"I think everybody longs to be loved and longs to know that he or she is
lovable. And, the greatest thing that we can do is to help somebody know that he or she is loved and capable of loving." Fred Rogers
Let's face it. When I look in the mirror, I don't see the same person my
husband, Brian, sees.
When Brian looks at me, he pictures a woman who could put on a few pounds and still look fine. He sees someone who has lovely hair. He views a person who has to do very little to turn his head.
I confess, when I look at myself, I see a fat person with unruly hair and too many wrinkles. I have often said, tongue in cheek, I could use a body image therapist.
My menacing picture of how I look is rooted in my childhood when my self-image was being formed.
I guess the good news is that I'm not alone. Research conducted at Flinders University in South Australia reveals that "one-third of all girls in grades nine to 12 think they are overweight, and 60 percent are trying to lose weight."
One study indicates that 57 percent of girls have fasted, dieted, used food substitutes, or smoked more cigarettes to lose weight, according to "Weighing In Girl Scouts of the USA." The same study reports that messages girls receive from the media can damage their feelings of self-worth and negatively affect their behavior.
An AC Nielsen survey says that girls question their own beauty and a majority of girls of normal weight believe they are overweight. More than 90 percent of girls, ages 15 to 17, want to change at least one aspect of their physical appearance.
According to a Dove study, "nearly a quarter would consider undergoing plastic surgery, and 13 percent acknowledge having an eating disorder."
Lack of self-esteem in children contributes to school drop-out rates, juvenile homicides, violence in schools, incidence of births to unmarried teens, suicides, eating disorders and abuse of drugs.
Sometimes I think what we all need is a good old-fashioned dose of Mr. Fred Rogers.
In a 2003 TV documentary, Mr. Rogers states, "I give an expression of care every day to each child, to help him [or her] realize that he [she] is unique. I end each program by saying, 'You've made this day a special day by just being you. There's no person in the whole world like you. And I like you just the way you are."
In another commencement address, this time at Dartmouth College, Mr. Rogers notes, "When I say it's you I like, I'm talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war and justice that proves more powerful than greed."
If we all could love that deep part of us that allows us to stand up for things, just imagine where we'd be today. We would have found long sought-after cures, we would have stop wars, balanced budgets, eliminated crimes, and corrected so many wrongs.
Remember, it's you I like.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandfind her on Facebook.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Braziers, bazaars and bake sales
Do you ever wonder what happened to good old-fashioned Christmas Bazaars? I do.
If you're young and have never heard the term, let me enlighten you.
Bazaars were kind of a quirky combination of a bake sale, craft show and rummage sale all rolled into one. Everything was a quarter, a dime and sometimes even a nickle.
Today's craft and bake sale is the new bazaar, but most of them cost money at the door. Whoever thought of paying to shop?
When I was a tyke, I could wander right into the neighborhood bazaar. Every year after most of the leaves had fallen and winter was nipping at my nose, I remember going to the Christmas bazaar at the church across the street from my childhood home. Inside, among all the baked goods were homemade trinkets and a clutter of second-hand items in a section called a "White Elephant Sale."
This peaked my interest, as I could not imagine how an elephant, let alone a white one, could be for sale in a church basement.
Of course, there was no real elephant, but I remember seeing a ceramic one that stood about a foot high in the middle of a long cafeteria table. Its trunk was creased and curled into a circle with ivory tusks protruding from either side of a wide-open mouth.
Although a little scraped and scuffed around the edges, that white elephant was surrounded by a half-dozen pairs of someones grandmother's clip earrings, used ladies' church gloves, a collection of gaudy lapel pins, including an over sized poinsettia, a star-studded American flag, a sequined turkey and a blinking Rudolph.
The Christmas bazaars of my childhood always had a homey feeling: the co-mingling aromas of coffee brewing and cinnamon rolls baking; the sight of fully decorated Christmas trees and wreaths, the musty smell of old books, the endearing appeal of simple wood crafts and decorations, knitted sweaters and crocheted doilies.
So, the truth be told, the biggest thing that separates craft and bake sales of today and bazaars of yesteryear - the word bazaar is missing. I remember the challenge of learning to pronounce it when I was a kid. I liked the exotic ring as I slowly and dramatically said BA-ZAAR. There's nothing interesting or surprising about "craft and bake sale."
