Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

When I was in Jr. High my mom let me wear make-up.  I was so stinkin' excited to finally get to wear make-up.  My favorite shade of eyeliner was blue, like electric blue.  And I didn't just put it on, I painted my eyes with it.  We are talking colored the entire outer lids with bright blue eyeliner.  I added to that a lovely shade of pink and purple eyeshadow followed by gobs of jet black mascara. Oh, but I wasn't done.  My favorite lip color was bright pink Wet' n Wild lip liner followed up with even brighter pink lipstick. It was quite the sight, folks. We're talking "lady of the night" look here. 

And even though my mom told me over and over again that I looked like a streetwalker, I paid no attention because I thought it made me beautiful.  After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and my heavily painted eye said I was smokin'. 

Fast forward twenty something years and my definition of beauty has changed incredibly.  You can all breathe a collective sigh of relief knowing that I don't sport the electric blue and hot pink color fest on my face anymore. But even so, I am not referring to looks when I say beauty. 

In previous posts I have alluded to the fact that recently my life has gone down a path that I never would have imagined.  Because of different circumstances, one being my health issues, I have traveled down a road that has taken me to some interesting places.  Along this journey, I have been graced with meeting (and reconnecting with) the most inspiring people.  People who have come in to my life at the exact moment that I needed them.  People who have shared with me their stories, struggles, and triumphs while navigating through treacherous times. People who have taught me, motivated me, lifted me up, and encouraged me when I was feeling like I was drowning in a sea of physical pain.  

I find it intriguing how much I take away from other people's stories.  I have walked away from conversations about personal struggles feeling empowered to face my own challenges head on.  There is great power that comes from sharing one's story, and even more power learning from others.

 I have found that stories of perseverance, courage, and determination to overcome the demons that people face ON A DAILY BASIS are what make people beautiful, in my humble eyes.  Demons that may have to do with unrelenting pain that takes over one's body, alcoholism, drug addiction, the mind chatter that says you are fat and because of that you are unworthy of love.  Hell, the demons that say you are unworthy of love just because. Have you ever known someone who WASN'T fighting a battle every single day in their own head?

I believe these battles are part of what makes us who we are. Throughout them, we learn just what we are made of.  We learn who we are at our core.  We learn what we believe in, what triggers us, and what makes us tick.  We even learn from the battles that we lose. Probably most from the battles we lose.  Often times, we are beaten down to the point where all we feel is hopelessness and failure. These battles intensify when our minds tell us that no matter what we do, it's never right or good enough. The question is, in every moment, do we give in to those thoughts? Do we let them take away our power, or do we fight back?  Those are the battles that scathe us with wounds that run deep. The ones that leave us with scars.  Beautiful, brave, glorious scars that remind us of all that we've OVERCOME.  

And then there are times where we come out victorious. Where we are able to sneak, stumble, or charge past those unrelenting negative thoughts, beliefs or addictions.  Where we stand strong in the conviction that, damn it, we ARE good enough and we are WORTH THE FIGHT.

How different would the world be if we started looking at people through their trials and weaknesses? How much more willing would we be to embrace those around us if we knew they struggled everyday with addiction? Or self loathing? Physical illness? Loneliness? Rejection?

How much more love would we have in our hearts for people if instead of judging them for what they look like on the outside OR how WE think THEY should be living their lives, we look into their eyes and allow ourselves to see and feel their souls?

One of my favorite quotes that inspired this post is this:

   

"If only our eyes saw souls instead of bodies how very different our ideals of beauty would be."

Before all of "this" happened in my life, if you would have asked me if I was beautiful, I would have said no.  However, being that I have come to know who I am down to my very soul BECAUSE of the battles fought within the past two years, I not only believe it, I know it.  I AM BEAUTIFUL. Not in the beauty queen/model sense of the word and not because I wear eyeliner and lipgloss like its goin' outta style. But because every single day there is a war going on inside of me.  Some days I win, and some days I lose, but I never give up.

Next time you find yourself in a full fledged war with yourself or even just a battle, take a step back, take a deep breath (take a lot of deep breaths) and repeat to yourself "I am worth it".  You are worth it, you are strong enough, and you will get through it.

