You Are Beautiful

Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

An elderly woman approached me in the store. "You have a cute nose," she said. "Is it yours?"

"She asked because you live in Hollywood," a friend said. Maybe. Or have we become so used to images of injected, tucked, implanted women that the real thing surprises us?

Friends said my feelings about cosmetic surgery would change as I got older. They haven't. I still think women often look less attractive after their procedures.

One friend's lips are so plump she reminds me of the Joker. I'm not being mean; I just thought her mouth was the right size and shape for her thin face before the fillers.

I used to dread representing my station at public events; viewers often slammed my natural hair, full lips, curvy (size six) hips. 

So my TV bosses would hire a stylist, hair and makeup artists to mold me into the perfect talking head. 

"I don't care if you make me a blonde," I told them, "It's your money."

I've learned to accept the ugly side of show business but I still don't want to try to look like Beyoncé. Of course, she's gorgeous but no amount of nipping, Botoxing or augmenting will make me Beyoncé.

Thankfully the mirror doesn't have to remain our enemy. Accepting our natural beauty is worth far more than any perpetually perky boobs or flawlessly sculpted abs will ever be.

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Going Back

Sometimes a writer starts a story with no idea how it'll end. Like a painter, you start mixing colors - words, images - with no idea what they'll look like on the canvas.

Such is the case with this blog. I started blogging after meeting a TV producer who wants to do a show about journalists. I thought this blog would be a good way to archive some of the stories I've covered in case she might want to use them in a TV series.

Then an earthquake hit 3,000 miles from Hollywood. No red carpets. No stylists. No paparazzi.  A make-believe TV show would have to wait. 

Instead of a newsroom, the base of a mango tree became my office. Armed security for escorts. Broken, dry ground for a bed. 

I was afraid to go but I had to. I get why CBS reporter Lara Logan vows to return to reporting despite being gang-raped in Egypt; sometimes nothing can keep you from doing what you're meant to do...

I was a grad student the first time we were attacked on a story. A deranged man tried to smash our gear to the ground. We weren't hurt but we learned the camera is a magnet for nuts - and to keep an eye out for a rock if you need to defend yourself.

I thought about getting a gun permit as my assignments got more dangerous (growing up on Army bases, we were taught how early how to use weapons), especially while covering the murder of a young mother.

Two masked gunmen had burst into the offices of a gang prevention program yelling, "Give us your purses! Give us the money!"  

They shot mom of three, Christina Clegg, as she sat at her desk.

The crime was made to look like a botched payday robbery but who pumps five rounds into a mom at work?

"Get off the story," neighbors warned me, "They'll kill you, too."

I eventually got enough facts to air exclusives about a suspect police refused to name. He threatened to kill me after we ambushed him, cameras rolling, at his lawyer's office. 

I looked over my shoulder for months until police had enough evidence to arrest him.

Bastard husband. 

Grover Clegg is serving life in prison for hiring his own brother to kill his wife.  For insurance money.

And so I go back. to disaster areas. and war zones. and inner cities. Because sometimes all it takes to see justice prevail is a mic and a camera. 

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The Storyteller's Calling

I was walking along the beach when I ran into a man in an orange prison jumpsuit. I was a little afraid since the shoreline was deserted except for us and a few seagulls.

Should I keep walking? Run like mad? Call 911?

You'd think living near Hollywood I'd know by now things often aren't what they seem. Turns out the "escaped convict" was an actor waiting for a camera crew.

Watching the actor, photographer and ocean move with each other was like turning the pages of a book. Storytellers - crafting lines with images instead of words.

In my mind the beach melted away and I was back in Haiti where I'd write sitting under the mango tree. This is where I finally got it: for some of us storytelling is a calling, not merely a job.

"The times when I got to uncover someone's story," said Kezia, "when I got to ask questions and discover something I would not have known had I not hunted for it, those are the things that moved me."

Watching the story being written on the shore stirred something in me. The calling. Yes, it's still there.

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Jump Cut

Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

"Mommy says my legs are fat," the little girl said quietly.

I'm all for fighting childhood obesity but she didn't even look chubby. Labeled "fat" by first grade, I wondered what demons lurked in her future: self-hatred? depression? perfectionism?

I was such a perfectionist that a professor worried I'd crack under the intense pressure of a TV career. 

"You're too hard on yourself," she cautioned as I tried to fix a jump cut (an unintentional edit in news that makes it look like there's a jump between two shots) in my story.