I also miss seeing those large clunky hand-painted signs with the giant letters BAZAAR, which, I'm not afraid to admit always looked like the word "brazier."
I looked up bazaar and found that it can be traced to Persia, which is Iran today. A bazaar meant "the place of prices."
Bazaars of days gone by were magical where Christmas was neatly arranged and mother's kitchen was transported to the underbelly of the sanctuary.
I think all Christmas craft and bake sales should be called bazaars. In fact, could I ask you a little favor? The next time your church or organization plans a holiday sale, please stop calling it a "Christmas Craft and Bake Sale" when good old nostalgic "Christmas Bazaar" will do just fine. Thank you.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandfind her on Facebook.
If you're young and have never heard the term, let me enlighten you.
Bazaars were kind of a quirky combination of a bake sale, craft show and rummage sale all rolled into one. Everything was a quarter, a dime and sometimes even a nickle.
Today's craft and bake sale is the new bazaar, but most of them cost money at the door. Whoever thought of paying to shop?
When I was a tyke, I could wander right into the neighborhood bazaar. Every year after most of the leaves had fallen and winter was nipping at my nose, I remember going to the Christmas bazaar at the church across the street from my childhood home. Inside, among all the baked goods were homemade trinkets and a clutter of second-hand items in a section called a "White Elephant Sale."
This peaked my interest, as I could not imagine how an elephant, let alone a white one, could be for sale in a church basement.
Of course, there was no real elephant, but I remember seeing a ceramic one that stood about a foot high in the middle of a long cafeteria table. Its trunk was creased and curled into a circle with ivory tusks protruding from either side of a wide-open mouth.
Although a little scraped and scuffed around the edges, that white elephant was surrounded by a half-dozen pairs of someones grandmother's clip earrings, used ladies' church gloves, a collection of gaudy lapel pins, including an over sized poinsettia, a star-studded American flag, a sequined turkey and a blinking Rudolph.
The Christmas bazaars of my childhood always had a homey feeling: the co-mingling aromas of coffee brewing and cinnamon rolls baking; the sight of fully decorated Christmas trees and wreaths, the musty smell of old books, the endearing appeal of simple wood crafts and decorations, knitted sweaters and crocheted doilies.
So, the truth be told, the biggest thing that separates craft and bake sales of today and bazaars of yesteryear - the word bazaar is missing. I remember the challenge of learning to pronounce it when I was a kid. I liked the exotic ring as I slowly and dramatically said BA-ZAAR. There's nothing interesting or surprising about "craft and bake sale."
I also miss seeing those large clunky hand-painted signs with the giant letters BAZAAR, which, I'm not afraid to admit always looked like the word "brazier."
I looked up bazaar and found that it can be traced to Persia, which is Iran today. A bazaar meant "the place of prices."
Bazaars of days gone by were magical where Christmas was neatly arranged and mother's kitchen was transported to the underbelly of the sanctuary.
I think all Christmas craft and bake sales should be called bazaars. In fact, could I ask you a little favor? The next time your church or organization plans a holiday sale, please stop calling it a "Christmas Craft and Bake Sale" when good old nostalgic "Christmas Bazaar" will do just fine. Thank you.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandfind her on Facebook.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Music breathes life into those once lost
Ordinarily, the thought of corralling 13 children, ages eight to 11, might make most of us run in the opposite direction. But not this group.
Behold the African Children's Choir, representing a population of millions of the most vulnerable. They are bright, articulate, well-mannered, grateful for the least bit of kindness and full of promise.
The majority were born in Kampala, Uganda's capital city, others in Ghana. If you ask about their parents, more than half will say that one or both have died from disease or starvation.
Once lost and abandoned to slums, garbage heaps or the streets, these children are now found. Their chilling back-stories tell of having nothing.
While toddlers, barely surviving, they were rescued by humanitarian Ray Barnett, who founded Music for Life. This start-up non-profit set out 26 years ago to keep Africa's forgotten children from dying at such a rapid rate.
Today, Music for Life cares for some 8,000 children by housing, feeding, clothing, educating, guiding and nurturing them.
The choir's conductor and tour guide are graduates of the program and say Music for Life saved them.
