.
My father still comments, twenty eight years into their marriage, about how he can't believe he landed such a good looking wife. All the while, my mother stands in front of her full length, double panel mirror and scoffs at the dark circles under her eyes. She pulls the skin on her belly, evening out the stretch marks that she accrued over three pregnancies, almost two decades ago.
"What a drag it is, getting old," she always says. It's not her fault.

Now, I am almost twenty five years old, and I think, in actuality, I have come to resent beauty. I play along with it just enough to appease my husband; to feel feminine and reasonably attractive. I wear blush and mascara, I shave my legs, I use a night creme on my face. But that's about it. Of course I like to look nice, but I constantly struggle to find the value in working at being beautiful. Why even bother with attempts at improving my modest, mousy looks, if even my mother, whom I have been taught is my aesthetic superior, can't even muster the self confidence to accept herself, wrinkles, and all.
There are so many elements of appearance to be judged on these days, it seems that inevitably, I am doomed to fall short of beautiful. How could I amount to anything worth working for, if after all,  I will never be as beautiful as my mother- the very woman who made me- according to the very woman who made her. Maybe that is just defeatist, but I'm working it all out.
Okay, so I know that my grandma was way wrong. It's not that I will never surpass my mother in beauty - I don't think I need to do that - that's not a goal of mine. But, I know now, that I am inherently capable of being considered beautiful, just like her, and just like every woman is. There is no one standard for "it," and because that is true, there is no way of denying me, or anyone else the qualification.
While it's something that almost all of us seek, and I am obviously not exempt, it just feels, to me, that at a certain point, the pursuit of beauty can be such an unrewarding one. There are so many other things that I'd rather spend my time working towards, and it's just personal preference, to each her own, of course.

The things that I would rather be doing:
- Training for a marathon (or at least pretending to)
- Finishing all the books that I have started, and never finished
- Planting a vegetable garden
- Building a cedar chest
- Laying in the sun
-Learning to Fish (or just sitting in a little boat, on a lake somewhere. That'd be enough)

Things that I would rather spend my money on:
- A Costa Rican vacation
- A Kayak
- An upright piano
- Good wine (not that cheap stuff that comes in a jug, although I do always enjoy that)
- A really amazing pillow

I guess what I am looking for, at this point in my life, is some sort of middle ground, and I'll want to feel like I can rest there; happy with the woman that I am and the face that I am showing to the world when I leave my house every morning; more than happy, even, grateful.
My grandmother was not the most uplifting woman, as it would turn out, and I could probably trace a lot of my insecurities to the little comments that she would shuffle in to our everyday conversations. She probably thought they were harmless, or maybe she didn't care. She was raised in a different time. Yeah, I know.
I guess, all of this to say that I am over it and I am very much looking forward to the next half of my twenties as a more adjusted, confident woman, even if that woman doesn't exactly resemble a supermodel.

Potato Chips for Jack: and other thoughts on accountability

It's truly incredible how much a life can change within the small time line of just one year. Already, my son is five months old and every season is passing by with new meaning. Where once, I was content to daydream the days away, flittering about town, pretending I was some sort of artist, now I am responsible for another human's life. It's a little heavy and I don't deny that there are days I wish there was still room to flitter. It's a feeling I do try to suppress.

