My First 5K

I’m not sure how I got it into my head that I wanted to run. My whole life I had denied that this was the sport for me.  Through seven years of club and high school swimming I insisted I had chosen the sport because I did not want to run. Maybe it was the fact that Southern California lacks an abundance of public pools, or the fact that I saw running as a convenient way to get in shape just out my front door. It was probably grace and glamour of Katie Homes jogging through Boston in the opening credits of “Dawson’s Creek,” calling me to embrace my inner girl-next-door turned supermodel.

My first 5K was not actually my first 5K.  It was my third. I first began training for a mother-daughter 5K that was usurped by a handsome kidnapper – my husband stole me away to propose the weekend of the race.  He flew us to Boston, and while his proposal in the park was exhilarating and unforgettable, no running took place that weekend.

My second 5K happened later that year. I signed up for the Electric Run with some friends and family who were avid runners. The great appeal of this run was that it took place at a sane PM hour, rather than an early Saturday morning.  Months passed, but I couldn’t find the motivation to train. I had been taking classes sporadically at a local gym to prepare for the wedding, and I thought the race would motivate me to do more cardio. Instead, thoughts of running filled me with lethargy. This new goal turned out to be more of a deterrent than the motivation I’d anticipated.

The night of the race came, and I dreaded it. Our group dressed in neon yellow and flashing jewelry. We waited in the bustling crowd of nightmarishly costumed neon runners buzzing with excitement. Electronica filled the glow-in-the-dark atmosphere. We pushed forward in the crowd until finally, our wave was set to start. The buzzer went off, the ropes were lowered, and the crowd surged forward.

It was a disaster. My fellow runners were off at a full sprint, and my calves and lungs burned in protest by the time we rounded the first corner. I had to fall behind. My blessed mother-in-law to be took pity on me and stayed at my pace. When I was desperate to walk, she was encouraging. Her energy got me through. I attempted to run a few more times, and failed - my legs, my lungs, my blinding side cramp, all overwhelmed my pitiful and defeated will to push forward. When our course wound its way next to the next leg, no suggestion ever came with such relief as my mother-in-law’s encouragement to skip over the barrier and cut the distance of the race.

At the finish line, my relief was matched only by my disappointment in myself. I was the youngest in our group to race, yet the most out of shape.  Running the race had been impossible and, thanks to our short cut, I hadn’t even completed it.  Beaten, I resolved to close the running chapter of my life on a note of failure.

When I got married several months later, I was in my best shape since high school, but one that deteriorated quickly after a three-week dream honeymoon in Italy.  Upon returning home, I was determined to get back into shape. Really, I was high on fitness and wanted to continue what I had started before the honeymoon. As I gradually saw my body continue changing, my confidence grew. With confidence came a seed of hope: maybe I could learn to run after all.

This time, I decided I would train before signing up for a race. That way, I wouldn’t feel as pressured, and I would be able to go at my own pace. I downloaded the “Couch to 5K” and “Map My Run” apps, and I was off and – huffing and puffing.

On those first “runs,” I could barely jog the one minute intervals. I would find myself desperately watching the numbers count down the last 20 second of each of those minutes as I struggled to maintain forward movement. Running. Was. Hard.

Still, it was rewarding to see how quickly I improved. Within the first few workouts, I improved my distance by .8 of a mile. Each time the intervals got longer, my distance would decrease slightly as I adjusted. Inevitably, it inched back up around 2.5 and eventually up to 2.8.  Then one day I was suddenly hit by the surreal fact that I could run for intervals of 15 and 30 minutes straight. The impossible was becoming reality.  Then, it happened. My coworkers were signing up for a race. Sure, I was improving. But was I ready to face my failure again?

Leading up to the race, I set goals for myself. While I hoped to run it in less than 30 minutes, I wanted a goal I could sink my teeth into. I wanted to run it. No walking, I promised myself. No matter what. It may have been my third attempt, but it was the first time I was determined to conquer all 3.1 miles of asphalt.

As it turned out, I missed my start.  Trying to “get in the zone,” I was unaware that I was standing at the start for the 10K, not the 5K. Luckily, some more attentive onlookers kindly informed me that my race had started, and I had better catch up. And so I ran. I ran at my own pace, fueled by the music pumping in my ears and the thrill of passing many who had started before me. Go at your own pace. Just keep running. No matter what.  I clung to my mantras like an invisible rope pulling me forward.

