How do I encourage people to RISK, DREAM, SHINE… and DO THAT WHICH MAKES YOU FEEL ALIVE… if I am not prepared to walk-the-talk myself?

This process has been hard, hard, hard.  And I’m really beginning to understand why most people don’t RISK… why most people prefer to ’stay safe’… it’s certainly a lot easier than harvesting your guts for a crazy dream… isn’t it?

It’s easier not to risk.  It’s easier to dream smaller, bite-sized dreams that are manageable… attainable… even… sensible.  It’s not so easy to invest your heart and soul in to a dream… a project… that has no guarantee of success… in fact, if anything, the odds are stacked against you.  Or, at least, this has been my experience.

Talk is easy.  Talk is cheap.  Walking the talk requires sacrifice, dedication, passion, risk… and guts!  And it often requires you to make a complete fool of yourself as you push towards your big dream…  the dream everyone else laughs at.  The dream everyone else thinks is silly and illogical.

I often wonder how foolish I must seem to other people.  That’s me… the Creative Dreamer.  The imagineer.  The artistic girl with the weight problem and the low self-esteem… who knows NOTHING about the inner workings of the corporate world’s machinery… and nothing of the correct-way-to-do-things, or the right-way-to-approach-people… or how to politely brown-nose your way in to the good books of the people whose decisions matter.  I know nothing of corporate politics or schmoozing the high-rollers… how to fundraise effectively… how to network ‘correctly’ with the world’s influencers… or how to “sell” this dream of mine to other people.

No.  I’m just a dreamer.  A visionary who is passionate about a dream.  A married mom-of-two from the ‘burbs of Johannesburg who… through a surprising and incredible journey… found herself falling in love with Africa.

I was the one, just over a year ago, vowing vehemently to leave this continent.  I was the fed-up, gatvol, angry, fearful white South African… ready to pack my bags and push off to greener pastures.  In September 2008, when another friend was shot and killed… and my mother and sister were tied up and threatened whilst my mother’s house was ransacked… AGAIN (as if there was anything left to steal!)… I, in my blind fury at the injustices in this world and in my loss of hope and confidence in my country of birth… was more than ready to leave… permanently.

But right there and then, blinded by rage and fear… another journey began… because in the same month that we lost Riana… I had met Roz Thomas in Winterton, and Tapestry of Dreams, along with my personal journey towards healing… had only just begun.

Damn you, Africa – for stealing my heart and my soul!  Damn you, Africa – for forcing me to love you in spite of your brutality!

Over the past year, through the Tapestry of Dreams project,  I have witnessed so many beautiful stories amidst the dark tragedies… and I have met so many beautiful, humbling people.  People who have endured terrible struggles and hardships but yet, somehow, they manage to keep a smile on their face as they help, inspire and encourage others as they push bravely towards a brighter future for themselves and their children.

And I have been exposed to such outstanding talent!  Such resourcefulness!  And I see so much potential and so many possibilities… and as much as I feared it, I found myself saying:  “But what IF we stayed…?”

Tapestry of Dreams has turned my life upside down in a way that only God could imagine and plan.  I now realise that; a) Africa needs what I have to offer… and; b) I can make the world a better place with what little I have to offer in my particular field, in my particular realm of influence, with my particular talents.

I’ve fallen in love with Africa.  Possibly for the first time in my life.  I always saw this continent as a place… but never really home.  Perhaps it’s because my father hails from England and my mother is a mixture of Afrikaans and European cultures… that I’ve always felt a bit of a mongrel and was never quite sure where I fitted (culturally)… and perhaps it’s because my skin is a tad paler than the majority of people who share this continent with me that I’ve never felt “African” and I’ve never truly embraced Africa… and I certainly wasn’t patriotic about South Africa which has an embarrassing political history (for white people, like me).

But, nevertheless, here I am…  getting all teared up at the sight of my daughter playing with her best friend… because neither of them notice (or care!) that they’re different colours.  And here I am, gleefully devouring the content of ARISE magazine and feeling a thrilling sense of belonging that I never felt before. And here I am, getting all over-excited and ditsy about Zulu beadwork… and fabrics from Venda… and telephone wire jewelry… and the guys down the road who create art out of wire… and African music and jazz…. and African fashion… and proudly-South-African produce and products!  I was never a proud South African before.  What has changed in me?  What has shifted so drastically that I just can’t get enough of this amazing continent and it’s beautiful people?

I’ve fallen in love with Africa… in spite of her brutality.  I’ve fallen in love with her beauty… her wildness… her diversity… her people… her resilience… her depth (there’s nothing shallow about Africa!)… her multi-layered communities… her warmth… her tenacity… her strength… her ENORMOUS potential… and the ability of her people to pick themselves up, brush themselves off and push forward – against all odds!   I think that God must have simply opened my eyes to what was always right in front of me – but I never actually SAW it, until recently.