It's almost December and giving birth is a distant memory. I feel a little desperate - I see Jack growing in front of me like a runaway train. He has a sense of humor, now. And when I walk out of the room, he whimpers, he feels abandoned.
Every feeling he has - disappointment, sadness, confusion, joy - they're all magnified in me. Being a parent is just immense.
I lay awake a lot more than I should. I listen for his coos over the monitor, and I think about how I'm ever going to be enough for him. How am I going to teach my son about all the important things that he needs to know when I don't even know for myself, yet?
How am I going to teach Jack to eat healthy foods, when there are currently six different types of chips in my cupboard and two different kinds of ice cream in my freezer? How am I going to tell him to do well in school when I skipped approximately 70% of my classes, senior year of high school? What am I going to teach him about God and the Bible? What am I going to teach him about love? and death? and all the little meanings of life when I don't even know for myself? 
My biggest fear used to be that I would end up like my parents. I was so afraid that I would live the majority of my life imprisoned in a passionless, 9-5 existence, pinned by a regenerating mortgage. They have never crossed an ocean.
Now that I am a mother, I look at their lives a little differently and I know that I would do everything that they did, I'd work at a 9-5 job forever so that I could give my son everything that he ever wanted. I understand, now, all that they sacrificed to pay that mortgage, so that they could always keep a roof over our heads. I used to ask my mother what she wanted to be when she grew up, and she would say: "Your mom."
"Clever," I thought. 
So, now that I a mom, my fears haven't really changed all that much, they're just more dynamic, and the stakes are higher. Mostly, I am afraid that my son will see all of my failures, and that he will ask me questions that I will not know the answers to. I am afraid that he will not be proud of me.
There is no more time for flittering and dreaming. My kid is unknowingly and preemptively holding me accountable for all the things I want for myself. I no longer have the room to put off my best behavior, my best decisions. I eat healthier, today. I fold my clothes, today. I read the bible and thank God for loving me enough to give me such immense joy, today.

Every October

It is windy today!

Fall is blowing swiftly over the mountains in Colorado, surely to be followed by an abrupt and cold winter. For now though, the leaves are drying up and flittering down from their branches with a gusto. It is October; harvest. The season conjures thoughts of apple spices and cold bed sheets and red beer.

My mother's diagnosis came three years ago, around this time. Every October since, I am reminded of her struggle with breast cancer.
October is National Breast Cancer Awareness month, and okay, maybe there is something a little cheesy about dedicating a single month out of the year for giving our attention to the subject. Nevertheless, I cannot separate thoughts of fall from thoughts of cancer.

After radiation, endless experimental treatments and strong medications, she is in remission. Life feels close to normal, again, but it is a little different, now. Now, we are empowered and compelled; looking for ways to turn this around. 

I guess it's true that about 1 in every 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in her life. That is a huge statistic! The reality is, there are millions of women out there that are going through their own battle, right now. We have been blessed with some insight into recovery and have been given the beautiful opportunity to offer it up in support of the cause. 

So we've all heard of the Susan G. Komen foundation and the National Breast Cancer Coalition; they are doing incredible things for the cause. I wanted to sing the praises of an organization that is a little less known, but doing so much good for young women who have been touched by breast cancer and who offer some fantastic opportunities for those who want to get involved in the fight. 

Young Survival Coalition or YSC is an organization that exists more specifically for younger women who are diagnosed with the disease; that is to say, women who fall prey under the age of 40. YSC holds events like yoga retreats, wine tastings and charity walks to raise money and awareness, as well as educate and support those who are working through this disease.

To learn more about YSC or to make a donation, visit: http://www.youngsurvival.org/

What are you doing this month in support of the cancer survivor in your life?
Hm....wine tasting, you say?

Called to Serve

The day before our wedding, my husband, Aaron and I, sat down for a little marriage counseling with Dr. Love.

Seriously.

Dr. Rick Love, my husband's uncle, a brilliant man of God, who was going to marry us the following day, sat before us in a loud cafe, sipping carefully at his piping hot espresso. He began to read from his pocket bible, scripture on marriage.

"Your union is pleasing to God," He said. He seemed to take satisfaction in it, too.

He presented us with a list, the five factors that he considered to be the most important pillars of a successful marriage. The list consisted of some pretty basic elements - communication, patience, respect - of course, all things we had heard before. He then proceeded to offer two rather unique bits of advice, that stood out to us. He said: Find Jesus and find a way to serve together. It hadn't occurred to me before, that serving others, alongside my husband, could bring us closer together, but when he said it, I knew it would be true.

Fast forward a bit, Aaron and I just celebrated our one year anniversary, only a few short weeks after giving birth to a son. A new house, a new job, a new baby; we've had a busy year, and yet, I am disappointed to admit that we have contributed nothing to either the fourth or the fifth pillars on Dr. Love's list.