When I finally saw the finish line, I wanted to speed up but my legs stubbornly refused to carry me any faster. I simply kept running, and running, and running. As I crossed the finish line, I was glad for my sunglasses. My eyes welled with tears, and my heart swelled with accomplishment. I had returned to the site of my failure, and this time, my determination and hard work were greater than the pain and the difficulty. I was not the fastest, not by far. Nor did I beat my goal time, coming in at just over 32 minutes. I didn’t care. After two years of struggle, I had finally run my first 5K. 

Prayers of a Perfectionist

"Conversion, Again."

Again

Again
Again

I walk with you

Hand in hand
I dance with you
Each day anew
Morning light
Shimmers
My heart is full of you

I dance on my own

My grace
Pleases me alone
I dance on my own
Spinning, no steady grip
 
Slip
Stumble
Slam

Why did I let go of your hand?

I shouldn’t
I shouldn’t
I shouldn’t have

I fight with you

Push your hands away
How dare you
I can do this alone
On hands and knees
Pick the pebbles from my palms
I feel you but I don’t look up
Can’t let you see my wounds
Can’t let you see

The copper trickle flows

A sinking feeling
I know
I’ve fallen
To where
I belong

Ripped

Ragged
Raw

Won’t let you look

Won’t let you touch
Won’t let you see

If I hide…

If I hide it doesn’t get better
Don’t look but please see
Can’t pretend away the pain
So

I surrender

Hold my heart out to you

Wash away the wounds
Clean again, and healing
 
My scars remind me
They remind me
There is no pain
That won’t end
No road I walk alone
No death where you can’t breathe life

Born from above
Again
Again
Again

 

 

 

 

"I'll Let You Love Me When"

 

 

 

I’ll let you love me when…

When my face is painted and my nails are polished.

When the bed is made and the laundry is folded.

When my race is run and my jeans fit right.

When my flaws are gone and I’ve earned my worth.

I’ll feel you love me when…

 

When I just wake up and you want a kiss.

When you laugh at me and I throw a fit.

When it all goes wrong and I’m still enough.

When I love who I am and accept what I’m not.

 I’ll never be

                        Fixed

                                    Healed

                                                Perfect

                                                            Done

I’ll always be

                        Held

                                    Wanted

                                                   Yours

                                                             Loved

 

 

 

Lessons in Love

I had such a hard time choosing my mom's birthday present this year. I wanted to get her something that would be really special, something that would show her how much I appreciate the wonderful mother she has been, and the gifts that she has given me throughout the years. As I reflected on those gifts, it did not take long before I realized what I wanted to share with her. Not so much a material object (don't worry, Mom, that's in the mail!), but a deeper understanding of the lasting impact that her love has had on me. And, as I believe she accounts for about 80% of my blog hits (You don't have to keep checking back, Mom. You can just put your email address in the box on the right, and you'll be notified by email when I post), I thought this would be a great place to do that.

 

It is a popular notion that our operative images of God are shaped in large part by the roles our parents play in our lives. In reflecting on my own image of God, I have to say that my mother that has had the greatest impact in this area. My mother's capacity for expressing love is what I believe to be her greatest asset; love is simply her way of being. I would like to share three examples of the way my mother's actions have shaped my understanding of God's love for me.

 

First, my mom celebrates occasions to the fullest. She has a joy and a zest for celebration that inspire all kinds of wonderful festivities. As a result, my childhood memories are filled with ways my mom sacrificed her time and effort to make things special to us. And I have no doubt that she never saw what she did as a sacrifice; she loved every minute of it. On my first day of school she baked and frosted a cake in the shape of a butterfly. Each year for the Superbowl or the Academy Awards, my mom would bake an array of appetizers so that we could graze while sharing the event as a family. When it came time for our birthdays each year, we would plot with excitement about what we would ask her to cook for a dinner, and she always came through. For every season and occasion, my mom had decorations and food and themed family activities that we could do to mark it as special. Her selfless enthusiasm and hospitality are qualities I hope to emulate in my own family.

 

Growing up, my mom certainly made each occasion feel special, but she also made my brother, father, and I feel we were special. She found little ways to love each one of us, and show us that we mattered. From the little notes she left in my lunchbox (which she packed every day), to the baby powder she always sprinkled on freshly changed sheets, my mom took the time to love me down to the last detail.  When making dinner, she would make two kinds of spaghetti sauce because my dad liked it spicy and I did not. She would make an extra batch of cookies without nuts, so that everyone could be happy. The brilliance of her parenting is that somehow, we never felt entitled to this treatment, but instead grateful that she took the time to care for us. (I suspect there may have been some coaching on my dad's part to get us to appreciate all the extra work she did.) When deciding on family activities, she takes everyone's opinion into account, and takes the time to find something we will all love to do together. She does this because what makes her happiest is when her family is happy.

