Filling Out

I usually don’t openly complain about my own body issues but I have them. I recently got a little annoyed while doing some online browsing.

I’m small busted. Not just small busted, I’m “God forgot to give me boobs” small busted. It’s been an issue with my self-confidence since middle school. As we all know, kids can be mean, downright jerks. To their defense, a lot of growing is about trial and error. Sometimes, that trial and error comes at the cost of others.

For me, I noticeably didn’t mature like the other girls in my class. I didn’t reach “maturity” so to speak until I was almost fifteen. It was too late for my new surge of hormones to grow the necessary parts to be attractive to most boys jacked-up on hormones my age. By that time, they had noticed all of the other girls were growing and I soon became an easy target for humiliation from a biological process I had no control over.

Memories of my awkward years are as muddled as my complexion at fourteen, but I will never forget boys wading up paper and throwing it down the front of their shirts to humiliate me. I was called names and reminded how unattractive I was because I didn’t have breasts at fourteen.

Middle school is an awful experience for most. Most kids in their early teens are experiencing surging hormones that suddenly make classmates they’ve known since the age of five attractive, voices shaky, and body parts stuck somewhere between the little kid you thought you were and the adult you would be some day. Emotions were confusing and relationships didn’t seem as simple as they were once.

Nothing screamed awkward like the full page close up of fifteen year old me in the yearbook. I was the cheerleader that no one anticipated making the squad. My face was broke out and my insecurities seeped right through my crooked smile. Thankfully I didn’t find that gem until I was looking at yearbooks during study hall in the library my senior year.

If I had anything, I had hope. That hope came from the summer between middle school and high school. That happened to be the year I discovered padded bras. It worked. I got off the bus on my first day of freshman year and the change was noticeable. A boy in my class said, “Looks like you finally grew some”. The appearance of breasts are the only thing I felt that got me noticed. It wasn’t my face, I struggled with acne so bad that I had to see a dermatologist, it wasn’t my body, I was teased and called “monkey arms” in middle school, and it wasn’t my personality, boys didn’t want to get to know “that” girl.

Yes I was “that” girl. In eighth grade, I dated one boy. I really thought he liked me. He was on the football and basketball team and I was a cheerleader. I broke-up with him after I found out his teammates were making fun of him for being my boyfriend. He was too immature to stand-up to them and I was too insecure to see my own worth.

I’m 38 and I have never been able to see myself as beautiful because of my cup size. I thought once I graduated, I would leave the judgemental world of body shaming behind but that hasn’t been the case. Some women would use passive-aggressive tactics to tear me down using their obviously bigger bust size as leverage. In my head, I was not only unattractive to men, but to other women as well.

I have never really felt like a woman. I came close while nursing my children. While nursing I could fill out a size B cup. I at least looked like woman physically. I could put on a dress and not worry about the front falling forward because of the lack of assumed physical form, I could wear a bra without it riding up over the lack of breast tissue. I had confidence because I felt like I was the woman I was supposed to be. Nursing had it’s perks. Obviously for a woman who naturally had little breast tissue but for my children as well. I didn’t read the fine print when researching breastfeeding, “once nursing is finished, expect to loose breast volume”.

I finished nursing my last child in 2015. The fine print didn’t lie.

The years of teasing compiled on top of my own distorted view of beauty, has led me to where I am today. I am unable to see myself as feminine and beautiful.

I am aware that I have to be the change agent in how I view myself because years of reassurance has not helped my frame of mind. I just want to feel like other women feel. I want to be able to wear something beautiful and not have to worry if I will be able to fill it out.

This leads me to my annoyance. Valentine’s Day is approaching and although my husband and I never celebrate the holiday, I thought I would browse lingerie, specifically “lingerie for small busted women”. My search led me to several articles and every article recommended lingerie modeled by women who had average sized breasts.

“Nevermind.”

I want to wear something nice for my husband but nothing “fits” me. One piece lingerie is out of the question because the bottom half needs to be smaller than the top half. I can’t fill out even the smallest bras because there is always a fold where breast tissue is supposed to be. Nothing fits me. Nothing…..

In my desperation, I went to Victoria’s Secret to be fitted. The level of anxiety in someone else even coming close to seeing my upper half is overwhelming. I sucked it up because I was told they can find something for almost anyone. Guess who left without a bra? This girl. They couldn’t fit me. I was too small.

