the One About Teenaged Me

So, this post is going to contain a lot of photos.

Specifically, flashback photos of muhself.

Hayley from 2008 would pretend to be embarrassed, but secretly hope it might launch her into internet fame.

I considered writing a letter to eighteen-year-old me, but everybody does that. And after spending a considerable time debating my angle, (pretty much just the five seconds between that period and capital ‘A’) I decided to just let the pictures drive the trolley and settle back with a water bottle and PA system.

You probably would like to know the topic of today’s little tour, and that my Dear Readers, is a relatively hot topic: societal standards of beauty.

I try not to prance too far into the camps of the offended elite, but I felt that this topic warranted discussion. Whether you be mother, daughter, or friend, we need to start talking less about the way misogynist comic book illustrators are portraying us, and more about the way our female specific magazines, movies, and products are warping our perception of ourselves.

I know I’m not the only voice out here–I’m not the first, and I definitely won’t be the last, but I think that maybe if more of us start telling our stories, somebody will listen.


I grew up knowing that my worth was not defined by my beauty or waist size, by a very wise set of parents.

Over and over again, I was reminded of my inherent value and individuality. However, today as I flipped through old photos of myself, I realized that my perception of *me* at the time was not untainted.

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The photo on the left was taken shortly after I discovered Lookbook. It took me a few more years to create my own account, but I started taking pictures. My head-canon for not liking the left outfit argued that the shorts were too short, (hidden by the sweater much?) but if I’m being honest in retrospect, even if the shorts had been long enough, I still thought my legs looked too thick.

The outfit on the right had some head-shot counterparts that made it onto Facebook. I never liked this photo though. Partly because of the sliver of tummy, but mostly because I thought I looked really chubby.

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Fast forward a year and some change. Notice the wide stance–we wouldn’t want those thighs to touch now, would we? The photo on the left was taken on a day where I tried to get a few dance shots. Those were posted, but only after I had enhanced the shadows to make me look thinner. On the right, you see another abandoned attempt at an outfit shot. I gave up after seeing that photo.

I was dancing four to five times a week at this point, and settled into what I thought was my roll as the heavy ballerina.


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I finally signed up for a Lookbook account, but didn’t post very frequently. My ribcage never met my hip bones with a concave line, and “boy, don’t my knees look chubby above those socks?” I posted puddle-jumping look, but later took it down.

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Eventually, I got pickier about my poses. The photo with the green chucks was an all-time favorite because I managed to hide the biggest parts of my body. The photo with the green scarf never even made it to editing because of my legs.

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These photos never made it to final editing because I didn’t feel like slimming my stomach with my cheap editing software.


I definitely doctored up my abs in this photo, but couldn’t find the original to show a comparison. You know, because the internet wouldn’t appreciate that “ballon” if my gut was hanging out.


By twenty-one, I figured I was a lost cause.

If I’d never managed to squeeze my behind back into my size 4 jeans from the first picture, no matter how nice I thought I looked, *truly attractive* wasn’t really a choice.

Now, I didn’t write this post to have you all say things like, “Oh, you look great, girl!” “Don’t listen to stupid people.” or “You’re beautiful the way you are.”

Eighteen-year-old me would have, but that’s not the point.

knew I had value. I knew logically that I wasn’t fat. I knew the expectation I had for myself was a lie.

Yet, somehow I didn’t feel that my body had a place in beautiful.

And to be honest, I’m still not there yet.

And to be more honest, I’m not really sure what the answer is. We all deal with insecurities, and I don’t think we will ever eradicate them. Nonetheless, I do believe we need to collectively point our feminine fingers at Hollywood and Cosmopolitan and Women’s Health and every makeup, fitness, clothing, and underclothing brand out there.

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It’s not a matter of thin being wrong, or just adding plus sized models to your line-up…

HELLO! We call them *plus sized* models.

Thin is beautiful and should be embraced. Bodacious is beautiful and should be embraced.

YET, somehow, after all the propaganda, efforts at esteem conservation, and countless counter campaigns, the body representation chart still specializes in the extremes.

Our girls can’t merely be told that their bodies are beautiful and accepted, they have to be shown.