So, in an effort to take the first step in the right direction, for myself and for my marriage, I am opening up a new, ongoing conversation. 'All the Good Things' is now a place to share stories and information about inspiring foundations, charities, non-profits, organizations and individuals.
I am hereby pledging to serve my family, friends and community for the good of my marriage, for the good of my own spirit and because, well, it is pleasing to God.
And I am hoping to hear about the things that inspire you, for whatever reason: co-ops, charity events, fundraisers, walk-a-thons. New projects or old projects.

Because, there is a lot of good going on out there...

I Wish I Knew What I Know Now: and other thoughts on the quarter life crisis

My Dad is a know it all. He is absolutely unrelenting.

"You never stop learning, Dayna," He says.

At the dinner table he'd quiz my brother and sister, and I on State capitols and vocabulary words like "scintillating" and "runic." He'd even quiz my friends when they would come over after school.

"What is the only U.S. bill without a president on it?" 

Blank stares.

It really did annoy me; always interrupting our movies and harassing my boyfriend, but now, as I am approaching the ripe old age of twenty five years, I am confronted with a very similar urge to prove my intelligence to everyone around me. I'm not sure if that is a normal urge, but I am exploring it. I am also trying my best to suppress it because, as was the case with my father, it really puts people off...just obnoxious, really.

"You never stop learning, Dayna." I thought that was silly, because as far as I knew, school was over after the 12th grade, or if one continued on to college, not long after.  I did not realize, that upon graduation and receipt of my Bachelor's Degree, I would cling to my intellectual achievements as if they were the very pillars of my worth. After I graduated from college, I felt like I was being put out to pasture; retired into society as "complete" or "finished." That was it. I would choose a job, and hopefully that job would choose me and that was the end of it.
I did not like that feeling. I think I got a little depressed about it. And thus I began the stage of life I coined: my quarter life crisis. A fast forward montage of that would look like this: social seclusion, obsessive exercise, lots of wine. I quit five jobs in one year.
Now, a few years out and reasonably on the other side of that crisis, I have come to a few conclusions about the phenomenon of "learning," that I wish someone had told me a long time ago (not that I would have listened, if they had.)

What I Humbly Discovered:

1. There is ALWAYS going to be someone who knows more than you do, about EVERYTHING: It's a big, big world, and you are not the only dynamic, self aware person inhabiting it. I wish somebody would have grabbed me when I was 19 or 20, shook me and told me that very thing.

I think everyone wants to believe that their thoughts are profound and innovative, and sometimes they are. Mostly though, across the span of history, someone, somewhere has likely felt the way that you do. I don't mean to suggest that people don't have new ideas or new emotions. Rather, it's a humility thing; you might be really good at the flute or a whiz at algebra, you might know real pain or have true love but there will always be someone out there that is better and bigger and knows more about the world than you do. It's upsetting at first, but then, it's kind of exciting. It opens you up to a new kind of community and gives you the permission to continue to evolve and learn and grow up until the day you die. 
For a few ages of my life, in my own self absorbed bit of youth, I definitely thought that my feelings were more sage and important than anyone's had ever been before. I think youth is fundamentally flawed that way. Maybe not flawed. Maybe just underdeveloped in that way.
The realization that I was not the expert on all things connected me with the rest of humanity; there were people in this world that had things to offer me. I think people who don't find their way to this conclusion have a really hard time in life, and are probably really lonely, and sometimes they lose their cool in a mall and try and set of a pipe bomb. 
So obviously, I am a writer. Obviously, I must think I have something pretty interesting to say. Yeah, I guess that's still true. I guess that's why I am on the other side of that crisis and not still in the pits of it.

Okay, so my dad told me that you never stop learning. I think this must have been what he meant.

Involuntary Architecture: Thoughts on Becoming a Mother

As many of you may know, I am just a few short weeks away from becoming a mother.
Let me first say: Pregnancy is not for the faint of heart. I have a new respect for women who have carried a baby for nine months, as it is a marathon, not a sprint, not a hop or a skip, no jaunt - it is without a doubt the hardest thing I have ever done, and I feel pretty confident that it will be the best thing I have ever done. But we're not quite there yet.