After that, I began to research breast augmentation. I made an appointment with a surgeon who had excellent reviews. I thought there would be hope for me to feel whole. Unfortunately, hope comes with a price tag. My appointment also came with humiliation. They take a photo so they can have a before prior to surgery (if you decide to go that route). I didn’t expect to have to stare at it during my consultation. I finally had to ask him to take it down.

I still hope I can pursue surgery but I also know I need to figure out how to change my frame of mind. It’s hard to do when I can’t even feel comfortable in a bathing suit. It’s hard to do when you’ve been made to believe one’s beauty depends on a natural process my body seemingly forgot to finish. It’s hard to see myself as beautiful when I feel like I have come short of expectations. How could anyone look at me and be satisfied knowing I will never look like a woman?

I may never figure it out. I hope I do, or I hope I can at least figure out how to feel better about myself.

Some women dream of fame, I dream of a “B” cup!

– D

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Mary, Did You Know?

There are many things to think about when recalling the Easter story; self sacrificing love, victory over death, fear, sadness, forgivenes and much more, but this Easter I want to focus on one small figure at the foot of the cross. Mary. “Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene.” John 19:25 (KJV)

There she stood at the cross, the foot of which was most likely soaked in blood. I imagine the small divot where the cross was pounded into the ground was also pooled with blood. I can see her tear soaked face looking up, squinting in the sun, trying to catch a glimpse of her baby. She probably saw no more than his chest painfully rising upward while he was struggling to breathe. I can imagine her getting as close to the cross as she could, possibly soaking her own clothes in his trickling blood. Maybe it would have been just enough for her to feel a tip if her finger on his toe. A small touch that would say, “Mother is here.” It wasn’t likely that she would have a chance of touching any part of him, but at the very least, she probably came into contact with his blood. He was beaten severely before they nailed him to the cross and the scene that beheld his mother’s eyes was no doubt horrific. But she was his mother and that’s what a good mother does, she’s with her children in their time of need. She probably got as close as she could so her baby would know mother was there.

I know how much it hurts me anytime my children are hurt. In about a months time my youngest son will have neurosurgery, no doubt the reason why my Easter post took this topic. I can’t imagine the moment my little boy gets wheeled back for surgery without tearing up. I know my son will be in the care of the very best neurosurgeon but it doesn’t relieve most of my worries. I will have the obvious worry until I can touch him in recovery. I will feel relieved once I can touch my son and let him know, “Mommy is here.”

There is comfort in those words, “Mommy is here.” I find it a beautifully designed plan of God’s to allow the Son of Man to be born of a woman. He was God with a human mother and by every description of her, she was a wonderful mother. She was loving, honest, and faithful. She obeyed God with no thought of herself when she was told she was with child. She knew she was a virgin but what would her husband Joseph say? How did she know he’d still take her as his wife? Did she worry about these things when God asked her to carry His holy vessel? We will never know her intimate thoughts but she knew she was going to participate in a plan that would forever change humanity. I think about that when I look at the difficulty I face. My problems will not change the world and my plans will not be recounted for generations to come, but yet, I worry. I don’t think I have the faith Mary possessed. I know I am not the woman of faith God needs me to be, but I’m trying. I also know God has not asked me to sacrifice my son as he did Mary. What does this story of mother and son mean to me? Can it also have meaning for you?