Everything in Uganda is celebrated by dance and the culture communicates with drums, so the choir sings and dances to the pulsating beat of three Ngoma drums, and can those kids play!
Their traditional costumes of bright lime green linen smocks drape over harvest orange goucho pants, sport beads, bangles, bells and even bird feathers.
These survivors with eyes sparkling, faces grinning, arms waving, sway about the stage in perfect patterns of radiating joy.
Feet first, stepping sprightly - heel, toe, heel, toe - and then in a great crescendo they stomp, while shoulders slink low, rise up and then exude a synchronized flow of gladness.
During one of several program segments, the chorus members share personal stories, introduce themselves and tell what they want to be.
Speaking in English, the official language of Ghana, with thick Ghanese accents, some say....
"Hello, my name is Debra, I want to be a lawyer."
"Hello, my name is Jordan, I want to be a pilot."
"Hello, my name is Stella, I want to be a writer."
Further down the recited string of aspirations are dreams of some day becoming a doctor, a nurse, high school teacher, engineer, musician and so on.
The rest of their stories spill out without uttering a word or singing a note. Their measured movements, their twinkling glances, their fixated focus on the conductor tell plenty about the new life they live.
You can't watch the African Children's Choir without desiring to adopt one or more. However, they resist such an inclination because they want to go home, as they say, "to make it better there."
An hour and a half of praise and thanksgiving music, this Gospel choir symbolizes the hope, spirit and might of a continent seeking rebirth out of a mire of poverty and war.
Nominated for a Grammy in 1993, this chorus radiates sweetly choreographed numbers, transforming audiences, who they themselves are reborn.
When you first set eyes on such innocence and vulnerability and hear those heartbreaking voices ring out at the top of their lungs "This Little Light of Mine" and "You Are the Shepherd," you, too, will experience a rebirth of sorts.
If the African Children's Choir appears in a venue near you, don't pass it up. It's a performance you have to see.
For more information, visit africanchildrenschoir.com.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Behold the African Children's Choir, representing a population of millions of the most vulnerable. They are bright, articulate, well-mannered, grateful for the least bit of kindness and full of promise.
The majority were born in Kampala, Uganda's capital city, others in Ghana. If you ask about their parents, more than half will say that one or both have died from disease or starvation.
Once lost and abandoned to slums, garbage heaps or the streets, these children are now found. Their chilling back-stories tell of having nothing.
While toddlers, barely surviving, they were rescued by humanitarian Ray Barnett, who founded Music for Life. This start-up non-profit set out 26 years ago to keep Africa's forgotten children from dying at such a rapid rate.
Today, Music for Life cares for some 8,000 children by housing, feeding, clothing, educating, guiding and nurturing them.
The choir's conductor and tour guide are graduates of the program and say Music for Life saved them.
Everything in Uganda is celebrated by dance and the culture communicates with drums, so the choir sings and dances to the pulsating beat of three Ngoma drums, and can those kids play!
Their traditional costumes of bright lime green linen smocks drape over harvest orange goucho pants, sport beads, bangles, bells and even bird feathers.
These survivors with eyes sparkling, faces grinning, arms waving, sway about the stage in perfect patterns of radiating joy.
Feet first, stepping sprightly - heel, toe, heel, toe - and then in a great crescendo they stomp, while shoulders slink low, rise up and then exude a synchronized flow of gladness.
During one of several program segments, the chorus members share personal stories, introduce themselves and tell what they want to be.
Speaking in English, the official language of Ghana, with thick Ghanese accents, some say....
"Hello, my name is Debra, I want to be a lawyer."
"Hello, my name is Jordan, I want to be a pilot."
"Hello, my name is Stella, I want to be a writer."
Further down the recited string of aspirations are dreams of some day becoming a doctor, a nurse, high school teacher, engineer, musician and so on.
The rest of their stories spill out without uttering a word or singing a note. Their measured movements, their twinkling glances, their fixated focus on the conductor tell plenty about the new life they live.
You can't watch the African Children's Choir without desiring to adopt one or more. However, they resist such an inclination because they want to go home, as they say, "to make it better there."
An hour and a half of praise and thanksgiving music, this Gospel choir symbolizes the hope, spirit and might of a continent seeking rebirth out of a mire of poverty and war.