While a jump cut isn't fatal, there's no room for imperfection when performance is measured frame-by-frame. The bad edit was like a neon sign: FAILURE. FAILURE. FAILURE.

To prepare us for TV's relentless demands, certain mistakes meant automatic failure. 

Misspelled name? "F." 

Mispronounced city? "F." 

Late to class? Don't bother coming. "Doesn't matter who you are," our professor warned, "the news airs without you."

It took years for me to see the difference between perfectionism and excellence. I finally got it when I heard a speaker say, "If your perfect life is coming between you and love, you're paying too high a price."

What he meant is: If your husband is afraid to kiss you for fear of smudging your perfect makeup and your kids walk on eggshells for fear of ruining your perfect house, then your perfect life costs too much.

For the times when life is messy or our thighs are fat or there's a jump cut in our story, perfectionism is unforgiving; excellence gives grace.

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Time to Shine

Maria Peterson Photography

Goodbye 2010. Time to shine in 2011.

People often ask why I moved to a place they call Sodom, meaning Los Angeles.  What they really mean is: "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!!" 

Honestly? 

I wanted to see my legs again. wear sundresses. dance on the beach. drive with the top down.

Friends promised I'd get used to the cold, foggy Bay Area summers. I never did. 

And I didn't even consider moving back East in winter; suffered too much frostbite reporting in blizzard conditions. We'd freeze even wearing station-issued parkas.

I didn't handle the cold or the spotlight well back then. Viewers could be mean, my ego fragile.  And they didn't teach us in journalism school how to handle haters.

"Honey, blot your lips!" a viewer had sneered at my first TV job. Yet, our anchor Pam had turned being trashed into treasure. 

"Blot?" she'd ask before going on set. It became our code for, "Do I look ok?" 

What we were really saying is, "I got your back."

So what was I thinking moving to LA?  Well, sunshine. But in my heart I was saying, "God, here I am. Use me.  If this is the place, I'm ready." 

So thanks for your prayers. Thanks for having my back.  Time to shine in 2011.  Blot?

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Trinkets and Trees

Maria Peterson Photography

Tiffany's and some other luxury brand stores just opened in our coastal town. Amusing -  the juxtaposition of beach-goers dressed in tank tops and flip-flops toting those exclusive little blue bags.

Did you know you can actually buy Tiffany's boxes on eBay?  

"For those who want to try to illicit the oohs and aahs without the genuine article," wrote Luxist blogger Deidre Woollard.

Deceiving loved ones by giving them fake gems in a Tiffany box? The Grinch would be proud. Reminds me of the story of Jesus cursing the fig tree because it appeared lush yet was bearing no fruit. No one wants to be deceived, whether by a trinket or a tree.

It seems we're growing tired of the chasing the elusive Hollywood and Madison Avenue fantasies. We long for the genuine: real love. intimacy. purpose. Maybe we're searching for substance over shallowness because of misfortune, maybe because of tragedy - the kinds of things that make us seek deeper meaning.

Whatever the reason, I pray you experience God's heart of love this Christmas and not settle for an imitation...even if it's wrapped in a pretty blue box.

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Brides, Brooms and Grooms

I've been home visiting family and a four-year-old who quoted me lines from Disney's The Princess and the Frog while insisting we rehearse for my wedding. 

Never mind that I'm not engaged.

Four-year-old is dead set to be a flower girl. She's decided I'm her best bet. 

"Let's practice for your wedding," she said, "You just need a broom."  Took me a second to realize she meant groom not broom.

I wasn't about to leave the warm diner where we were sharing Mickey Mouse pancakes for a fake ceremony in the cold. I tried offering alternative relatives.

"Practice with my niece," I said.

"Not her," four-year-old rolled her eyes dramatically, implying niece is a bad girl.

"What about grandma?" I tried.

"She has too many wrinkles," countered future Bridezilla.

Ever try arguing with a four-year-old wearing a pink tutu and tin foil tiara?  Arms linked, we walked slowly through the restaurant humming, "Here Comes the Bride."  Never mind strangers staring - when you're four, nothing inhibits love.

Surrendering the heart is so much harder as adults. I thought of several friends who are having marital trouble.  Love has grown cold. 

But then I remembered Solomon, the king who falls for an improbable bride: "See! The winter is past. Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me."

Flower girl may have seen one too many Disney flicks but I envied her openness to love.

Maybe the weather wasn't so bad after all. "Shall we walk like brides out to the car?" I asked. She excitedly replied, "And if you don't get a broom, maybe you can borrow my daddy!"

Love really is simple when you're four.

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