I can only imagine what was also going through Mary’s mind during the crucifixion. There was little detail regarding Mary during this moment in time, but let’s try to stand with Mary and look at it through the eyes of a mother. Here she stood at the foot of a cross, watching her bruised, beaten, bloody, and dying son struggle for his life, possibly recalling the moment his life began. She may have thought of every other beautiful moment she had with her son since his birth, and now, the torment she must have felt as she was helpless to save him. I can see her anger for those who were mocking and belittling him. I can feel her agony as she realized what she was witnessing was indeed reality and when she finally could touch her boy, he’d be dead. Even if she had knowledge of his resurrection, she still had to witness his horrible death. It was a death he didn’t deserve because he was wrongfully accused. He was tortured and he was humiliated. He was an innocent man publicly shamed as a criminal and no one knew this better than Mary. This makes me think of the song, “Mary Did You Know?” Did she see what Jesus saw in the garden as he asked for this to be passed from him on the day of his birth? Did she look at the perfect son she had just delivered and see the death that awaited him? Christ did, and he was so fearful, he agonized over it. The Bible says, “And he was withdrawn from them about a stone’s cast, and kneeled down and prayed, saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.” Luke 22:41-42 (KJV) “And being in agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling to the ground.” Luke 22:44 (KJV) He didn’t want to experience the pain, even when he knew the effect his death would have on mankind. This verse comforts me because Jesus had all knowledge of his death, spoke to God honestly about his fears in prayer, and asked that God’s will be done. In difficult times, I take comfort in the obedience Christ displays for us here. He felt fear over his life, just like I have. He prayed and told God how he didn’t want to experience the pain, just as I have. Then, he asked for and accepted God’s will, just as I am still trying to learn. God doesn’t ask any more from us than he did from his own son. Mary and Jesus both obeyed, even when they saw the tragedy ahead.

Jesus even obeyed while he was dying. Jesus spoke few words as he died, but he spoke these words no doubt out of love and obedience, “When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman behold thy son. He saith to the disciple, Behold thy mother! And from that hour that disciple took her unto his home. After this, Jesus knowing that all things were now accomplished, that the scripture might be fulfilled, saith, I thirst.” John 19:26-27 (KJV) His mother, Mary was most likely widowed at this time and would have no home and no income. It was customary during this time in history for women to be put in the care of someone else at the passing of the man who was caring for her. Jesus didn’t forget his mother standing there. He made sure he took care of her in his most desperate hour. I can recall many times where my husband and I were experiencing the same pain, yet he took care of my needs before his own. It’s hard to forget that kind of love. Jesus was displaying self-sacrificing love two times over on the cross. He was sacrificing his life for mankind and put his mother’s needs before his own while he did it. My husband’s actions will never be of that magnitude, but through his actions, I have no doubt how much he loves me. When one person puts your needs before their own, they are displaying the same love Christ displayed at the cross.

Mary saw her son give up his own life shortly after this. He was removed from the cross and it was finished. In God’s great plan, taking care of Jesus’ earthly mother was included. He didn’t say, “Thanks for carrying my holy vessel Mary, get lost.” He had a plan for her care right to the end. He honored his mother. Three days later, Jesus rose from the grave proving victory over death. He didn’t forget his mother then either; Acts 1:14 says, “These all continued with one accord in prayer and supplication, with the women, and Mary the mother of Jesus, and with his brethren.” (KJV) Jesus spent time with the disciples, and even his mother after he rose from the dead. They prayed and worshipped together until the time he ascended into heaven. Again, the Bible didn’t mention the interaction between mother and son during this time, but there must have been joy in Mary’s heart once she saw her resurrected son. All the pain, sorrow, and grief of the cross must have melted away. She may have spent her time with him, once again admiring the wondrous works God was doing through him. Maybe she finally felt the magnitude of her pregnancy and the angel’s words to her saying she was with child.

These days, motherhood begins with two pink lines, no proclamation from heaven but the news is still as sweet. God had a plan for the mother of his son and never forgot her faithfulness. I imagine he always smiled on the woman who said, “Yes” to a plan that was uncertain for a woman in her time. She had the faith to answer God’s call and follow that all the way to the foot of a bloody cross where she watched her beloved die. His life did not end in vain. No, he had a purpose and in it, so did she. It was her “Yes” that helped complete a plan put in motion before Adam ever placed his feet upon the new creation. God had Mary in mind when he decided one final sacrifice had to be made to unite man with God. He had a plan for him and he had a plan for her. There was death and tears at that cross and there was blood, a lot of blood. Mary was probably covered in her son’s blood just as we are when we say “Yes” as she did. When we say “Yes” he has a plan for us, all the way to the end because he doesn’t forget. Like Mary, he has also promised us a new home. An eternal one. Mary wasn’t afraid to come close to the cross because she was Jesus’ mother and she’d follow him anywhere. I have no doubt Mary would take our hands and lead us to the cross where we too can be covered by the blood of the one last sacrifice because there we can find love. There lies the ultimate form of love and forgiveness. Follow Mary. Take the journey to the foot of the cross with her this Easter and ask, “Mary, did you know?”