Some women have truly lovely experiences. Probably not that many of them.
Others suffer through morning sickness, migraines, massive weight gain, swelling, constipation, acne, hair loss, mood swings and more. My pregnancy has been a sort of comedy of errors; kidney stones, car accidents, preterm labor and now, a breech baby.

Suffice it to say: I am ready to welcome my son into the world. Any time now, baby, any time.

As I come up on the last few weeks of gestation, I can, without much effort, come up with a tragically long list of complaints, aches and pains, inconveniences, and other negative comments regarding my feelings towards this pregnancy, however, I feel that would be belittling this beautiful privilege. So instead of whining, which I very much want to do, I have decided to make a tally of the things I will miss about the last nine months of my life, once baby arrives; the things that I thought were special, meaningful and just for me.

I will miss:

1. The first time I felt baby kick. There was the time I was laying in bed and it felt like butterfly wings, fluttering in my stomach. I wasn't sure then, but a few weeks later, when I was driving home from work, late at night, listening to the Beatles, I was sure; like popping popcorn. I squealed.
Now he does flips and my belly morphs from side to side. He juts out appendages left and right.
I want nothing more than to meet this little boy, and soon, but I know it will be bittersweet to watch him move and sleep and hiccup and not be able to feel all of it.

2. The freedom of wardrobe. Pregnant ladies can really get away with wearing anything. During these last nine months, I have been known to put together some pretty creative outfits in order to be comfortable; a necessity at every moment.
One night, while I was sitting at my desk at work, I looked down and realized that I very much resembled one of those California Raisin characters - the ones from the commercials that sing and dance like Ray Charles. I was wearing a purple sun dress over a black t-shirt and black tights with black flats - utterly ridiculous - simply not acceptable unless you are pregnant.

3. The donuts. I will definitely miss the donuts.

4. My baby body. Of course, I very much miss my normal sized body, but there is a part of me that has really enjoyed my belly. I feel like a woman - like I deserve to be a woman, somehow.
I wore a bathing suit to the lake a few days ago, and didn't have a care in the world. Insecurity is so far from my mind. I have a respect for my body now that goes so far beyond visual appeal. It all has a function now and I feel good.

There are surely more things that I will miss about the experience, and looking back, once I have that sweet baby in my arms, I know it will all seem so perfect and worth while - the good days and the bad days.
I am so grateful for the privilege to be able to build this little child of God's. How perfect and involuntary it has all been. I know that this has been fundamental to my human experience on this earth - something profound that I was meant to have so that I could better understand the meaning of life. I am truly blessed. 

And, here is a quick list of the things I am very much looking forward to, once baby makes his arrival:

1. Kissing the crap out of that sweet baby
2. Touching my toes
3. Sleeping on my belly
4. Crunches
5. Tequila, Cakebread Sauvigon Blanc, Lemon Drop Martinis
6. SUSHI!
7. Baby gas - the kind that makes them look like they are smiling
8. Goat Cheese
9. Spinning Class
10. Baby Smell

Top Five: What Books Are on Your List?

Your favorite books say a lot about who you are and who you want to be; who you are afraid of being.
So I am interested to know: What books are on your top five list and why?

My list reads a bit like the reading requirements for a twentieth century literature class, perhaps because that is where I have done the majority of my reading in the last five years, but, nevertheless, these are the books that thrill me, inspire me, captivate me, humble me and make me want to be something better.
In no specific order:

1. The Sun Also Rises: Ernest Hemingway

"Isn't it pretty to think so"

2. Lolita: Vladimir Nabakov 

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: tip of the teeth and the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap at three on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta." 

3. White Noise: Don Delillo

"What we are reluctant to touch often seems the very fabric of our salvation." 

4. Across Painted Deserts: Donald Miller

"And so my prayer is that your story will have involved some leaving and some coming home, some summer and some winter, some roses blooming out like children in a play. My hope is your story will be about changing, about getting something beautiful born inside of you, about learning to love a woman or a man, about learning to love a child, about moving yourself around water, around mountains, around friends, about learning to love others more than we love ourselves, about learning oneness as a way of understanding God."

5. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead: Tom Stoppard


"Audiences know what they expect and that is all they are prepared to believe in."