I’m learning to walk-the talk these days.  I’m often “preaching” and challenging people to take risks to follow their dreams and do what they were designed to do (instead of merely floating along in a grey fog of correctness, duties and living up to the expectations of others).   I strongly believe that all of us should be doing that which makes us feel ALIVE...  but most of us (myself included) have preferred to walk the safer and more predictable path of doing that which makes us feel SECURE.

I’ve realised that I need to practice what I preach… and walk-the-talk myself… or my words are simply meaningless drivel.

So… I’m pressing forward and finally I feel as though I’m doing what I was created to do in the first place.  I have scarily-crazy-huge vision for the future of Tapestry of Dreams.  And I’m prioritising the things that make me feel ALIVE – instead of the things that make me feel secure.  Besides – security, at best, is smoke and mirrors… and the relentless pursuit of security will drain the life out of the hardiest individual.  You can have all the money and security in the world… but it still doesn’t guarantee you anything (least of all a better life).  I could move to a ’safer’ continent… only to slip on the bathroom floor and crack my skull open.  Or die in a car accident.  Or die of disease.

I’m not convinced that God’s plans for my life are swayed by how much I try to preserve it.

It will always cost you something to do that which makes you feel alive.  For me, the cost is my ’security’.  For you – the cost might be something else.

So… what makes Heather feel alive?  I feel ALIVE when I travel around this continent… I feel ALIVE when I meet new people, experience new cultures, sample new food, try new things and discover new styles of music and art… I feel ALIVE involving myself in community development and I feel ALIVE and invigorated when I see the success stories of sustainable projects that work the way they’re supposed to work… Art (in all of its forms) invigorates me and makes me feel ALIVE… music, dance, design, literature, film, media, fashion… anything that invokes creativity in other people and in myself makes me feel ALIVE!  Adventure makes me feel ALIVE!  Exploring new frontiers and new ideas makes me feel ALIVE!

My husband and my children make me feel ALIVE! Africa makes me feel ALIVE!  My relationship with God makes me feel ALIVE!

I’m truly tired of living a “less-than” life.  Holed up in my suburban bliss, locked in a prison of my own invention.  How can I talk about SHINING when I hide myself… and my talents… in the shadows for fear of what others may say or think?  How can I rave on about following dreams when I ridicule my own for being too silly… unobtainable… or even over-the-top?

“Let your life shine!” is the mantra of Tapestry of Dreams.

That dormant candle inside of me has finally been lit.

The other day, a friend of mine made a good point.  She said that, although the work I’ve been doing with Tapestry of Dreams was great and commendable… if I was neglecting myself in the process – I will have missed the whole point.  And she was right.  I have been neglecting myself (again!!!) and making the excuse to myself that I’m just too flippin’ busy to actually take time out and treat myself with some love and respect.

Truth is, I’m exhausted with these projects right now!  There are so many important tasks that I haven’t managed to focus on or get done, because I’m desperately trying to pull this project together to benefit everybody else.  This blog, for one, has taken a knock.  I’ve always enjoyed blogging and connecting with other people – but this has taken a back seat during this busy time with Tapestry of Dreams.

Don’t get me wrong – I absolutely love working on Tapestry…  it’s challenging, it’s fulfilling and it gives me such a thrill to see lives changed through this process.  But still… it takes its toll, and especially when I don’t care for myself… (ie: eat crappy food, don’t get enough sleep, treat my body with no respect, work too many hours without taking time off, etc).

So, yesterday, I went to visit my sister, Suzanne – who manages a “Lola Montez” store (which the prude side of me is still trying to come to terms with – but, more about that later)… and attached to Sue’s store was a salon called Amani Nail Beautique. Suzanne decided to treat me to a pedicure there… and after some weak, initial objections about the embarrassing state of my feet – I agreed.

They have these huge, puffy leather chairs there… like a big Lay-Z-Boy… and the chair massages your back, neck and shoulders while you soak your feet in a foot spa (also part of this fancy chair).  They have a big TV up on the wall – so you could choose the channel you want to watch while you’re pampered – but, in my case, I was chatting to my sister.  They brought me endless cups of coffee while I sat there and received a magnificent pedicure and foot massage, and I’m now so proud of my pretty feet (and painted toes).  I’m wearing dainty slip slops today, so I can continue to admire my toes!