*d*

To Those Who are Different

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If you are reading these words maybe it’s because you saw the title and thought, “That’s me, I’m different.” Maybe you said it with sadness. Maybe you feel like your differences have set you apart from the rest of the world and you feel alone. I want to tell you why you should say, “I’m different” with enthusiasm and joy.

At some point in history we were made to believe that it was acceptable to believe in a cookie cutter type of beauty. Beauty could be defined by some as a lack of “imperfections”. The world has gone so crazy over this concept that the appearance of people already believed to fit into the acceptable category of beauty is altered. Bodies are trimmed to a desired build, hair is colored, cut, or even added to obtain “perfection” and even the face can be altered to fit the mold. Everywhere we look we see some mythical idea of beauty. By accepting these preconceived ideals, we are denying ourselves the opportunity to witness the true beauty around us. Natural beauty. Beauty that shines so brightly on the inside, it dulls the watching world.

I want you to imagine what it looks like when you step out your front door. When I step out of mine, I step out onto my front porch. I have a swing and a wicker chair there. I can see my flowers, hear the cars driving by on my busy street, and I can barely see the horizon of the sky. The quaint buildings of our small village don’t allow me to see the wide angle view of nature but I still get to see several types of trees that line the main street in our village. The smells and sounds differ from day to day as we are a community that thrives on farming and livestock. I frequently hear a train roll through as we live only a block from the tracks. I love where I live. How about you? What do you see? Maybe you live where I have always dreamed of living, slightly isolated in a valley with a majestic view of a mountain? Or maybe you live where you had always dreamed, in a city alive with the noise of life. Maybe you don’t like what you see and are still dreaming of being elsewhere. No matter where you are, there is something to see once you step outside. Nature. Nature is all it’s own and it has been here long before we changed the landscapes outside our doors. It is full of splendid diversity. We can photoshop and edit pictures of nature but nothing compares to the real thing. A photo lacks the depth of being surrounded by the actual beauty of nature. Would the mountain look less majestic if a rock were to crumble off the face? Is the stream less blue if the leaves of fall float on its surface? Do we refuse to gaze upon the rise of an ancient tree because it’s bark has been worn from the animals that shelter in its branches?

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If your answer is “no” then I ask why our own differences are seen as anything less than beautiful. Why is a smile less warming if the face that wears it has a blemish upon it’s skin? Is the body any less than amazing just because it rests in a wheelchair rather than on two feet? Why is a the shaved head of a cancer patient less desirable than that of someone with a full head of hair? Beauty can no longer be defined by the masses idea of beauty, but by nature. The differences of all of us are natural. Why are we trying to change that? There is so much to appreciate when we step out our doors and take time to look at the unending differences of nature, isn’t it time we do the same with each other?

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Beauty isn’t just what you see in a magazine, it is the resilience of the human spirit, the beauty in our personal journey. Beauty is what the journey teaches us and how it transforms us from the inside. Beauty is the scars we bare from physical and emotional wounds earned in battle. True beauty is held by those who have been stripped to their soul and have seen life in a new light. Beauty is not worn on the face or seen upon a pouty lip, it is deep within the heart. Beauty is carried by those who have given all of themselves and have opened their eyes to what really makes taking a breath priceless. Indeed it’s seeing how wonderful it is to be a unique individual.

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We are on the brink of redefining so many things, it is about time we start redefining this archaic definition of beauty. It is time we love what makes ourselves and others unique. It is time to wake up and look at what makes you different and say, “no one else is like me” and celebrate it. Don’t be discouraged by differences. They really aren’t differences, diversity in all of us needs to be as natural as those in nature. The rocks will crumble on the mountain, so too will our bodies become brittle, but they are both beautiful. Not all birds have the ability to fly, but they are still birds just as we are no less human if we cannot walk. Hundreds of different flowers lining a hillside are not dedined as ugly because each one is different so why are some defined as such?

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If you feel different, celebrate because you were meant to be different. Every person was meant to be unique. To define beauty in a narrow perimeter is unnatural and ridiculous and it needs to stop. We are part of the beauty and artwork of nature but yet we define our beauty on different terms. It makes no sense.

If you feel too different to be beautiful, please know that you are special because there is no one like you and there never will be again. You are like one of those thousands of flowers that grow wild in nature, without you, the hillside wouldn’t be as splendid. You are splendid, because you are you.