These all changed my mind in a big way about what I wanted out of life, and what I expected. I, of course, highly suggest reading any and all of them, if you haven't.

What makes your top five list? Why?

I Will Never Be On The Oprah Winfrey Show

It recently occurred to me that The Oprah Winfrey Show was in its final season. This wasn't exactly news, I had been aware of this fact all year, but it did occur to me, rather, that because the show was in its final season, I would never be a guest on it.
I never told anyone that it was one of my greatest aspirations, to be on The Oprah Winfrey Show. I never uttered the words aloud. It's a strange aspiration, I think. I didn't care how I got there, I just knew I wanted to do something worthy of being interviewed by the talk show legend.
Oprah was there from the beginning; on the air since 1986. I was born merely a year later to lower class parents in an industrial, concrete city in upstate New York. My dad worked for the concrete company, in fact, and my mom stayed home and watched the neighborhood kids after school for something like twenty dollars a week. At 4pm, while the other kids were playing kickball in the empty lot next store, my mom and I watched the Oprah Winfrey Show on CBS from the comfort of our denim couch.
Over the many years, I became quite familiar with the formula that Oprah used. Some episodes were aimed towards fun; an interview with a movie star about their latest roles and relationships or a show following her and her side kick, Gayle on an exotic vacation to Fiji or South Africa. Some episodes were tear-jerkers, usually the ones that aired on Mondays. She would interview a woman who's dog had been killed as her house burned to the ground after being fired from her job after refusing to have sex with her boss who was actually her step father; some messed up stuff. There was Oprah's Book Club, Oprah's favorite things, and then, there were the really inspiring episodes, where Oprah would interview people who were doing incredible things in the world; sending orphans to college, feeding homeless people displaced by natural disasters, overcoming great obstacles. Oprah would end up donating money or food or supplies in obscene amounts and someone like Celine Dion or Andrea Boccelli or Bono would sing at the end of the show.

At times in my life, I imagined Oprah sitting in the cream colored leather chair across from me and saying something like: "How did you survive?"
I imagined telling her about how hard it was to grow up poor, witness to alcoholism and drug abuse, in a neighborhood infiltrated with skinheads. I imagined telling her about how I overcame all of my great adversities to become an opera singer or a surgeon.
At other points in my life, I could see myself on Oprah's little stage, telling the story of my work in the inner city with abused teenage girls. A video would be playing in the background - a montage of moments with images of me playing soccer with middle school girls, me helping them with their homework, me making their dreams come true. The camera would pan to Oprah's audience and they would stand and clap and some would cry.
It really didn't matter to me how I got there or what story I would be telling when I did, but that was success to me. If I could just do something worthy of talking to Oprah about, I would consider my life "fulfilled."
But now, it seems I've missed my chance for greatness. After being taken for almost 25 years, the 4pm slot will be replaced with a new talk show about doctors or plastic surgery or something vacant like that.
I did think I would have a little more time. After all, I am only twenty three years old, and haven't even started to write my Pulitzer Prize winning novel, yet. I haven't really begun to accomplish any of the things I hoped I would. Barely scraping along with a part time job and $17,000 worth of student loans, I have no pending projects, no charitable work, no notable accomplishments to speak of.
It is a sad realization; that I will never be on The Oprah Winfrey Show, for any reason. But I don't think I will ever stop daydreaming about our imaginary interview. I still want to do something with my life that is worthy of her time. She is the cornerstone on which I have based all of my ideals. I may have run out of time to earn a segment on basic cable, but I still have time to write that best selling self help book, and maybe I'll use the money I make to build a  recreation center that mentors juvenile delinquents or to develop a program that teaches homeless individuals job skills. I still have plenty of time for all of that.

But I have to wonder, what will the world be like without Oprah? Will anyone's generosity be praised? Will anyone get to tell their story of survival? And if not, will people stop being generous? Will they stop overcoming adversity? I fear for the future of television, and thus the future of our culture if the 4pm slot is filled with celebrity gossip shows or political propaganda. I hope someone steps up to tell the good stories.