And that, my dear friends,  is what makes you B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L.

Guest Post: I Used My Spiritual Practice as a Crutch-by Lauren Noreen

My head ached, a migraine from the day before hadn’t dissolved like I had hoped and my eyes burned from a restless night’s sleep.  I had certainly awoke on the wrong side of the bed. My partner, hearing my tired groan, placed his arm over my back in a gesture of comfort.  Tired tears welled up behind my eyes, but I pushed them down and gently maneuvered my way out of his embrace and stumbled out of bed.  It was still an early hour, he fell back to sleep and I silently stormed over to my meditation pillow.  

I set the timer on my phone for 10 minutes and closed my eyes.  I threw myself into my daily spiritual practice.  Despite the appearance of a more peaceful posture, I grew more and more frustrated.  With each exhale, I pushed the frustration back down.  I continued to sit until the timer went off.  The minutes of physical stillness allowed for some peace, but I continued to fume. 

Finished with my meditation, I brewed myself my routine cup of coffee.  Avoiding the tension that was bubbling up inside, I displaced it onto the coffee making process.  I jammed my hand against the drawer as I reached for a spoon and recklessly poured some milk into a mug, spilling it onto the countertop.  Again the tears bubbled up, but I pushed them down and moved to the second part of my practice: reading something inspirational.  

I opened up to my bookmarked place in The Untethered Soul.  I surrounded myself with my highlighter, journal and of course, the coffee.  The familiarity of this routine comforted me.  

I mumbled “Good morning, “ as my partner peered out of the bedroom, my eyes still glued to a passage about feeling your feelings.  Again I swallowed the anxiety that bubbled up in my throat, tightening the small muscles along my neck on the way. I highlighted the inspiring passage.  I knew it’s truth intellectually and told myself that I would save the feeling for later: I was doing my spiritual practice.  

I finished my reading and sat with my partner on the couch.  While he leisurely checked his email, I turned on the TV and hit play on my recorded episode of Super Soul Sunday, continuing my spiritual practice.  Oprah was interviewing Pastor, Robert Bell.  I enjoyed Bell’s interview until I was triggered by something he said.

Oprah asked Bell to share the details of his personal spiritual practice.  I was interested in hearing what kind of meditation he practiced and the style of his prayers.  

He paused and then replied that “his life was his spiritual practice.” His interactions with his kids, his wife, his work, the people he meets with everyday are all his spiritual practice.  

I felt sick to my stomach.  In that moment, I made a connection between Bell’s words and how I spent my mornings (and days) those past few months: I was hiding behind my spiritual practice. I was afraid of living my life.  My spiritual practice was controllable, neat, predictable and safe.  I clung to it and wouldn't’ let life get in the way of it... My hand was clenched with my spiritual practice inside and for that reason, the time spent in meditation and reading couldn’t expand out into the rest of my life.  I feared to let it all unravel.  

Instead of contracting further when I heard Bell’s message, I chose to expand.  I chose to soften.  I chose to receive his message. I knew that what he was talking about was what I wanted--an open-hearted life in which I was part of it all.  

I took a deep breath.  I chose to open up and take in his words instead of push them away like I had been doing all morning.  I clicked the remote to “off” and gently guided myself back to the moment.  I turned to my partner and embraced him with a softness that was absent when I awoke.  I relaxed into the uncertainty of the moment and allowed the pain I had been avoiding all morning to coexist with my open heart.    

Disclaimer: A daily spiritual practice is needed to connect us to ourselves and to rinse our minds of fear and reenergize our spirits. This must be translated into a living, breathing moment to moment conscious life in which we take what we’ve learned from our practice and practice it in our interactions with each other and the decisions we make and actions we take.   In this (true) story I hoped to highlight one of the ways we can use spirituality to avoid living our lives.  