*d*

Beautiful as a Flower

I love my flowerbed. Around March, I get excited about the endless planting possibilities. My favorite color is pink so I usually find a variety of shades and flowers in my favorite color. As much as I adore the color pink, I also know I can improve upon my flowerbed master piece if I added a few complimentary colors. With creativity fueling my spring time thoughts I forget one thing, I don’t live alone. I have five other people who may interject their opinions and since I want to teach my children to share, I must also share. “Darn it!”

This year when I went to the store where I wanted to purchase the perfect pieces to my creation, the kids also came along. If you have ever been shopping with a kid, you know they either want to buy or help pick something out. On this trip, they wanted to put their favorite picks in the flowerbed and plant them themselves. My oldest daughter won over my heart as she asked to plant additional pink flowers. My oldest son decided he wanted orange marigolds. I don’t like marigolds. It isn’t that I don’t like seeing them, I just don’t like seeing them in my flowerbeds. He wanted the dark orange, as to exclaim, “These are mine!”.

“Darn those orange flowers,” I thought. “Why wasn’t his favorite color green like it once was?” I knew how important this was to all of them so I needed to let go and find a way to make us all happy. Then I remembered something about myself.

While planning my wedding ten years ago my husband and I went to a department store to add items to our registry. The woman helping us was probably old enough to be a grandmother. She was sweet like one until she asked us if we wanted to register towels. I was reluctant as we had already purchased towels for the apartment we would share after the wedding. After some pushing, she won over the approval of my husband to register towels. She then inquired of us what colors we were using in our wedding decor. When I answered, “none,” she got annoyed. I explained that I had seven bridesmaids with seven different colored dresses and I used several different shades of pink for the bouquets. She made me feel like a criminal for not conforming to tradition. I wasn’t going to change because she disapproved. And with that, I registered every variety of color towel I could find.

My son was like his mother, different and not bending to conformity. I planted his flowers next to the walkway leading to our house, they look beautiful. I see how they pop out and exclaim, “Different is beautiful!”

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Think about the sky. On most occasions it’s blue or maybe gray, but at sunset, it is sometimes painted in brilliant colors. Hills and roadways can be lined with vivid wildflowers. These are most picturesque, and yet, they are naturally occurring in nature. My favorite is seeing tiny infants grow into unique individuals with distinct personalities. Nature is beautiful because it is different, and so are we. Whose standard are we comparing ourselves to anyway? Do we really all want the same hair, skin, and shape? That would be like me missing out on the surprising beauty in contrast I found in my little flowerbed and it only took a simple change of heart for me to truly enjoy it.

*d*

P.S. After my grandfather passed away, I framed a picture of he and my grandmother’s wedding. She had four bridesmaids in four different colors. I guess I take after someone too.

Of Fire and Clay

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Pottery has been around for centuries and the techniques have been used by a variety of people from poor farmers to Egyptian Pharaohs. Because it abundant and readily available, clay was cheap. The need for pottery was as vast as the type of people who used it. Farmers could use simple pottery to hold grain while Pharaohs used elaborate pottery to hold sacred items for burial. In almost every culture, pottery was an easy way to create a piece of art. The process of creating a piece of pottery leaves the unformed glob of clay unrecognizable by the end of the refining process. To get the unshaped clay to a useful or artistic piece, it is molded by the potter’s hands, shaped into the desired form, and placed into the kiln to harden. Firing the clay is an important step so it can be strong enough to fulfill its desired purpose. Everything from the season’s yield to the treasures of an ancient culture would be held in pottery and the pieces had to be strong enough to withstand fracture and prevent it from losing its contents. The more artistic pieces were especially desired to withstand the tests of time and were often heated at higher temperatures. Not all types of clay can withstand the higher temperature so only special types of clay were used. This special clay creates the beautiful, extremely durable porcelain. It is unimaginable to think that clay consists of no more than a few natural elements.  According to dictionary.com, clay is partially defined as the following:

1. a natural earthly material that is plastic when wet, consisting essentially of hydrated silicates of aluminum: used for making bricks, pottery, etc.

2. earth, mud.