Marriage Is: Comparing Love Handles

I am no expert on marriage. My husband and I are still four months short of our first anniversary. But whether I like it or not, everyday I am learning more about what it means to be a wife, what it means to be yoked to another human, what it means to fulfill another's need for love and beauty.
The following statements are what I have found to be true of marriage, thus far.

1. Marriage is: Comparing Love Handles

I met my husband when I was fourteen years old. He was a sophomore and I was a freshman and no one was more handsome or fit. I wasn't too out of shape, myself, weighing in at just about a buck with long brown hair and dewy, young skin. Fast forward nine years, and we're still both young, and marginally attractive, but things certainly don't look the way they used to. Picture two comfortable twenty something's standing in their underwear, brushing their teeth, plucking their nose hairs, applying zit cream, comparing love handles. Marriage is: humility.

2. Marriage is: Flatulence Warfare

Everyone has gas. Some use theirs as a weapon. Marriage is: laughter.

3. Marriage is: Having Someone to go to Costco With

Because let's face it, a single person has no business shopping in bulk. Maybe we are simple and boring, but it feels good to be consumers together. Giant bag of dog food, check. Giant palate of NY Strips, check. Giant package of toilet paper, check, check. It's not just Costco, either; the library, the bank, the gym, the gynecologist. I consider it a good sign for our marriage that I want to spend every waking second with my husband and he wants to spend most of his time with me. But it's not that bad. I don't actually make him come to the lady doctor with me and he let's me off the hook when he watches TopGear. Marriage is: a best friend, a partner, a family.

4. Marriage is: Someone to Tell You When You Have Eye Boogers

One of the best compliments I have ever received was given to me when I was away on a school trip with my classmates, sharing a hotel room overnight with the other flute players in the band. Kate said, "You look amazing when you wake up in the morning when most of us look like we just went on a month bender in Vegas." I consider that one of the most generous things anyone has ever said about me. Imagine my false sense of security when waking up next to my new husband years later, pillow face, crusty eyes, morning breath; really attractive. Further more, imagine my surprise when he leaned over, kissed my eyebrow and told me how beautiful I looked in the morning. Oh, and that I had an eye booger. Love is: blind.

And so it seems that marriage is turning out to be a little less glamorous and romantic than I had always imagined. There are more disagreements about money and less candlelit dinners than I thought there would be. We are finding that there is serious work involved. And we're still new at this. But in these last nine months, bound in holy and unpredictable matrimony, I have learned that marriage is: such a gift.

Falling Short of Beauty: Thoughts on Vanity

Women do crazy things for beauty. That's no secret, although we'd like to think it was.

I recently began and subsequently finished a book by famous chick flick creator Nora Ephron, who is also responsible for such films as: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail. The book was called: I Feel Bad About My Neck. Let me just say, the book made me feel bad about my neck, which I think was perhaps not the point.

While funny and of course, expertly written, the book was 120 pages of embarrassing admissions of the secret things women do to become beautiful and stay beautiful; waxing, plucking, crimping, dieting, wrapping, pinning, stretching. The whole time I was reading, I could feel my self esteem slipping further and further into submission. Yes you're right, if I let them, my eyebrows would become tangled shrubberies casting shadows over my tired eyes. Yes, I too currently have eight bottles of shampoo in my shower, none of which do their job. Yes, I, like so many other American women, am guilty of devoting hours and days and weeks to an obsession over my physical appearance. I kept reading and I kept waiting for the epiphany in the story, but it never really came. 

Of course, I enjoyed the book, and surely Ephron is a brilliant, award winning author, but as such, she didn't offer much support for the strong, intellectual, and most importantly beautiful demographic that she was writing to; the modern American woman. After all of the success she has encountered as a sort of feminist writer, is this the most confidence she can muster?

The whole thing really made me think about self esteem and beauty and what it means to be a woman today. Let me preface this by saying, I do not consider myself a feminist, and I by no means advocate hairy armpits, baggy pants or going bra-less, but I do have a problem with fake hair, fake nails, fake tans, fake boobs, fake teeth....at what point does the word fake define you?

At the time I finished this book I will admit that I was enrolled at a monthly tanning salon, had more than $200 worth of makeup in my bathroom drawer, yes, eight shampoos in my shower and still spent hours of every day feeling as though I was falling short of beauty, somehow. 