The last time I received a pedicure (and this is no lie) was 9 years ago.  And I have to wonder:  WHY? Why do I feel that it’s exorbitant and wasteful to spend any money on pamper moments or pamper products for me?  It’s almost like I feel guilty having a massage, a manicure or a pedicure when I ’should be working’…  problem is, I’m always thinking:  “I should be working!”… even on weekends and evenings and public holidays.

A part of me is even scared to share this with other people, because I’m so convinced that somehow… some way… people will agree and say:  “You’re not worthy, Heather!”. It’s silly and wasteful! It’s vain and self-obsessed! (These, I embarrassingly confess, are the nasty thoughts that lurk, far at the back of my mind).

I wonder if my mother has anything to do with this?  Throughout our lives, my Mom seemed to pride herself on the fact that she was never wasteful with money… (in spite of the fact that my father earned a very good salary and that she had the liberty to spend… if she wanted to).  I can’t remember – throughout my childhood and teen years… my Mom ever spending any kind of money on HER.  She occasionally purchased new clothes (at the cheapest possible prices).  And if she ever bought beauty products – it was always the inexpensive face cream on the supermarket shelves… or the stuff you use to dye your own hair.   If she received pamper products, it was always as gifts from friends… on birthday or Christmas.  She never treated herself to jewelry, quality perfume, decent shoes, beautiful underwear or lingerie… nothing.  She spent the bare, bare minimum amount of money on herself.  I think, in some weird kind of way, for some weird kind of reason – she believed it was ‘the-right-thing-to-do’.

To this day, it continues.  She still believes that it’s wasteful to splurge on herself… or to buy pricey, quality items just for HER.  Make no mistake, she, like any woman, loves spa treatments and salon pamperings… however, she’ll never pay for these services out of her own pocket.  She sees these as rare, special occasions that come around once every couple of years (usually when a friend donates a spa voucher as a birthday gift).

And I have to wonder… if I haven’t somehow, adopted these beliefs from her.  I, too, seldom spend money on myself.  Close friends know my wardrobe all too well – because it’s the same boring, crappy clothes… again and again…  and I’ll wear stuff until it’s holey and falling to bits before I eventually throw it out.  I feel some kind of weird self-justification that I’m not like ‘those other women who are always at the salon’… or ‘those other women who are always buying new clothes for themselves’... and I tell people (proudly) that my most expensive spending vice is magazines.  I don’t buy make-up.  I don’t buy clothes.  I don’t go to beauty salons or spas.  I don’t buy shoes.  I seldom visit the hairdresser (maybe once a year).  I don’t buy jewelry.  I don’t buy expensive skin creams or beauty products.  And a part of me, deep-deep down… feels smugly self-righteous about all of this!?  W-H-Y???

Anyway – while I dig within myself to get to the bottom of these issues… I have promised my sister that I will, at least, go for a regular pedicure – and that I’ll start taking better care of my feet at home.

I have a foot-spa, given to me as a Christmas present, gathering dust somewhere.

Time, perhaps, for me to dust it off and use it.

This is a song I wrote about gossip:

You speak sugar-coated lies

As you smile warmly to my face

You judge me with your eyes

You call me a disgrace behind my back

you laugh with friends

You bludgeon me with words

This torture never ends

Your tongue is undeterred

You play innocent with me

While pretending that you care

Your saccharine, it nauseates

I know what mask you wear

Behind my back, you break me down

You annihilate my worth

Your words are soaked in poison

Your lips are lined with mirth

Do you think I don’t know?

Do you think I don’t see?

Do you think I don’t hear what you’re saying about me?

Do you think that I’m blind?

Do you think that I’m dumb?

Do you think I’m immune to your poisonous tongue?

I don’t trust you anymore

I won’t open up my soul

You won’t see behind my mask

Your attack has wreaked it’s toll

Now I speak sugar-coated lies

As I smile warmly to your face

I judge you with my eyes

I call you a disgrace

Behind your back, I laugh with friends

I bludgeon you with words

This torture never ends

Our tongues are undeterred….

©Heather Costaras

… The popular girly-girls, especially, had no time for Tomboy Heather.  I was considered to be in the same caste as the dimwits, the nerds and the ugly kid with bad skin and bottle bottom glasses – best to be avoided at all costs by those who cared about their social position at school.

Cindi Colt, Fiona Leppin and Lara Hampshire, the most popular and pretty girls of all, were especially mean.  The stubborn, head-strong part of me didn’t care and deliberately wanted to irritate them with my tomboy ways – but another part of me, a larger part of me, desperately wanted to be liked by them.  Desperately wanted to fit in.
And so I invited them to my birthday parties – but they never showed up.  When their birthday parties came around – I was never invited.  I was ignored when I tried to initiate conversation in the school corridor and Cindi would roll her eyes dramatically whenever anybody mentioned my name.  As was the case with Adam, I used to wonder what it was about myself that other girls my age found so off-putting.