Nominated for a Grammy in 1993, this chorus radiates sweetly choreographed numbers, transforming audiences, who they themselves are reborn.
When you first set eyes on such innocence and vulnerability and hear those heartbreaking voices ring out at the top of their lungs "This Little Light of Mine" and "You Are the Shepherd," you, too, will experience a rebirth of sorts.
If the African Children's Choir appears in a venue near you, don't pass it up. It's a performance you have to see.
For more information, visit africanchildrenschoir.com.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Splish splash, I was taking a bath
The other day, I was multitasking. Filling a container with water, while starting dinner, I could tell, sight unseen, how full the container was just by the rising pitch the water produced as it inched its way to the top.
I pondered how the sounds of water telegraph what's happening, when it's happening and where it's happening.
When we hear an oscillating sprinkler with its varying methodical forward motion, chew-chew-chew, and then the rapid cycling backward, chi-ch-chi-chi-chi-chi, we discern its direction as it soaks the lawn.
Certain sounds reveal when other sprinklers are in full operation, like squealing children affectionately leaping through tickling sprays. And the happy splish-splash of their bare feet carried by tireless legs that swiftly perform awkward ballets through airborne water.
It can be difficult to tell the depth of puddles. Yet, we immediately know how deep these isolated pools of water are by the sound of our steps or missteps.
A little spittle of a puddle only makes a benignly wet utterance, while a larger one plops, as it soaks our soles and socks.
We can tell when squirt guns are full by the juicy sound of a loaded trigger and empty by the airy wheezing.
Roaring water pounding over expansive towering ridges or lightly trickling through narrow rock passages, reveals the greatness or smallness of a waterfall.
Springtime is nearing when the sound of thawing lakes and streams produces musical scores, like crystallized chimes as icy edges melt and release their hard grip on shorelines.
Further out, once frozen ice fields begin to melt, letting off reverberating rumbles, as warm air currents make thawing ice quiver and quake while overhead geese fly north.
Birds gaily splash in once quiet pedestal baths, flitting and fluttering in a exercise of renewal.
The scooping and pouring of baptismal waters, the newness of life cleansing misdeeds, renewing old souls - all hopeful sounds.
Although, some water sounds have a dark side.
A bathtub overflowing.
Drains backing up.
Water boiling over.
Hail knocking, and then pounding.
A commanding wind-driven rain that presents itself, not vertically in delicately descending droplets, but horizontally, as it angrily storms eastward, forcing us to hide, first under overhangs, and then move indoors, as it slows life to a halt.
The wildly lurid rush of flood waters, racing over banks and through dikes, destroying order and peace.
There is the frantic gurgling and thrashing of a drowning person, the sudden harshness of falling through an old ice fishing hole and the choking sound as fluid travels down the windpipe instead of the esophagus.
And finally, the lungs of a dying person strangely rattling, signaling end-of-life, a time when discerning sounds of water ceases.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
I pondered how the sounds of water telegraph what's happening, when it's happening and where it's happening.
When we hear an oscillating sprinkler with its varying methodical forward motion, chew-chew-chew, and then the rapid cycling backward, chi-ch-chi-chi-chi-chi, we discern its direction as it soaks the lawn.
Certain sounds reveal when other sprinklers are in full operation, like squealing children affectionately leaping through tickling sprays. And the happy splish-splash of their bare feet carried by tireless legs that swiftly perform awkward ballets through airborne water.
It can be difficult to tell the depth of puddles. Yet, we immediately know how deep these isolated pools of water are by the sound of our steps or missteps.
A little spittle of a puddle only makes a benignly wet utterance, while a larger one plops, as it soaks our soles and socks.
We can tell when squirt guns are full by the juicy sound of a loaded trigger and empty by the airy wheezing.
Roaring water pounding over expansive towering ridges or lightly trickling through narrow rock passages, reveals the greatness or smallness of a waterfall.
Springtime is nearing when the sound of thawing lakes and streams produces musical scores, like crystallized chimes as icy edges melt and release their hard grip on shorelines.
Further out, once frozen ice fields begin to melt, letting off reverberating rumbles, as warm air currents make thawing ice quiver and quake while overhead geese fly north.