I thought back on the times in my life that I felt most beautiful and recalled moments, smiling in the sun, sweaty after running six miles on a hot blacktop in August. It's where I met my husband. My legs were muscular, my cheeks were flushed pink, my hair was in a knot on top of my head and my dimples were on display. I wasn't wearing makeup or tight jeans, I was just how God made me and I felt probably even more beautiful than I would feel on my wedding day, years later.
Well I was seventeen, and it's been a few years since then, only a few, though. Could I get back to that moment, back to my most basic beautiful self? 

I've been thinking about that girl on the black top a lot lately. Somewhere along the road to womanhood, I lost that purity but I have to believe that being a woman in America amounts to more than maturing into a bitter, older version of our most insecure selves. Am I to believe that if I am successful enough to make millions of dollars writing hit films and best selling novels, I will, in the twilight of my life, still feel embarrassed by my natural self?

So I threw away some shampoo and canceled my contract at the tanning salon. It's a meager start, but underneath the orange paint, I am starting to recognize myself again and yes, she is pasty, but she is real.

Are you Called to Create?

One of my favorite authors, Don Miller (Blue Like Jazz, Searching for God Knows What) wrote recently on his website about the characteristics of a creator. He suggested that the following were true:

 1. A Creator loves what they do.
 2. A Creator knows how to do what they do.
 3. A Creator does what they do.

These facts seemed pretty obvious but when I compared them to how I was living my life as a "creator," I realized that I fell a bit short. I felt the need to examine these three facts in the context of my day to day life.

1. Do I love what I do?
   - I do love writing as a process of self discovery, which is why I enjoy writing narrative non-fiction, the most. Yes, the simple answer is: I do love writing, but I think that so much of the time, I sit down to the computer seeking the instant gratification of reaching the end, perhaps because I am seeking closure in the story that is actively happening in my own life. It is a complicated, dependent kind of affair.

2. Do I know how to do what I do?
  - Sometimes I really feel like the answer to that question is: NO WAY! I wonder, really struggle to understand how a person can ever finish a book. Taking a look at the NewYorkTimes BestSeller List, I ask myself, how is it that Paris Hilton can complete a book , but I haven't the foggiest idea how to even begin Chapter One?
   I am easily overwhelmed by the enormity of completing a project, but the question asks: Do I know how to do what I do? Not: Do I know how to make money doing what I do? So, I must remind myself, that - Yes, I do know how to write. I did spend $40,000 and four years of my misguided youth earning a degree to prove that fact. And I got A's.

3. Do I do what I ....do?
  -Well I certainly don't get paid to do what I do. Not yet, anyway. But that is not the question, I suppose. I get a little caught up in this question because I feel like if you are passionate about something, it shouldn't feel like work. I am learning that this is the very wrong attitude to have, especially when it comes to writing a book.
  On occasion, I feel inspired to "do what I do." It will hit me suddenly, often when I am driving in my car, and something poetic will just come to me - sense from nothing at all. I sit and write for maybe thirty minutes, maybe three hours, and usually end up deleting eighty percent of what I came up with or editing it down to five or six sentences.  Slow but it's something.
  Other times, I will feel obligated to put something down on the page. I will think about Paris Hilton sitting in front of her laptop with a thesaurus and a cappuccino, typing paragraph after paragraph of best selling bubble gum, and I will feel the need to contribute another few paragraphs to my "portfolio." So, I drive to the library and sit amongst the other daytime dreamers and sometimes I strike gold, but a lot of the time I start a new open ended vignette that I will very likely never return to.


Why is this important?
I think it's important to analyze the motivations behind our creative urges because at the heart of them, I think that they can be inspired by a desire to worship and praise a greater beauty or they can be inspired by a desire to pursue our own, selfish glory. So often it's the latter, at least in my case, and this is where I get caught up in insecurity, anxiety and doubt. As someone who feels called to create, I must keep in mind my ultimate motivations. What do I seek to achieve and why?

Are you called to create? How would you answer these three questions for your life's calling?