That inner question was partly answered by Caireen Judd, one of the popular girls at school who actually found it in her heart to be nice to me.  She seemed genuinely concerned about my tomboy status and the way I presented myself.
“Heather…”, she’d sigh in an exasperated tone that reminded me of my mother, “Why do you have to be such a tomboy?  Why can’t you just be more like a girl?”.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.  What, exactly, did Caireen mean, I wondered. Did being ‘more like a girl’ imply that I would need to practice French kissing on my pillow?  Or wear latest fashion outfits?  Or keep a mountain of fluffy toys on my bed?  Or paste boy band posters on my bedroom wall?  Or stay indoors and be good?
Caireen’s comment confused and worried me, so I brushed it off with an embarrassed laugh and a quick change of subject.  Her well-meaning words, however, were like fresh fertiliser and water to a seed that had been planted in my heart years before.  It was a seed of rejection and it’s message was this:  Heather, you are totally unacceptable the way you are.

Looking back, I realise that a culmination of events had led up to the planting of the rejection seed.  My family had certainly played a role.  Perhaps Aunty Cynthia and my cousins had dug the hole with their Thin, Clever & Important Club and my exclusion there from.  Perhaps Dad had added fertiliser with the “Muncher” nickname – especially since Suzanne was referred to as “Sexy Sue” at the time.  Perhaps Mom had even played a role when she verbalised her internal fears of me becoming fat and suggested diets from way too young an age.  Perhaps the photographs of me standing next to my stick skinny sister and cousin played their part.  I remember mournfully comparing the size of Suzanne and Janet’s thighs to mine whilst feeling ashamed and embarrassed.  However, in spite of the fact that others may have prepared the soil and dug the hole… the one who actually added the seed… the one who played the most important role of all… was me, when I began to believe the negative things spoken over my life by other people… when I believed the lie that was whispered in my mind:  “Heather Patterson, you are fat, you are stupid, you’re a loser, you’re weird, you’re a failure, you are unacceptable the way you are and nobody likes you!”

My inner acceptance of that statement was all it took for the seed of rejection to take root in my heart and begin growing.  And grow it did!  It quickly developed into an insidious weed with thorns, bristles and poison sap oozing from every bough!
And from that time on, every rejection, negative comment or cruel remark – real or imagined – added fuel to the fire… or rather… fertiliser to the weed as it grew and grew over the years until it’s powerful roots were entrenched in every inch of my being.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long for my weed, which I’ll call ‘Poisonroot’, to begin controlling my life – similar to the gargantuan, carnivorous pot plant in the movie “Little Shop of Horrors”.
The film, a dark comedy musical, told the story of a lonely nerd called Seymour who worked in a flower shop and discovered a curious little plant which he decided to nurture as his own.  Only problem, as Seymour soon found out, was that the little plant couldn’t survive off water or plant food – it wanted blood!  I found the movie rather amusing, albeit a bit to close to home – especially when the cute little plant metamorphasized into an enormous weed which took over Seymour’s flower shop and dominated his life entirely.   In fact, it ‘owned’ him.
“Feed me, Seymour!  Feed me!” it would scream, always desperate and greedy for more food.   And Seymour, pallid, weak  and unable to stand up to the plants’ demands would end up obliging the blood-thirsty bulb – feeding it from his own, cut fingers – even to his own detriment and almost to his own demise (as it turned out, the plant ended up devouring the evil town dentist instead of Seymour – but it had been a close call).

Poisonroot had the same modus operandi as Seymour’s plant.  “Feed me, Heather!  Feed me!” it would scream from the shadows of my soul.  Unlike Seymour’s plant, Poisonroot wasn’t interested in blood.  My weed preferred to suckle greedily off negative feelings of self hatred – and there certainly wasn’t a lack of ‘food’ for it to feed off.
The strong message of my unacceptability amongst family, friends and school peers seemed to be reinforced daily… and even if it wasn’t… I perceived it to be that way.
Everybody seemed to have something to add, some point to make on how unacceptable I was and how I needed to change in order to become a ‘better person’.

“You need to pull your socks up and sort yourself out, Heather Patterson!”  my maths teacher, Mrs. Dalgliesh, would reprimand.  “You’re going to end up a street sweeper one day – mark my words!”.
Mrs. Dalgleish was my most hated teacher in primary school.  I loathed her short, severe hairdo, her ugly floral granny dresses and her hot potato pronunciation.  It sounded as though she was trying too hard to be uppity and teacherish.  She had a brutal tongue and it came naturally for her to cut her least favourite scholars down to size with words… usually in front of other children who would giggle and mock.