Birds gaily splash in once quiet pedestal baths, flitting and fluttering in a exercise of renewal.
The scooping and pouring of baptismal waters, the newness of life cleansing misdeeds, renewing old souls - all hopeful sounds.
Although, some water sounds have a dark side.
A bathtub overflowing.
Drains backing up.
Water boiling over.
Hail knocking, and then pounding.
A commanding wind-driven rain that presents itself, not vertically in delicately descending droplets, but horizontally, as it angrily storms eastward, forcing us to hide, first under overhangs, and then move indoors, as it slows life to a halt.
The wildly lurid rush of flood waters, racing over banks and through dikes, destroying order and peace.
There is the frantic gurgling and thrashing of a drowning person, the sudden harshness of falling through an old ice fishing hole and the choking sound as fluid travels down the windpipe instead of the esophagus.
And finally, the lungs of a dying person strangely rattling, signaling end-of-life, a time when discerning sounds of water ceases.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Aroma of sunburned leaf beds rise as incense
The old woman you saw skipping church this morning was I, darting pangs of
conflict over my sin of omission.
That was I wrestling with menacing guilt and then smiling quietly over feeling
justified by the grace of already being in the midst of a grand sanctuary.
Casting long glances first to the Epistle and then to the Gospel side, that was
I you saw settling into a pew carved by nature, as slivers of sunlight cut
through old pines whose tree-tops floated above in a backdrop of azure.
That was I on the Day of the Lord who became a silent witness to God's
tremendous grandeur and who exchanged church for the echo of any number of birds
as an angels' chorus melodically warbled in C Major.
That was I you caught a glimpse of trading traditional liturgy for the worship
of God-shaped canyons and finding contrition in delicately laced lichen.
The one you saw reflecting on life's path was I, who scattered deer while
lightly stepping deeper into the cathedral forest, where musty sage perfume and
sunburned leaf beds rose as incense.
That old woman you saw seeking wise counsel was I, listening to the wind winnow
in short intervals through thick stands of ash as it created a holy trickling,
like baptismal waters sprinkling over the soft new forehead of an infant.
That was I lingering while paying tribute to the place where rushes of wind
became a mighty spirit, a massive river ambling invisibly above and through me.
Yes, I confess that was I you found praying to the silent noise that this holy
house brings forth.
That was I petitioning it not to cease, imploring that it deafen the cry of my
otherwise morose mood.
The old woman you saw skipping church on Sunday was I welcoming the company of
finches swooping upward and then downward circling me, as a blessing of my
travels.
The one you saw kneeling before the ever rising sun - that was I.
Paula Damon 2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandand find her on Facebook.
conflict over my sin of omission.
That was I wrestling with menacing guilt and then smiling quietly over feeling
justified by the grace of already being in the midst of a grand sanctuary.
Casting long glances first to the Epistle and then to the Gospel side, that was
I you saw settling into a pew carved by nature, as slivers of sunlight cut
through old pines whose tree-tops floated above in a backdrop of azure.
That was I on the Day of the Lord who became a silent witness to God's
tremendous grandeur and who exchanged church for the echo of any number of birds
as an angels' chorus melodically warbled in C Major.
That was I you caught a glimpse of trading traditional liturgy for the worship
of God-shaped canyons and finding contrition in delicately laced lichen.
The one you saw reflecting on life's path was I, who scattered deer while
lightly stepping deeper into the cathedral forest, where musty sage perfume and
sunburned leaf beds rose as incense.
That old woman you saw seeking wise counsel was I, listening to the wind winnow
in short intervals through thick stands of ash as it created a holy trickling,
like baptismal waters sprinkling over the soft new forehead of an infant.
That was I lingering while paying tribute to the place where rushes of wind
became a mighty spirit, a massive river ambling invisibly above and through me.
Yes, I confess that was I you found praying to the silent noise that this holy
house brings forth.
That was I petitioning it not to cease, imploring that it deafen the cry of my
otherwise morose mood.
The old woman you saw skipping church on Sunday was I welcoming the company of
finches swooping upward and then downward circling me, as a blessing of my
travels.
The one you saw kneeling before the ever rising sun - that was I.
Paula Damon 2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandand find her on Facebook.
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