Overtime I shifted my morning spiritual practice, not on the outside, but on the inside.  On the outside, I continued to meditate, drink my coffee, read something inspirational and pray.  It was the way in which I did all those things that changed. I remembered that the point of my spiritual practice was the quiet time and connection to help me to live my life with the loving, peaceful, focused consciousness that I desired

BIO: 

Lauren Noreen helps women and men drop the self doubt and fear that’s holding them back so that they can feel confident in attracting their heart’s desires.  She is a Teacher, Inspirational Speaker and Life Coach working with clients all over the world.  She is also a Certified Eating Psychology Coach and helps men and women find their natural, healthy weight, end mood swings and experience a better quality of life by shifting how they eat.  

She lives in Boston, MA with her finance, L.J. and her 2 cats.  You can download her new FREE audio guide: 3 Powerful Steps to Squashing Fear and Stopping Worrying here: 

Website: www.laurennoreen.com
http://www.laurennoreen.com/squashfear

And So It Begins: Part One

It all started about three and a half years ago. We were living in Mesa at the time and I began noticing a certain area of my stomach that didn't feel right.  At first, I tried to ignore it.  Sometimes, when I felt it with my hand, it scared me, especially the numbing sensation that occurred every time it was touched.  It was a large mass, as hard as a rock, that eventually began to protrude out making it look like I was pregnant.  Being that I had an extensive medical background (thank you WebMD) I decided to play doctor and diagnose myself with a gluten intolerance. My findings were confirmed when the mass didn't seem to bother me as much after cutting out wheat, at least that's what I told myself.  I felt better having found an answer that seemed to pacify the worrier in me and continued on with my life, being quite pleased with my bad-doctor-self.

Fast forward about six months.  We were now living in Utah. After settling into our house and finally getting back into a routine I started noticing lumps where there shouldn't be lumps.  Again, I began to worry.   I made an appointment to see a (REAL) doctor.  She did an exam and informed me that the lumps I felt weren't anything to be worried about. Phewww, crisis averted.  I was relieved and very grateful.

As she continued the exam she got very quiet. I had briefly mentioned my "gluten intolerance" issue and how my stomach felt very hard in that one place.  Upon further inspection she commented, "Wow, I don't like the feel of that".  Oh. Crap. She ended the exam and told me I needed to get an ultrasound done on my uterus, and that it had nothing to do with what I was or wasn't eating. An ultrasound on my uterus AND you mean to tell me I gave up gluten for no reason? Double crap. I started kicking my doctor self.

I made the appointment and went in for my ultrasound.  The lovely tech, who was performing said ultrasound, was very animated in her discoveries.  Halfway through, she started giving commentary about how this was the largest tumor she'd ever seen.  Every measurement she took she declared things like "Wow, I've never seen one this big" or, "You're going to have to have surgery".  I walked out of the ultrasound bawling my eyes out.  Crap.  I have a HUGE tumor and I am going to need surgery.  Damn you WebMD, you failed me......you failed me big time.

My doctor finally got back to me after what seemed like forever. She confirmed that it was in fact, a tumor, and that there were two options.  I could either leave it alone and wait and see what happens with it in three months (which looking back, now seems like the better option) OR I could see about having surgery to remove it and have it biopsied.

Fast forward a couple months, and two more opinions.  I decided to have surgery to take the beast out.  It was a pretty major procedure.  They cut me hip to hip, much like a C-section. Except with a C-section the stomach tissue and skin has had time to stretch and grow making it much thinner and easier to cut through, sew up, and heal. Mine was just all unstretched stomach and skin fat.  I stayed in the hospital for three days to recover, and boy did I milk it.   My little sister (the bodyguard/nurse) came and stayed with me attending to my every need.

Upon arriving home, I had strict instructions to not go up and down stairs. Crap. Bedroom and bathroom are upstairs, kitchen and food are downstairs.  And not to lift anything over 10 pounds for six weeks.  The doctor informed me that the tumor weighed one and a half pounds.  For even more dramatic effect she told me it was the size of a four month old fetus. (Oh, did I mention that I looked like I was four months pregnant?)  It was not cancerous, thank the heavens above, but she did say it was hairy. Um.....gross.

About a month into my recovery it happened.....the "incident" that caused the unrelenting pain that I have been feeling now for two years.  It happened when I bent down to pick up an empty laundry basket and felt the slightest twinge in my back. CRAP. CRAP. CRAP.  I was on the floor unable to move.  CRAP.