“What are you doing with your shoes in that puddle, Heather Patterson?  Are you trying to show us all that you have brains the size of a pea?  Silly little girl!”.
I remember it briefly occurring to me that Mrs. Dalgleish sounded just like Aunty Cynthia.  They both pronounced silly as “seelly” and they had both, on occasion, referred to me as a ‘silly little girl’.

I remember too when Mrs. Dalgleish confiscated my marble sock with my prize collection of goonies, iron-ies, beauties and crystals.  She had taken the sock after she had caught me dropping one glass marble off the third storey of our school building in an experiment.  I had wanted to see whether the marble would smash – so that I could inspect the colourful patterns on the inside and discover what they were made from.

“Heather Patterson – are you completely stupid!?”, she had bellowed from the other end of the corridor.  “You could kill somebody by throwing those things over the balcony!”.
“But there’s nobody down there…” I objected weakly.
“Shut up!  Just shut up and hand over those marbles immediately!  I have never seen such stupid and irresponsible behaviour!”.

Mrs. Dalgleish kept my marble sock on her desk for over a week – thus effectively keeping me off the boy’s marble court (much to the delight of Adam Houston and his friends).  I remember sitting mournfully on the school steps during break time, picking the scabs on my knees and watching the boys play marbles without me whilst brooding on all the negative words which other people had spoken over my life.

“Why can’t you be more like a girl, Heather?”
“You have a brain the size of a pea!”
“Silly little girl!”
“You’ll end up a street sweeper one day!”
“Monster!  Enemy!  Stay away from us!”
“Fat Whale!”
“Greedy little piggy!”
“Heather Fattison!”

Poisonroot revelled in my private pity party.   It didn’t like me to dwell on any positive aspects about my life, of which there were many.  My life was certainly not one long, sad tragedy.  I may have been ousted from the ranks of the popular girly-gilrs at school, but I was by no means friendless and lonely.

Sonja Fahn was my best friend at primary school.  She was small and slightly built with strawberry blonde hair and freckled skin.  She also lived out in the country – just down the road from me – and we had loads in common.  We had the opportunity to live the kind of life that our suburb-based peers could only dream of;  horse riding, fufi-slides, BMX bike racing, tree houses, forts, animals and loads of space… we enjoyed adventure-filled childhoods and were seldom bored.
Sonja’s dad had built her a fufi-slide from the highest tree on their property and my dad had arranged for a friend to bring his land grader and build me an off-road BMX bike track (in exchange for a Cosy Gas Log Fire).  This made both Sonja and I the envy of many boys in our neighbourhood – and we cashed in on our good fortune by charging 25c to any boy who wanted a ride on Sonja’s fufi-slide or on my BMX track.

I had a great childhood in so many ways but somehow, Poisonroot always managed to convince me otherwise. It loved it when I dwelt only on the negative.  It wanted me to feel hateful towards myself for my perceived failures.  And, just like spineless Seymour, I bowed to the weed’s request and fed it more and more negative and hateful feelings.  Poisonroot was fast becoming the ruler of my life – and I wasn’t even twelve years old! …

I am an all-or-nothing person.  This is not a character trait that I particularly like about myself because it results in a life lived in extremes.  I’m either extremely organized – or I’m extremely dis-organized.  I’ll either scrub the kitchen from top to bottom… or I’ll leave it in a disgusting mess with dirty dishes piled high in the sink.  My office is either neat and orderly – or it’s chaos-zone… with mounds of papers, empty coffee cups and browning apple cores.  I’ll either work hard the whole day… or I’ll sleep the whole day.  And on, and on it goes.

As you can imagine… when it comes to food – my all-or-nothing style does not bode well for any kind of long-term healthy-eating lifestyle!  I’m either on another strict, restrictive diet and I’m exercising like a crazed hamster…  or I’m wallowing in the pit of food misery, refusing to exercise at all… and stuffing my face with every unhealthy morsel that crosses my path.

Where is MODERATION in this crazy life of mine?  Why can’t I just behave like a normal human being around food?  You know… like just eat NORMALLY?  To order food at a restaurant without obsessing about “legal diet food”… and ordering “a salad with fat-free dressing on the side, please”… OR… to the opposite extreme, ordering the largest, most fattening item on the menu because; “Oh well, I’ve blown the diet now, I may as well do a good job of it and devour the entire contents of the menu!”.

