It’s said beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but when you look in the mirror, what image do you see. Is it the one fashioned by the One who molded her or the warped reflection fashioned by society? ~ BrotherWord
It is amazing how the image we have for ourselves is predicated on everything besides what is relevant or real. The world we live in now force feeds unrealistic values on what is deemed beautiful or attractive and unfortunately, many people accept this as their truth. Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder and the first image of beauty should be the person you see in the mirror. How you see yourself outweighs any image defining pressures that come with the outside world.
A happy and honest inventory of one’s self prevents false ideology and low self-esteem and is the beginning of being comfortable in your skin. Do not like anyone define who you are or cause you tho think less of yourself. How you see yourself is more important that others do because they are speaking from a limited perspective as opposed to the one person who knows you best – YOU!
#Dove gave people an opportunity to choose how they say themselves. The results are astonishing! The fact that so many labeled themselves average is a testament to how we see ourselves and is definitely not the image in which God designed us. Psalm 139:14 reads, “I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Wonderful are Your works, And my soul knows it very well.” We are the wonderful works that are referred to in this scripture, fearfully and wonderfully made in God’s image. There is nothing average about that!
Watch the clip and let #BrotherWord know what you think. Are you average or something greater? How do you see yourself and what image do you portray to those around you. Leave your comments here or @BrotherWord of facebook, twitter, or instagram with the hashtag #BetterThanAverage.
Endymion by John Keats
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast;
They always must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, ’tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm’d and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finish’d: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now, at once adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
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