SO I challenge you: bloggers, media people, advertisements. Post the one about teenaged YOU. Be honest about the lies you believe and the battles that you’ve won.

I may never feel that my body has a place in America’s beauty, but learning how to not give a crap about what America thinks about beauty goes along way. God created us, and He creates beauty. We are reflections of Who He is.

Don’t forget it.

Challenge your friends to share the One About Teenaged You.

And keep those heads in the clouds~



Snow White and Rose Red

Chloe and I2

Sometimes you have people hop directly into the middle of your life.

Of course, usually there are individuals who run the typical timeline of introduction to acquaintance, then potentially friendship.

Then there are Kindred Spirits.

People who feel like they’ve always been a part of your life, and probably always will.

I met Chloe for the first time when I was around thirteen. We hit it off (she, my dearest, bestest cousin Emily, and I) over an afternoon of Lord of the Rings debates. It is a story well told and re-told, so I will not belabor the point here.

Suffice it to say, that due to rather fortuitous (read providential) wedding shenanigans, Chloe (and Darling Ruby) were once again introduced into my life.

The relationship between hair stylist and bride MUST be one of mutual respect and trust.

Chloes and I1

As Cousin Joth learned the hard way.

Chloe made it down to visit for a girls’ weekend, and her companionship was just what a bosom friend’s ought to be.

And as we are women in possession of cameras, well…



She’s a babe.

And obviously Snow White.

I guess that leaves me with Rose Red.


(The top two photos must be credited to the ever talented, Rachel Clarke)

The Incredible Edible… Breakfast Sandwich

I love eggs.

My family often watches with a collective grimace as I experiment with new and exotic pairings of fried eggs, fruits, cheese, spreads, vegetables, and the perfect carbohydrate. A previous favorite is posted here, but today we are in full swing cranberry season.

And I love cranberries even more than I love eggs. If I could handle the bitterness of just sitting and eating a bag full, I would.

Last Thanksgiving, I was in the great abroad, but in their great love and remembrance of me, my family froze two bags of delicious cranberry sauce. After having eaten it on toast, on a spoon, and on a bagel, I decided to honor the humble cranberry by including it in one of my breakfast sandwiches.


How delicious!

The recipe is pretty straight forward.

Soft fry your egg: mine was somewhere between over-easy and medium.
Add Muenster on top and give it one flip to brown the cheese.
Top a lightly toasted piece of wheat bread with as much leftover cranberry sauce as you desire.
Scoop egg on and enjoy!

Try it out!

Keep those heads in the clouds~


Often, Frequently? Or Often, a Person Who Has Lost Their Parents?

Oh, bother.

I do believe I have done it again!

I think the last five posts on this blog have been about how I will be posting more frequently, yet, to quote the Major General in the Pirates of Penzance, “You don’t go.”

Yet, in all good will and intended honesty, I quite earnestly intend to update more often. Often, frequently.

There. Done.


As this is my lifestyle blog, (oooh, ahhh, lifestyle) I’m going to get back in the running with a post about a few things I find quite nifty.

Five, per my arbitrary usualness.

1.) Warby Parker. I finally bit the bullet and ordered a pair of their glasses, and I LOVE THEM. I receive more compliments on them than any other pair of glasses I have ever owned.

2.) GoodWill. I have to keep myself from obsessively checking our Goodwill every day! I am particularly fond of the fabric section, furniture section, and shoe section-(especially after scoring a $150 pair of Sorrel boots for $3). I have no major issues with one for one models, but organizations like GoodWill and the Salvation Army offer a multifaceted approach for being able to reach out and help. You can take your own clothes and items, purchase discount clothes and items, and donate.

3.) Louisa May Alcott. Put all your self-help books aside for a day or two, and just let LMA’s real life advice chip away your crusty shell. Because you have to be crusty if you don’t like LMA.

4.) Ruby Jean Hopkins. A dear, bosom friend, fellow blogger, and phenomenal authoress. I look forward to someday sharing anecdotes on raising sheep.

5.) Big Mountain Tees. Whimsical. Tacky. Magical. Boss. Let’s just say that the whole family is getting one for Christmas.