4. the human body, especially distinguished from the spirit or soul; the flesh

The body being defined as clay? In the simplest definition, the human body is made up of a handful of elements, mostly consisting of water. Humans and clay are essentially made of the same basic elements. Unlike the human body, water is added to clay to form what is desired by the potter’s hands. Without the work of the potter, the clay would remain with the earth. The body, being defined as that of clay, could also be seen in this simple context, from the earth, to the earth. Let there be no mistake, the human body is more complex than a jar of clay, but like clay, it can be shaped to hold the greatest treasures and has the potential to become a beautiful piece of art.

It isn’t uncommon to see people turning their bodies into their own versions of art. Tattoos are less the taboo that they once were. Adorning the body with pieces of art through tattooing takes time and can be painful. To the person desiring the tattoo, the expression of the work is usually well worth the pain of getting it. It has also been widely acceptable in America to have piercings. The brief moment of pain and subsequent care after the piercing is worth the look achieved. In both examples, the outcome of the initial pain was known and a decision was made to endure pain and/or the care involved. Such a process would be less desirable if the outcome was unknown and the only information given was a promise of beauty. That would take a great deal of trust and not being assured of the end result could cause anxiety and less of a tolerance of pain. Ask anyone who paid for a tattoo that ended up looking more like the doodling of a two year-old or the small percentage that got an infection from a piecing. Instead of beauty, they received a problem. Decisions such as these would be simpler to make if there was foreknowledge of the result. Since there is no way to know how the experience will end, asking questions can help make the best decision. If clay could ask questions or talk, what would it say to the potter?  It certainty would want to know what the potter intended for it, but what else?

“You want to make me a water pot? No thanks, I’m too good for water.”

“There is no way you are throwing me into that fire!”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t paint me blue.”

Fortunately for history, clay made no such demands or statements. Human ancestors molded and fired the clay to serve a purpose and clay is still serving a purpose today. Finding a purpose for the human existence is vastly different than that of clay but it can help define a purpose. Both start out as a shape unrecognizable to the finished result. Humans at some point in the womb resemble a tadpole more than a human but with time, develop all the necessary components. Witnessing a heartbeat via ultrasound when the baby is no more than a few weeks gestation is no less than astonishing. A heart that will beat thousands upon thousands of times in a lifetime begins so miniscule inside a mother’s womb.  In the womb is where the molding process begins. First with the physical form and then as the child grows, the internal. Parents nurture and protect children and try to shape them into responsible and respectable adults. Parents nurture the aspects of a child’s life to help him or her understand the world and prepare for the fire that will eventually come. And this shaping by fire never ends. Into adulthood the experiences shape existence, while still relying on the early work of the parents. All with the hope the now adult can navigate the world alone. Unlike the clay, humans can ask questions on what they will become.

“Why am I here?”

“Why has this tragedy happened to me?

“Am I strong enough to endure?”

Also unlike the clay, life is shaped over a long period of time and the fire doesn’t come all at once. Sometimes the fire is hot enough to harden only the outside and protect what is within and other times, the heat is so intense that it hardens on the inside and out. The true works of art are those formed with the most intense heat, whose flames are not meant for every piece of clay. Those special pieces are chosen carefully and will have lasting strength and beauty. Because the end result of these rare pieces is beauty beyond compare, it takes time and trust in the process. These rare works of art can hold the most valuable possessions and stand the test of time. No, money cannot buy an average piece the result meant for the rare and it’s not worth the value gained by experience. A plain pot can be painted, decorated and made to resemble what intense fire has fused but it cannot have equal strength.

Are you the rare pot? Have you been asked to carry the heavy burdens? Because the heat is so intense, the process for the rare pot is painful and there is no knowledge of why and how the fire will result in beauty. Often times questions have to remain unanswered and trust wears thin but like the rare pot, the experience in the hottest fire yields invaluable experience. Each time the rare pot is exposed to the next round of heat, the harder it gets and the value of the treasures entrusted grows. What gem has been entrusted to you? Maybe it is the most delicate that must be placed in the strongest of places. If you are asked to endure the intense flames, your beauty will only shine more brightly every time you endure. Unlike the common, this beauty isn’t by choice and can only be seen at the surface but has been shaped and formed changing the very elements of your life. Don’t get discouraged you rare and beautiful piece, welcome the fire, for each flame brings you closer to unmatched beauty.

*d*

Image found via search engine and credited to http://www.pinterest.com