How I long to be like one of those normal people…. who simply read a menu and order a normal plate of normal food which they feel like eating at the time.   Normal people don’t stress, fret or panic about the fat content and the calorie intake of said restaurant meal!  They don’t sit crumpled helplessly under a gargantuous turd of self-imposed guilt because they… *horror!*… ate 2 pre-meal white… *horror!*… bread rolls with… *horror!*… lashings of butter!!!  They don’t sit, picking miserably at their sad-little-’legal’-salad whilst glaring bitterly at their (thin!) friend wolfing down yet another yummy spoonful of some greasy calorie-laden delight!  They don’t sit silently calculating the hours of treadmilling they’ll have to put in at the gym for indulging in that wicked pizza slice.

Normal people just eat when they’re hungry… and stop when they’re satisfied (instead of stuffed).  Why can’t I seem to master this seemingly simple art of moderation!???

Am I doomed to yo-yo forever between thin-desperate-dieter… and fat-slovenly-food-shoveller?

Once again, I’m in a quandary about whether or not to embark upon another strict diet.  The diet in question certainly works because I’ve watched my office assistant, Yolanda, melt before my very eyes over the past 9 weeks.  Still – Yolanda has willpower like Ironman’s ass and she hasn’t ‘cheated’ once… not once!! I silently calculate how much weight I may also lose if I were to embark on Yolanda’s diet.  She’s lost 16 kilograms/35 pounds in 9 weeks… but I’m considerably fatter than what she was at her fattest – so maybe that means that I could lose more weight… like, perhaps, 20 kilograms/44 pounds in 9 weeks (which is a very pleasant thought).  Pleasant enough to get me to dig in my pockets and to seriously consider coughing up the large fee to sign on to said, tailor-made, doctor-endorsed diet.

I remind myself of the stage I’m due to appear on… in November… for our big Tapestry of Dreams / Beautiful Life Project event.  Sheeesh – I so dreamed of being thin for that event!  And yet, here I am, fat-as-can-be and grappling with issues of moderate eating versus strict diets.  To be honest – I don’t know if I can manage either.

Perhaps my stomach-banding friend (who has now lost almost 40 kilograms / 88 pounds thanks to that surgical procedure) was right when she said that surgery was the only way for people like “us” (aka: food addicts) to lose weight on a permanent basis.

Right now… I don’t know what to believe.  Someone, please boot me out of my bout of cynicism with a healthy dose of truth and encouragement!!!

2 cups of cheap coffee (with sweetener).

1 health rusk (supplied to me by my Tapestry of Dreams project co-ordinator, Yolanda).  Actually she supplied me with a whole bag.

However, I’m one of those people who is simply not hungry in the morning… and as much as the diet gurus insist that breakfast is the most important meal of the day… I just can’t stomach the idea of a bulky breakfast this morning!  So… 1 small health rusk is all it’s gonna be!

Poisonroot is currently telling me that I will fail, fail, fail at moderation since I am a food addict… and that I need to go out right NOW and embark upon a strict diet – or else I will be huge ‘n fat forever.  I’m trying… my best… to ignore Poisonroot’s rantings.

Breakfast:

1 large bowl of seasonal fruit with muesli and plain yoghurt (eaten at Cafe Eleven Forty Five down the road from me).  Felt guilty for putting sugar in my coffee instead of sweetener in the first cup.  But rectified my “terrible” error and added sweetener to the rest of my coffee consumed throughout the day… (about 7 more cups)…. (but it’s freezing cold.  Bite me.)

Lunch:

1 tuna and *gasp!* mayonnaise sarmie with 2 slices of *gasp!*… white bread!  Does it make it less sinful that I added chopped cucumber and tomato?  Brain keeps screeching: “Mayo is evil fattening food of-the-devil and should NEVER be eaten by anyone wanting to lose weight!  And white bread!!!?  Don’t you know – that WHITE bread is completely prohibited!!!???“

Supper:

2 toasted pita’s with skinless, grilled chicken breast and a bit of mayo.  Brain says:  “Again… WHITE pita!  Refined carbohydrates!  VERY bad!!!  And more mayo?  Shouldn’t the consumption of mayo be forbidden forever?”

Snacks:

2 pink marshmallows.  Brain: “Now you’ve completely blown it!  Sweets!  You pathetic loser!  Give up now with this stupid ‘moderation’ idea and embark upon a strict diet immediately!!!”