Anyhow, that is my silly little list, and now I shall head on over to my other blogs!

Keep those heads in the clouds!


Five Thoughts On: being a decade after puberty

Long story:

Today I felt the need for some comfort. Like, the-way-your-mommy-hugged-you-when-you-were-thirteen-and-your-friend-said-something-mean, type of comfort. My mommy is out of town, (and I’m 22 for goodness sake) so I self-soothed.

Cue me sheepishly searching for WOW hits 1999 on Spotify.

Cue me frantically searching WOW ’00, ’01, ’02, ’03, ’04, ’98, and ’97. Yes, in that order.

Cue me realizing, thinking I counted wrong, then re-realizing that I am almost fully one decade away from thirteen-year-old me.

It’s weird.

I don’t like it.

Part of me still feels so connected to my thirteen-year-old self, but at the same time, I know if I were to meet that self, I wouldn’t be able to get far enough away.

All that said, I thought this would be a good topic for “five things”.

Thus, without further ado…

1) When I was almost thirteen, I called myself a dork… and I didn’t care what you thought. (Or so I said). Today I call myself a nerd, and I actually do not care what you think about that.

2) I finished my only completed novel. It’s called the Road to Matahoi, but c’mon… really.

3) Thirteen seemed really old, like hello! Teenager… but life wasn’t anything like Babysitter Club book covers (I wasn’t actually allowed to read them), Boy Meets World (the occasional episode I over-saw), or any of the other media-driven examples of pubescent life. (Just like my current life isn’t anything like Taylor Swift’s “22”).

4) In October, it will be exactly ten years since my appendix decided that it wanted to be where the people were. However, instead of going to a sea witch and being saved by a handsome prince, that nether region of my digestive tract decided that it should just explode. Fun stuff. There’s nothing quite like a gastro tube, catheter, and hospital gown to make a visit from your crush that much more embarrassing. Teen angst at its best.

5) When I was almost thirteen, I felt the first tugs on my heart for ministry. Jesus had a hold of me, and even in my hormone riddled brain, I knew that I wanted to go all out for Him. Not because I’m that great (I’m really pretty meh), but because He really is that great.

And there ya’ have it.

I would post a picture of myself… but that would just be a terrible idea ;).

Keep those heads in the clouds, y’all!


oh give me to a rambling man… or just let me ramble


Year two is complete. I’m free from school for the summer–unless I decide to take Summer courses–which I really don’t want to do. I’m tired.

I’m tired of being an adult, really. I wrote that in my journal the other night… mostly because if you say it to other people, they smile knowingly as if to say, “Mmmhhmm, and it doesn’t get any better. Get over it.” I’m in a place where I have decisions to make, and I really don’t feel like making them. I’m being melodramatic though, things are good. I AM sad that I haven’t been able to write much on this blog lately. I plan on MAKING myself write something weekly, just because it’s good to empty my head.

It just seems like there’s so much stuff I want to do doing the summer (play and sing music, write, paint, craft…), but I also just want to veg. Then it’s over.

I’m feeling hopeful though, my attitude is my choice, and as always–I prefer to keep my head in the clouds :).

There will most likely be some extensive world travel in my future, and I’m just excited to get out of my routine and serve. It’s nice to finally have a goal start to become reality.

All in all, I’ve been settling and stirring up all at the same time. I love my family more than ever. Honestly, I would rather be with them than with anyone else. I want to get more of my music and writing out there. It’s the stuff I love to do. I want to simplify. I have people on my heart, and I’m trying really really hard to be faithful in the little things, because I really fail at the little things a lot.

I want to read wholesome things.
I want to make beautiful things.
I want to speak healing things.
I want to love more.

So that’s where I’m at, my little raindrops. Life is an interesting thing, but never let it pull your head from the clouds.


The Lemony Writer… No, Not Lemony Snicket

I have felt very much like a lemony writer lately, almost a lime-ish writer but not quite. Because you all are probably baffled by now, and thinking I have probably lost my mind (all the cool kids are doing it), I will expound.

My ideal, and the place I am generally at in the absence of school work, is what I like to call the ripe peach writer. All I need is one good bite, and the creative juices come running out. I feel like writing, the writing comes, ahhhhh…. inspiration.