Nothing communicates this more than the joy she radiates at the simplest things we do together. My mom loves nothing more than her family, and it wouldn't matter what we were doing; she would be happy just to be together. My mom's favorite activity, the one she always chooses when it is her birthday, is to play games together. Scrabble, Cranium, Apples to Apples, poker...It doesn't matter what game, really.  It's being with her family that matters. And I don't think I'll ever know how much goodness and grace I have experienced on account of my mother's prayers for me, but I do know that constant prayer is another of the many ways she gives her life in love for me. Finally, her love of family is expressed in how fascinated she can become by anything we do. From everything I write to my brother's endless rock climbing escapades, she has a genuine interest and attention span unmatched by the non-mothers of the world.

 

Of her many good qualities, it is these that have most impacted my view of God's love for me. My image of God has been deeply influenced by my mother who has always brought such a joyous, detailed, and self-sacrificing love to my life. Until I have my own children, my sense of my mother's love for me will be one of my greatest insights into the character of God. If I can offer them a fraction of the love that my mother has shown me, I will be satisfied that I have lived a life of true meaning and love.

 

Happy Birthday, Supermom! 

Why Dropping Elective Coverage is Not Elective

I originally wrote this as an opinion article for the LMU Loyolan, but upon submission I was informed that the paper is not publishing any more opinion articles on this subject. I may or may not edit it down to the 300 word letter to the editor they suggested. In any case, here is my full argument:

There has been much discussion and debate over LMU's decision to take advantage of the new option to provide medical coverage for its employees without funding elective abortions. In this article, I intend to show that LMU can and must choose to drop elective coverage for abortions in order to obey its institutional conscience. In addition, I would like to show that this conscience is intrinsic to its identity as Catholic; it is not formed by majority opinion. Furthermore, I intend to offer several reasons why LMU’s decision to drop said coverage does not violate a woman’s right to choose, as previously alleged in this ongoing public discourse.

First, does LMU have a choice about whether to drop this coverage? Not if it is going to follow its institutional conscience. Given the option to drop elective abortion coverage without any other undue burden to its faculty and staff, LMU has a moral obligation to do so.  As a Catholic institution, LMU holds to the principle that human life and moral worth begin at conception. If it is true that human personhood begins at the time biological human life begins, then any intentional action to end that life is intentional killing of a human person, and a violation of the fundamental right to life. As a Catholic institution, LMU’s institutional conscience is formed by the essential truth that all human life has dignity and must be protected. Therefore, given the option, LMU cannot choose to fund elective abortions and be faithful to its conscience. To fund coverage for elective abortions is to be implicated in an act to which LMU must conscientiously object.

While a Catholic conscience certainly objects to abortion, is it necessary that LMU’s conscience be tied to that, or does the current LMU community have room to dictate its conscience?  LMU ought to be afforded the freedom to follow its conscience with regard to funding elective abortions, and that conscience must be formed by the identity which is central to it throughout time, not a transient population at an isolated point in time.  LMU’s conscience is not dictated by the people who form its current community. The conscience of this community is not formed by popular opinion or majority vote. It is formed by a worldwide, universal Church, which has always proclaimed the value and dignity of all human life. In other words, neither the Catholic community nor the LMU community can vote to determine whether human life has moral worth. We know that it does by virtue of God’s revelation, bolstered by a long tradition of reasonable and scientific support. In order to uphold justice for those who cannot speak for themselves, LMU must refuse to offer fiscal support for the early termination of their lives.

If LMU has a moral obligation to follow its conscience, does it not also have an obligation to its women? Ought it not respect the political right to choose abortion by providing medical coverage for this procedure?  There are several reasons that dropping coverage does not violate a woman’s right to choice. First, in 99% of elective abortion cases, the initial choice to engage in sexual intercourse was made with full knowledge that the act necessarily incurs the risk of pregnancy. It is not unreasonable to expect that, when deciding to engage in acts that entail certain risks, intelligent persons have the responsibility to consider said risks prior to acting. We even make legislation based on this assumption. For example, the evidence indicates that if you drink or text while driving, you have a much higher risk of injuring someone. Given that risk, our society mandates that you choose not to engage in these actions simultaneously. In the same way, it is not too much to ask that women and men make responsible choices with regard to sexual activity. Any reasonable person must acknowledge that sexual intercourse risks pregnancy.  If a woman is truly in a position where having a child would provide undue strain, the most prudent choice is to avoid sex, and thus eliminate the risk of possible pregnancy.