That was the day my back went "OUT".......and to this day, my back has not found it's way back IN.  

To be continued....

Lessons Learned as a Teacher in the Hood

I am very grateful to say that I have lived in some pretty cool places.  When I graduated from high school  I moved from Boise to Salt Lake to attend Westminster College.  While there, I got my teaching degree AND met my husband, Mr. X, through a mutual friend.  Mr. X and I got married and he finished his undergrad at BYU and applied for Law School.  After applying all over the country we narrowed down our options and finally ended up packing up what little stuff we had and moving to Upstate New York.

I LOVED everything about Upstate New York.  I loved the people. Some of the nicest people I have ever encountered were native Upstate New Yorkers. I loved that I got to teach African refugees how to read, and tutor their kids in their schoolwork.  I loved exploring the outlying towns that were so quaint and beautiful.  I loved looking out over the hill we lived on and seeing luscious shades of green for miles and miles, and then when the colors turned in the Fall, the majesty and beauty of it was indescribable. I honestly don't think I have ever seen anything as beautiful as fall in New York.   I loved the cute little college part of town where we would go to get the best eggplant parmesan known to man.  I craved that little Italian restaurant on a daily  basis.  I can still remember the pizza place, with the wings and the thin crust pizza that made you drool when you dreamt about it.  And there was that one day when  I found the best sandwich shop ever. Needless to say, we spent a lot of time eating out our first year there. Oh, how I loved that little town.

As soon as we got settled I set out to find a job.  I wanted to teach. The only teaching position that was available was for a junior high Spanish teacher.  I don't know what possessed me to think I could teach Spanish to junior high kids, but I set up an interview anyway. I showed up shakin' in my boots and nervous as all get-out but determined to make it a good experience.  I sat down and we went through a series of questions.  Everything flowed smoothly and I felt confident about how it went.  After, I really did expect to hear her say that I was hired. But instead, what I got was, "Look, I think you are cute, and nice, and you will make a great teacher, but these kids will eat you alive! This is a rough school,  and you are just too sweet." Then she ended with, "There is a position for a bilingual teacher at an elementary school. I think you will be perfect for it." She passed on my info and the next day I got the job over the phone-yes, they were THAT desperate.  It was the best teaching job I ever had......it was the only teaching job I ever had.

I started teaching in an inner-city elementary school in Syracuse, New York.  Not only was it my first year, but I was teaching a bilingual class.  BILINGUAL CLASS.  I had learned Spanish in Spain....while on a mission.....for my church.  My Spanish was good, but it wasn't THAT good!  The kids that I taught were from Puerto Rico.  I thanked the heavens above they gave me a full time assistant, who was also from Puerto Rico.  I dove in head first and loved every second of it.

I soon came to learn that life in an inner-city school was far different from any life I had ever known.  Every single day, before turning the kids loose for recess, my assistant and I combed the playground for knives, swords (yes, we found an actual sword one day) guns, and drogas (that means drugs in Español).

One particular day, while outside, everything was flowing beautifully. All the kids were playing merrily, running, laughing, doing what sweet, innocent kids do, when all of the sudden there were sirens, and LOTS of them.  Within minutes of hearing the sirens we watched as eight cop cars pulled up to the house LITERALLY across the street from the playground.  I was in absolute shock as a group of policemen, all in bullet proof vests mind you, jumped out of their cars and proceeded with a drug raid.   TRUTH.  We were right across the street from this horrific scene and the horrible thing was I was the only one watching in horror.  There we played, naked and exposed to any bullet that should come our way (and by naked I mean without bullet proof vests and cars to hide behind, GASP). My assistant (who lived in the neighborhood) and the kids were so used to this scene they causally glanced over now and then to check in with what was happening and then went on playing.  I was in utter disbelief and I feared for, not only my life, but the sixteen lives I had been entrusted with. What if the people inside the house had started shooting? In our direction???  I yelled at my assistant to herd all the kids and get them inside.  She looked at me and said, "Oh Miss Ericka, we are okay, they are used to this."  My response was, "GET THESE KIDS INSIDE!!"  We made it back safely, without harm or gunshot wounds to the head.  Apparently, the house across the street was a well known casa de drogas and they arrested the guy inside, no shots fired.  I went home traumatized that night.