The place I have been stuck for this last semester, is the slightly more tiring lemony writer. I have to squeeze myself to get the words to come out. They’re there, mind you, they haven’t disappeared, but in the ceaseless flow of reflection paper after reflection paper and essay question after essay question, my precious ideas have bottled themselves into little capsules waiting for me to work up the stamina to wring them out. In the past two days I have read two books and written two book reports. Tomorrow the tally will be three. The collected words from the respective authors are taking the precarious seat in the front of my brain: easy to file, easy to fall, easy to never return. I suppose I should be glad that my own thoughts are taking up a more permanent residence in the lemony pockets in my brain, but… ehh, maybe I should invest in a juicer.

Fortunately, the lime-ish writing state seems safely away with the end of the spring semester drawing near. Anyone who has ever juiced a lime can guess at what I mean. I’m sure there are VERY juicy limes out there, but the type I happen to hit generally take some work before they relinquish their nectar. In fact, a firm squeeze rarely does any good. Results are won only by digging the fingertips deep into the lime and violently demanding payment. I’m not sure if my poor little noggin would survive that abuse.

No, I look forward to the day when my genius *giggles* becomes a peach again. Though I have to say that I infinitely prefer lemonade to peach juice. Perhaps the struggle makes it that much sweeter. Either way the words will come, and when they stop, I’ll pray for more.

~Noggins in the clouds people!


The Simple Things

The other day, I had a mini-epiphany. A mini-epiphany is something akin to an epiphany, but it’s not quite original enough or earth shattering enough to be considered quite the whole thing. Kind of like when you forget to register Microsoft Word, and you’re left with the reduced function version… anyway-

It was a day or two after Christmas break started, and I was enjoying being disentangled  from school. My first semester of college has been good, but I tend to be the type of person who enjoys discovering what her day brings, rather than planning every detail, then carrying it out.

So on this day, already on my mind, was the absurd satisfaction I find in having a large pile of tarped wood sit outside our house. It looks like we’re trying to hide an elephant out by our wood burner, but every time I see it, I feel a connection with every other family, past or present, that relies on an ample supply of wood to get them through the winter. My Laura Ingalls Wilder (that I don’t have to dig very far to find) surfaced with a vengeance. I almost ran upstairs and threw on my hoop skirt- yes, I do own one. However, I opted to grab some apples instead.

We have a large box of Granny Smith apples sitting out in our laundry room, and since they are probably one of my favorite baking “mediums” I started peeling…


I had forgotten how much I love to bake. It felt so useful. It was only apple pie and cran-apple crisp, but I felt like I had accomplished more in those two dishes than I had in my entire first semester.  I honestly believe that it is the simple things that last. The rosy red cranberries clinking into the metal bowl will be the same today, tomorrow, even fifteen years from now. It is so nice to do something you enjoy, and have it benefit others… life doesn’t always work like that, but when it does, I hide it in my heart.

In our world, we don’t appreciate the simple things. They might look silly in the eyes of the “worldly wise” or the “driven achievers” but they are the things that make life beautiful. What are some simple things in your life this season?

Keep those heads in the clouds~



The Ballad of the Lemmings *part one*

Come, gather ’round as the sun falls asleep, to hear of a tale that the ancient oaks keep. A tale of two children born from seeds magically sowed; both small like the faerie folk in yon’ tales of old.

This story begins as the grass grows the dew, and the mists peel away leaving the sky lapis lazuli blue. Two lilies spring up, faster than norm, the petals revealing two small babes; human in form. First noticed by mother quail in the tree.

“Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me! Are those babes that I see?!”

All of her flapping and fretting drew a crowd; rabbits and chipmunks, even night animals! For she flapped and fretted so loud. The animals began clamoring and jabbering ’till their tongues turned sore. Not a thing like THIS had happened in the forest before!

The fox who was keen and as slip as a whip said, “Leave them there! It could be a trap,” and gave his whiskers a twist.

Turtle, a cautious creature, disagreed with the fox, “That’s all good for you and for me… we’re safe! My shell even locks. But those babes are in lilies grown up high to the sky. What if they were to fall… and… gulp… die!?”