1 bowl of popcorn eaten whilst watching movie on TV.  Brain: “Was that popcorn air-popped?  No?  It wasn’t?  Then consider that little indulgence a big, fat “F” for “FAIL” on your diet report card!”
Perhaps you’re wondering what on earth I’m going on about…. and why I’m documenting food intake?  But no worries – I will explain more in great detail in my next post!  Let’s just say for now that I haven’t lost the plot… in fact, I think I’ve finally begun to find it!  x

I found 3 of these movies off the Dove website. They’ve launched a self-esteem program which is put together really well – and which is very well funded too!   I must admit, I do feel slightly disconcerted by the fact that a company who manufactures ‘beauty bars’ – and whose sole purpose exists in the marketing and sale of said beauty bars… well, I find it just a bit… difficult to imagine… that their motives behind this campaign are entirely pure.

I suspect it’s a BRILLIANT marketing campaign for their company and their products – because what better way to warm a women’s heart towards “Dove” than launching a campaign like this one? However – be that as it may – at least they’re doing SOMETHING positive (which is more that what one could say about the rest of the beauty/diet/fashion industry – who have a lot to answer for)… and these Dove short films are… without a doubt… BRILLIANT!  This is the heart of the Beautiful Life Project! (except we’re not trying to sell you anything).

more about “The truth about the beauty industry. …“, posted with vodpod

more about "Another fantastic video… that basic…", posted with vodpod

Few of us would NOT want to look like the Victoria's Secret angels.

Movie stars.  Celebrities.  Supermodels.  If you’re anything like me, you’ll find it hard NOT to compare yourself with these seemingly perfect slenderellas, adorning the covers of the glossies.  They of the Perfect-and-Pert club.  Perfect hair… perfect skin… pert boobs… perfect teeth… perfect figures (not to mention their enviable jobs and their jetsetting lifestyles!)

“Woe is me!” I lament.  “How can I possibly measure up?  Doesn’t my husband stare wistfully at said perfection and yearn for the day when his wife looks a bit more like Angelina Jolie… and a bit less like an ageing hefalump?  What a failure I must be… with my outgrown-roots-in-need-of-dyeing and my saggy, post-children, cooper’s droop breasts… and my dimply, un-tanned thighs… and my skew, not-so-white teeth… oh, how crap I feel!  Oh, boo-woo-hoo!”

If you’ve ever felt this way – if you’ve ever compared yourself with the world’s models, celebs and superstars – and found yourself sorely lacking… do me a favour:  ditch those glossy beauty magazines and turn off that E! Entertainment / Fashion TV!!!

Now… get in your car, and drive to the closest mall.  Find a coffee shop where you have a great view of the passers by.  Order a cappuccino… and PEOPLE-WATCH!  (Or rather… women-watch!)

I’m sitting in a coffee shop myself, as I type this blog.  I’m drinking a really delicious cup of foamy cappuccino and I’m watching the world go by.  I’ve been sitting here for about 2 hours… and I have seen a lot of women walk past my little window… but no-one… and I mean NO-ONE… resembles anyone of the photo-shopped perfection that you see on the covers of the glossies!

That’s not to say that I haven’t seen any beautiful women today.  I have.  They are all beautiful – and they all have something unique and special to offer the world.

There’s a lady with a mop of wild curls with a sexy swagger.  She’s wearing a funky little Jo-Lo style tracksuit and laughing with a friend.  A middle-aged woman strides by purposefully.  She’s wearing a neatly fitting red jacket and her shiny hair in a short bob bounces.  I want to reach out and run my fingers through it – her hair looks like something straight out of a shampoo commercial!

A little black girl sits at the table opposite me in the coffee shop.  She must be about 18 months old.  She’s wearing a pink tracksuit, decorated with hearts.  Her curly hair has been parted and tied in to about 12 top-knots… each spouting a little bush of black curls, and each tied with a different colour hairband.  She wears gold hoop earrings and she’s gorgeous!  Her mother has creamy, smooth skin and a sexy cleavage.  Delicate hands with carefully manicured nails.

An elderly lady stops at the sweet shop opposite me.  She’s scooping popcorn from the popcorn machine into a candy-striped box.  Her movements are so graceful.  She has neatly styled silvery-white hair and laugh lines around her eyes.  I wonder if the popcorn is for a few adoring grandchildren?

There goes a blonde woman with long, toned legs.  She’s wearing pink and she’s in a rush.  There goes the housewife with a trolley full of groceries… and the mom with her newborn in a pram.  Two office colleagues in matching uniforms clip-clop purposefully down the corridor – and an Indian woman with enormous, dark eyes, hurries her two children along.  Her eye make-up emphasizes those beautiful eyes even  more!  There’s also a Muslim women whom I can’t see too well, because she’s covered head-to-toe in the black hijab required by her religion.  However, I do catch a glimpse of a sparkling shoe and a pair of dainty feet with pink, manicured toenails.