As newlyweds, my husband I make this choice every month. Due to our current financial situation, my husband and I have discerned that having a child would pose serious strain on our resources, and our ability to support our family would be severely diminished. In order to decrease the likelihood of pregnancy, we abstain from sexual intercourse during my fertile days each month. Were we open to contraception, the use of barrier methods (the only options available to me due to my risk of blood clots while using hormonal contraception), would entail a 15-30% risk of pregnancy, depending on the method used. As this is simply too high, my husband and I choose to abstain during periods of fertility each month as we continue to discern our family’s needs.

A second reason that dropping a woman’s coverage does not violate her political right to choose abortion, is that for LMU employees, said coverage has little impact. Refusing to fund a woman’s abortion does not prevent her from choosing to have one. LMU is not preventing employees from obtaining elective abortions, nor is it disciplining them for having them. No one is at risk for penalties or job loss in choosing this procedure. Furthermore, one can imagine that LMU employees are not unable to fund their own elective abortions without medical coverage. The increased cost previously cited by this newspaper was $250 per abortion. If LMU employees make a wage so low that they could not afford a payment of $250, then what we ought to debate is whether the university pays a just wage, which is something Catholics and non-Catholics alike can agree is an issue of justice. When parking costs for faculty and staff were implemented, the cost to employees was about $700 per year. If we can imagine that a woman elected for less than 3 abortions per year, we can say that her increased medical cost is less than that of parking. If it is just for LMU to impose a cost on all of its employees to cover its expenses with regard to parking, how much more it is reasonable for LMU to impose a lesser cost on its employees in the preservation of its conscience? While the cost to individual employees can be calculated in terms of monetary increase times abortions chosen, the cost to LMU in funding these abortions in incalculable. There is no method for measuring the cost of betraying one’s own conscience.

On a final note regarding choice, I’d like to mention that there is often a false dichotomy about choice during pregnancy, one that has been perpetuated during the discussion in this paper. Often when a woman is pregnant, the choices cited are between raising a child and cutting that process short by terminating it in the womb. This leaves out the option that allows life to flourish without requiring a woman to raise a child: adoption. In addition to childrearing and abortion, a woman’s choices include carrying a child to term to be raised by the loving couple of her choice. In our discussion about choice, let’s not limit the options from which we have to choose.  

In closing, I hope I have offered you a reasonable justification for LMU’s decision. It is important that all voices be heard in this discussion.  As a Catholic woman, I do not “find it laughable that celibate men in long robes continue to make and implement policy on behalf of [my body],” because that is an inaccurate and demeaning view of the issue and what is at stake here. This is not about Church politics, or gender inequality, or women’s rights. This is an issue regarding the fundamental human right to life, and our responsibility as Catholics to follow our consciences by refusing to be implicated in its unjust termination.

Everlasting

Dearest One,

I have loved you with an everlasting love.
I offer you the world, yet you run from me.
Further into the darkness.
Turn back to the light.
There is nothing
I can see
that can stop my love.
Your ugliest wound, I want to heal.
In your worst pain, I want to hold you.
 

I offer you the world, yet you do not see me.

I call to you, yet you will not hear.
So deaf to me, yet so desperate
For a voice
That makes you feel lovely.
Why do you listen to their lies?
You dance to their song, and they give you a taste,
a drop.

Do you not see
that's all they have to give?
You will empty yourself
before they can satisfy you.
You will pour yourself out
and die a starving woman.

Turn around!

Turn your face to the light.
Trust in your own worth,
your strength to walk on your own.

I offer you a banquet;

all you have to do is wipe the paint off
and let me see.
Stand alone
long enough
for me to hold you.

You are so afraid

to trust
a love that doesn't ask,
that doesn't take,
that just is.

You run away.

You don't believe.

I wait.
I watch.

No Greater Love

A recent conversation with a student has been on my mind for several days.  What struck me about this conversation was my student's desperation.  He was desperate for acknowledgement that his megachurch worship services were of much more value than the Catholic Mass. He was frustrated and confused that I would affirm the value of something so outdated, unexciting, and irrelevant.  He seemed to feel that at mere description of the ecstatic worship music and enthralling preaching at his church, I ought to have acknowledged its superiority, fled the Church, quit my job, and grabbed myself a front row seat for all the emotional highs I'd been missing.