“Your concern does you credit, old Turtle, my friend,” said the pert flying squirrel as he rolled from his den. “But you would have been better off had you been raised as I. Just shove the babes, let them fall, and see if they fly.”

“You are a fool silly Squirrel! Scatter brained and busy as a bee; take your opinions and *sniff* wings and go back to your tree. ”

ALL of the animals turned and looked in respect to whom spoke; for it was Owl, rudely awakened and standing stern on his oak.

“And you Fox; you are too cunning and crafty for your own good. Slink back to your pile of sticks in the wood. Turtle is closest to an answer, I guess… but we still don’t have a way out of this mess!”

“Oh Owl, yoo hoo!” A little voice called. It took Owl a second to find Ma Lemming (though she was on her hind paws). “I’ll take these two and raise them as my own.”

Owl replied, “But you already have little lemmings waiting back at your home.”

Ma Lemming nodded her head with a tear and then sighed, “But I can’t leave them homeless, just dropped from the sky.”

Owl shrugged his consent and flew the babes down. Everyone crowded to see. Rabbit said with a frown, “They have no fur Lemming, can you fix that? I don’t know how!”

Ma Lemming just smiled, “Nor did my own at the beginning; these two will be alright for now.”

The Thin Places

A week or so ago, my dearest darling, Rubyring and I were talking about books and imagination and whatnot, when she accidentally spelled fantasy- “fantasie”. We laughed, and then I remarked that I rather liked that spelling better. It looked more… like a word from my imagination. It looked more like what real fantasie should be. Upon both agreeing, we wrote a definition for our new word:

Fantasie means more than Twilight or Harry Potter. (Sorry to any fans out there.)  It refers the beauty of mind and soul… the world in our subconscious, all things beautiful and imagined.  Things are only impossible when they cannot be imagined.  All possibility is contained within imagination.

Things that are in our imagination are existing in our imagination… thus, they exist! Okay, okay, I know… it’s a little heady, but conversations and readings and feelings that had been compiling for months, all began to tie in.

The ancient Christian Celts had a term for the moments when heaven and earth seemed to collide- the thin places. I instantly latched on to this concept- The thin places. The places where the breath of God blows my hair; where the greens seem greener, and the blues, bluer. How lovely. How absolutely wondrous!

Now you may be a dry old codger who is wondering, “Why does this matter? Thin places… BAH HUMBUG! And what does imagination and fantasie have to do with it anyway?!”


We must be able to see the thin places in order to find them, but so often our eyes have become scarred over. We have blinded ourselves to the thin places. A blooming flower is merely a chemical reaction; no longer a happening of wonderment and awe. We have lost our fantasie. Don’t you see? Our fantasie is our ability to accept happenings and feelings that are outside of our realm of understanding. We lose our fantasie when we are so uncomfortable or embarrassed with it, that we explain it away.

No matter your theological persuasion or life background, to limit the scope of what our omnipresent, omnipotent God can do is a prideful, hard, and self-reliant thing to do. I believe our failing comes when we say, “God, that’s silly… I don’t like it. Perhaps you should work in a more logical manner? Maybe you would consider removing some of the wonder and mystery, and replace it with some calculated facts?”

Why do you think Jesus praised childlike faith? A child can imagine a mountain jumping into the sea, or calling the stars by their names… they might even imagine a tea party with the stars. This fantasie/faith is the same that can surrender at Jesus’ feet and submit to be carried on His back. This is a fantasie that can see the thin places. That embraces the thin places and runs to them, because HE is there.

I don’t believe that there is anything much sadder than watching a child outgrow their father’s hug. I sure don’t ever plan to. However, if we believe that spiritual “maturity” is growing too old and wise to visit the thin places; we have reduced ourselves to thinking that we are too old for our Father’s hug. What a pity that would be.

Dear friends… this is the goal of ~head in the clouds~; to promote the pursuit if the thin places, the beauty of mind and soul… the world in our subconscious, all things beautiful and imagined. Optimists and dreamers everywhere, rejoice!

Keep those heads in the clouds~