The women I see today come in all different colours, shapes, sizes and ages.  Young… old.  Fat, thin and everything in between.  Tall… short.  Huge boobs – and no boobs.  Big bums… flat bums.  Pear shapes, apple shapes and every other shape imaginable.  Blondes, red-heads and brunettes.  African, Asian, European, Indian… a lovely spectrum of cultures and colours.  There are housewives, saleswomen, secretaries, medical professionals, students, shop assistants, businesswomen, managers, teachers….  there are mothers, wives, grandmothers, sisters, aunts and daughters… and they’re all beautiful (but sadly, very few of them realise this about themselves).

This is how many of us feel about ourselves.

I think that one of our biggest mistakes (as women), is that we’ve bought into the lie fed to us by our media-created, celebrity-obsessed, Western-Society ideals – that teaches  us that ‘beauty equals perfection’.  And that, if we’re not perfect (and who is?)… then we’re not beautiful.

I believe that women are beautiful – just in the simple fact that God created us as WOMEN and everything that entails:  our softness, our femininity, our ability to bear children, our compassion, our talent, our hips, boobs, wombs and vaginas… our soft skin, our curves… small hands… luscious lips… accommodating tummies… our voices… our laughter, our nurturing capacity… our tendency to make things better… our empathy, our warmth, our vision… our ability to multi-task… our brains, our ideas, our wisdom, our strength… our capacity to overcome obstacles and accomplish great things…  these (and much more!) are the things that make us women AND beautiful.

Beauty is NOT the number on the scale.  It’s NOT the measurement of your waist.  It’s NOT your dress size.  It’s NOT your ability to perform porn-star-sex-acts in the bedroom.  It’s NOT the trendy-ness of your clothing… or the colour of your skin… or your popularity… or your bank account… or your shoe size… or your hair-do.  Beauty is not what the mainstream media says it is!  Beauty is not what Western Society says it is!  Beauty is not what the fashion industry says it is!  Beauty is not what the porn industry says it is!  Beauty is not even about what the beauty industry says it is!

Ask a loving husband why his wife is beautiful – and his answer won’t be:  “Well, she’s skinny, she’s got tits the size of watermelons and she’ll do anything I want her to do in bed!”… (and if there is a male out there who answers as such – then he’s not actually a man, he’s an insecure and pathetic little boy!).  No… most men define their woman’s beauty very… very differently to the way that the woman defines her own beauty.

I remember we had a Free-2-B-U evening a couple of months ago.  One of the women there (a beauty therapist… ironically) – didn’t believe that she was beautiful.

“Heather, this is such pie-in-the-sky nonsense!”, she said to me, “All this you-are-beautiful rubbish.  Anyone with eyes can see that I’m not beautiful!  I’m old and I’m fat!  Come on!  Let’s get real here!  Let’s call a spade a spade!”

She was so adamant that she wasn’t beautiful and no amount of affirmation from the women present could convince her otherwise – so I asked her:  “What does your husband say about you?”

She was quiet for a second and then blushed.  “Oh him…” she said, suddenly resembling a shy schoolgirl.

“I bet your husband thinks you’re beautiful!”, I said.

“Well, yes… he thinks I’m beautiful”, she admitted, “But he doesn’t know any better… I’m sure he’s being sweet and just saying what good husbands are supposed to say”.

No!  Her husband had it right!  He could easily see her beauty – but she couldn’t see it… or embrace it herself!  How true this is for so many of us!  Many of us have adoring men in our lives who tell us that we’re beautiful – but we simply don’t believe them!  Yes – we love hearing those words; “You’re beautiful!”… but why is it so damn hard to accept and embrace those words?

I believe that it’s time for women to re-define the word “beauty”.  Yes, most of us do like dressing up… and we like make-up and nice hairstyles… and fashion… and spa treatments and all of those other wonderful things that are tools to express ourselves.  But all of that stuff is just… “cool stuff”… and not the essence of beauty itself.  My belief is this:  Woman equals Beauty.  It’s God’s design… and it’s beautiful.

PLAN OF ACTION:

Ask yourself:  “What is my definition of beauty?” – and then consider how you came to think that way.  Did your parents teach it to you?  Were the kids at school an influence?  Was it magazines, TV and movies?  Was it boyfriends?  WHY do you feel the way you feel about what it means to be beautiful?

Ask your man why he finds you beautiful – and try not to grimace when he compliments you!  (You could also ask close and valued friends the same question).

Think those photos on the covers of the glossies are real?  Get a reality-check and see for yourself how clever “Photoshop” is, by clicking here.

Click here to see a few pics of celebs as ‘normal people’ versus their professional photo shoots.

And finally (this is for the Beautiful Life Project) – please answer the question:  “Do you think you’re beautiful?” by clicking here.