Maybe at his age I would have felt the same way. Growing up as a Protestant, I did often feel like the Catholic Church could have learned a lot from mine in engaging people. As a Catholic convert in the age of the New Evangelization, I still feel that the Church has a lot to learn from its Protestant brothers and sisters in terms of reaching out and fostering community in its parishes. But also as a Catholic convert, I see with more sadness and less desperation, how much more the Mass has to offer than any prayer service of mere music and preaching.

I could write volumes on the richness of meaning and mystery in the ritual of the Mass, or the representation of Christ's sacrifice, or even his real presence in the Eucharist. I could, to add to the thousands that already exist. But the issue that has been on my heart was his assumption that the most important thing about the worship experience was how it makes one feel. His sensationalist approach is by no means surprising of a teenager, or really anyone in today's society. But it is an assumption I have come to know as definitively false. While it is certainly essential that people have a meaningful experience of Jesus Christ, experience itself is not enough; any real relationship cannot subsist in the tenuous realm of emotions. In the time that I have been a Catholic, I have been blessed by the wisdom of the Church on this subject. I would like to share some of that wisdom here.

First, I have both learned about and experienced different stages of prayer. Prayer can be described as the communication between Christ and soul that sustains a loving relationship. A good metaphor for the progression of prayer is the relationship of a married couple. In the beginning stages, there is much to talk about. Couples are often infatuated with one another, and this beginning stage has many emotional highs. As time goes by, the couple comes to know one another more intimately. They face challenges, and make choices for the good of the other, fostering a deep and lasting love. After many years together, an older couple has much less to say to one another. Still, there is a deep and meaningful connection between the two, and just being in the presence of the other can be a sustaining force in their relationship. It is enough simply to be.

The stages of prayer mirror the progression of love between a husband and a wife. Prayer consists in an ever-deepening cycle of vocal, meditative, and contemplative expressions. In the beginning, we have much to say to God. Often, we feel "on fire" or have a "mountaintop experience." This is our infatuation with God. Would that all the world were so lucky to experience this stage. As the relationship progresses, a Christian might find herself growing more quiet in prayer, ready to listen more for God's response. This is also a stage in which one might meditate on the words of Scripture, or seem to be studying the world for signs of God. It is here that deeper love grows by choices made to develop relationship with Jesus. Finally, there is the state of contemplation, a state of quiet unity of Christ and the soul. Here, one comes into the presence of Christ, and sits at his feet. Here, it is enough simply to be.

This journey from infatuation to a real love relationship, and finally to contemplation, is beautiful and life-giving.  It is important to note that, like any relationship, it is not linear; contemplative Christians return to vocal and meditative ways of prayer. The wisdom of this journey is also reflected in the variety we experience in liturgy. As Catholics, we experience variety in our Masses. Some days are great feast days with a host of engaging sensory experiences, while daily Masses are usually simple and quiet. In both, we are more able to build a lasting love relationship with God. He may call us through big gestures, or in a quiet whisper in our hearts. Being exposed to both helps to teach us not to rely on our emotions to sustain our relationship.

This is really the crux of the issue. Our culture tends to avoid suffering at all costs, and point to it as the greatest of all evils. The problem with this way of thinking is that it is incompatible with Christianity. Suffering is at the heart of the Christian message. It is in suffering that truest love is made known. Jesus himself said that there is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends (John 15:13). Love and suffering are inextricably linked. The goal of life, then, is not to maximize one's personal happiness or enjoyment. To love fully, to live fully, we must be able to choose a greater good than ourselves, and offer ourselves in love to one another and to our God.

In Christian worship, too, then, our own personal enjoyment cannot be the end of our actions. When we come together to pray, to love, to worship, we do ourselves a disservice if our focus is on the emotion our actions produce. So, in a way, I have to conclude that my student is correct. The Catholic Mass can often seem boring, outdated, and irrelevant. I would likely find great pleasure in the music and inspiring talks his church offers. But my life and my prayer are not about pleasure. They are about a God who loves me enough to call me his own, to offer me his flesh and blood, to allow me to participate in the great mystery of his suffering, and to empower me to suffer in love of his world. Each time I go to Mass, I take his hand and accept this invitation along with all the angels and the entire communion of saints. Properly understood, the mass can never be boring, and entering into the mystery of eternity will never be outdated. And, having fallen head-over-heels in love with Jesus, I have to say this: Mass is irrelevant only to the soul that chooses not to love. Celebrating the representation of Christ's suffering, death, and resurrection as he offers the chance to receive him, body, blood, soul, and divinity in the Eucharist...this is not irrelevant. This is the climax of love in our lives.