There were funny things that happened in that little classroom I loved so much. One day I was doing a lesson on insectos (bugs, if you will).   I kept using the word that I had learned in Spain for bug (which was not insecto btw). Every time I said the word my little students would giggle profusely.  Some of them even turned red in the face.  After about the fifth time using the word my assistant, pulled me aside and said in Puerto Rico that word was slang for a man's, ahem, you know what. I had repeatedly said "dick" over and over and over again.  "This dick goes from a caterpillar to a beautiful butterfly, and this dick curls into a little ball to protect itself, this little dick bites, and those bites can really sting",  I think you get the picture. I was, of course, mortified and wanted to crawl into a hole.  My kids however, thought I was the funniest person on the planet.  I still laugh about that experience to this day.

There is yet another experience that I will never forget.  It was when I was teaching the unit on Community Helpers. We were on a walk around the school and we came across a cop car.  I felt this was a good opportunity to talk about policemen and how they serve the people. We stopped and I started an impromptu question and answer session, that didn't get very far.

Me: "What do policemen do?"
Josef: "Take away our mami's and papi's".
Me:"...................uh......"

That. Broke. My. Heart. These kids were growing up in a place where their visions of the world were so completely skewed because of the choices their parents made....because of the choices their parents made...and their parents before them.   They grew up in a world where all they were taught was how to SURVIVE living in that part of the "hood".  A lot of those kids looked at Police as the enemy: men and women who came to their house in the middle of the night, banging on their doors, hastily barging in and taking over their household. All while watching their parents scramble to hide whatever substance/weapon they had that was illegal.  I actually watched this scenario play out when the kids interacted in the "house" center. These kids didn't act out "mom cooking breakfast with baby in the crib, and dad getting ready to go to work" like I did when I was their age.  They acted out the scenarios that took place in their homes when their parents were taken away to jail.  They wouldn't run to a cop if they were in trouble, they would run from them because in their world, cops were on the side of the enemy.

 I had a mom who was in jail for murder, a dad who was a known drug dealer, and who knows what else, I would hear stories of how moms (some of them still teenagers themselves) would take their kids to parties till three a.m the night before and drag them from house to house.  I had kids who wore shoes that were two sizes too big and didn't have coats, in negative degree weather. There were some who had never been to a farm, or gone far enough from their community to see a cow in real life. While others who had never read a book, and didn't know what a horse said, or a lamb. Sometimes the only meal those sweet babies got was lunch in my classroom, and you can bet that we loaded them up.  If they wanted thirds, they got thirds.

I also had moms and dads who were good hard-working people.  Who tried to instill in their kids honesty, loyalty, hard work, and how to rise above the violence and crime that plagued those streets. I had single parents who worked 3 jobs and were still on government assistance to provide for their families. I saw and heard things that made my head spin. I learned to love and accept every single one of them.  The parents who dragged their children all over town till three in the morning, the parent who worked a night shift, only to turn around and go work a day shift to be able to put food on the table, the druggie, the partier, the teenage mother, I loved every. single. one. of them.   After all, that was the only world they had ever known themselves.

One incident in particular, happened when two of my students got in a fight. The fight resulted in punching and physical violence.  After breaking it up I sat down with each chico and we talked about other ways to resolve issues that didn't include hitting or violence.  Later that day, when the kids were being picked up I explained to one of the dads what had happened and the conversation I had with his son.  He pulled me aside and told me to never tell his son NOT to physically fight again! And that in that neighborhood it's either fight for your life or die.  I was speechless. I was so naive to all of that I just sat there dumbfounded not knowing what to say. A lot of those kids were taught from the time they could walk those exact sentiments.  They saw the kind of violence and activity that I only saw on tv, in their own streets....in their own homes.  It was a whole new world.

I ended up only teaching for a year and a half.  I got pregnant, had #1, and never went back.  The time that I taught in Syracuse will forever be one of my favorite experiences.  I learned so much. And I loved those kids beyond words. I find myself wondering where they are at in life.  It's a cliche, I know, but I ended up learning more from them than I could have ever possibly taught.