The Rose Standard

I love wildflowers. I love flowers so much, in fact, I had trouble choosing any for my wedding; I wanted them all! It was so hard to choose because each flower had its own particularity, its own beauty. How could I pick one over the other? Of course, roses get a lot of attention, but how can you compare them with an orchid, or a lily, or snapdragon, or iris? They are each beautiful, in very different but still inspiring ways.

I’ve been thinking a lot about fitness and health lately. Especially in preparing for my wedding, there was a certain standard I wanted to attain, physically, to be immortalized in those everlasting photos. The day came and went, happily, yet I still find myself engrossed in the wonderful world of weight loss. I am not trying to lose weight, per se, but simply maintain a healthy lifestyle. It seems that in our culture, the two are inseparable, and so I’ve been given a great deal of food for thought…

There are so many ways of measuring one’s progress on the journey of fitness. You can measure your weight or body fat percentage, calculate your BMI, or even take “progress pictures” of yourself in your bikini and post them on the internet for the world to see. Yet none of these is an accurate measure of either our health or fitness level. Our culture has developed a myopic focus on appearance, far overestimating its worth.  Some reach such a state of dissatisfaction with their appearance that they will cut and sew themselves up to fix their perceived flaws. Can we really look to this as a measure of health?

So much energy and money in our society is put into attaining a “perfect” figure. While this mindset is profitable for the billion dollar industry fueled by our insecurity, I am suggesting that in order to be truly healthy, we need an entirely different paradigm of fitness and health.

What if we were able to change our mindset into one that builds up our confidence, rather than tearing it down at every turn? What if women decided to challenge ourselves in fitness, to build our character by overcoming new obstacles? What if we measured ourselves by the growth of our capabilities, the increase in our discipline, the resilience of our spirits? When we focus so narrowly on our appearance, we miss the true fruits of our labor. Our health and fitness are not just skin deep, and we need a way of thinking that reflects that.

Yet, it does seem that appearance is inextricably linked to fitness. On our quest for a more authentic measure of health and fitness, it would be both impossible and foolish to ignore it. In order to address the current imbalance of importance we place on it, I offer the metaphor of the wildflowers. Imagine a garden in which all flowers are judged on the rose standard. Those flowers that less closely resemble the rose, despite their individuality and unique characteristics, are systematically dyed, disassembled, and pasted back together so that they most closely resemble the rose. Of course, this leaves them wilting and quite unnatural looking. The wildflowers can never truly be considered beautiful because they will never look like a blooming rose.

As ridiculous as the rose standard seems when applied to gardening, it is not so far off from our societal standard of beauty.  When one body type is glorified above all others, we cease to see the beauty of individual women. The very fact that all flowers are not roses enhances their beauty. There is no such thing as a perfect flower. Likewise, there is no such thing as a perfect body. Women have been conditioned to think that there is, and that to fail to attain it somehow makes them less worthy. How sad that we cannot appreciate the beauty in the mirror. So many times, this is the motivation behind fitness, and when women fail to attain that standard, they end up disheartened, disappointed in themselves, or desperate for unhealthy solutions. They end up not really fit or healthy because they were driven by an unhealthy motivation in the first place.

Yet learning to appreciate our real beauty enhances genuine health and fitness in the same way that delighting in each flower helps a gardener cultivate a thriving garden.  There is no perfect shape that the flowers must attain; the garden is beautiful in its very diversity. Some flowers need more fertilizer, water, or sun than others. When a flower begins to wilt, it is a sign that something is wrong. The gardener can attend the needs of that flower individually. Under the right conditions, each flower will bloom, and though different from the last, is something unique, something to be admired, something to be celebrated.  Can we begin to look at ourselves, at one another, in the same way? Can we appreciate the colors and shapes that make us different and all our own? Maybe then, when we find ourselves wilting, we could simply adjust our fertilizer, out of concern for our health and flourishing, rather than a perceived failure to achieve perfection. Maybe then, instead of lamenting our failed efforts to become what we are not, we would focus on pruning ourselves to become the fullest, most beautiful versions of who we already are.