Central Africa's Only Orchestra: Playing Beethoven in Kinshasa - SPIEGEL ONLINE

Every now and then I need a reality check. Most of the time I am fairly optimistic, but there are times when I get so caught up in my own world, thinking that my financial struggles are so difficult, that my house needs so many repairs, that there are so many things I need (or want).

Recently I discovered a crack in my windshield. I let it go a few days. I was busy. It was the weekend. While I was taking a break from thinking about the windshield, the crack grew. On a Monday morning I called my insurance company. The woman who took the call asked, "Is the crack bigger than the space covered by a dollar bill?" Oops.  Now I learned that it would require replacing the entire windshield, not merely fixing the crack. "Let me check your coverage," she said and put me on hold. Coming back on the line she explained, "You don't have coverage for that, but we can get you a discount with the company that is our partner." Zing. I didn't see this one coming. I had replaced a windshield in a previous car and it didn't cost me a cent. When money got tight after I lost my business I reduced my car insurance without really thinking through the consequences. Penny wise and pound foolish, you silly woman, my inner dialog continued as I was informed that it would cost several hundred dollars (after the discount) to get the windshield replaced.  Hanging up the phone and lapsing into self-pity I see everything that is wrong with and in my life and I begin my "Litany of Lack" taxes due April 15, bathroom caulk needs replaced, kitchen sink needs a new faucet, wallpaper is peeling in the hallway, back yard is ugly, porch needs repairs, the clothes dryer is old, retirement funds virtually non-existent... I can go on like this for a while seeing everything and everyone (including me) as broken or not enough. I can become overwhelmed and paralyzed. I don't like living in this space, but it is hard, sometimes to find the Out Door. 

AND then, whack, with the holy 2x4, I come across something that reminds me just how lucky I am, just how much I have. And today, I was reminded that even my "Litany of Lack" is, itself, a LUXURY.  I have a roof over my head, hot and cold clean running water, plenty of food along with a refrigerator to keep it in. I sleep in a bed and drive on paved streets. I am rich. I have so much to be thankful for, including the space and time in which to write this.  And thankful for the "whacks on the head" that knock the scales from my eyes and the whine from my throat!

Today's reality check came to me by way of Der Spiegel International's English site. It is the story of Central Africa's Only Orchestra, Orchestre Symphonique Kimbanguiste and how these musicians manage to play Handel and Beethoven amid the rubble that is Kinshasa. I am grateful to be able to put my troubles, real as they are, into perspective.

Central Africa's Only Orchestra: Playing Beethoven in Kinshasa - SPIEGEL ONLINE

A more up-to-date posting can be found at Orchestra of the Age of Enlightment which also has links to the the Orchestre Symphonique Kimbanguiste website.

A Glorious Ruin: A Day Like No Other

Over the past several months I have been reading "A Glorious Ruin" a blog written by Mona Pineda (aka St Ramona of the Pines.) I connect with her struggles to "write her own script" for her life, to begin again and again and again, each time at a different point on the spiral. Plus, I share her love of red shoes and campfires!  I am passing one of her posts on to you. 
 
A Glorious Ruin: A Day Like No Other:         I love sharing my 'There and Back Again' story...and last week I was privileged to share it with a group of Stephen's ...

Knowing When to Stop and When to Begin Again

Aurora with Angels Ascending  (Acrylic Ink on Yupo paper)   

Nothing’s lost forever. In this world, there is a kind of painful progress.   ---- Harper Pitt from "Angels in America" by Tony Kushner

Feeling a little lightheaded from blowing ink onto my paper with an atomizer, I step back from the table to survey the results.  "I like that," says the woman next to me pausing one paint encrusted hand over her creation. "Sometimes, you just have to know when to stop, to know when it is finished," and she returns to wiping her paper with a cloth.

I am new at this. I dreaded art class in Junior High School. Remembering my sad attempts at perspective drawings, the poorly constructed clay sculptures, and how my color mixing ALWAYS resulted in brown, I marvel that I actually drove 40 minutes to be here in this room surrounded by paint and water and alcohol and implements of creation. Going into High School was a relief for me. NO MORE ART CLASS. Yet here I am.

I do not know what spurred me to sign up for Aletheia Schmidt's Painting as play, prayer, process event, except that at 50-something I am trying to move away from I-am-not-ness.  I can't followed by the words because I am not ____ enough. I knew that Aletheia would not accept the statement I can't because I am not an artist. Somewhere in my brain a little voice said, If you know Aletheia wouldn't accept that, then why should you?  I signed up, it's PLAY I told myself.

In mid-afternoon when I learned of the bombing at the Boston Marathon, I was tempted, sorely tempted, to stay home glued to the television.  Why should I play when bad things are happening. I conveniently ignored the prayer and process part of the event. "We are still on for tonight aren't we?" says my husband and I couldn't say no.

I clear my mind, grateful that Aletheia prayed over the gathering as we begin. Trying to release preconceived notions and simply play with the myriad of color and implements spread around the tables for us, I vow not to look at anyone else's work. I will not judge myself.

 I complete one painting and start on another. Dry paper and drops of blue & yellow ink. Humm, now where is that nail brush? Finding the brush I spread the colors across the paper, creating a pleasing green color with glimpses of the yellow showing through. What next? I am going on impulse now as I drop teal and magenta randomly on the paper and then I lift it, holding it by a corner allowing the ink to run. This is kinda cool... Laying the paper back down I see what could be tree branches maybe? I step back and take a deep breath. The woman next to me glances over and says, "Nice colors" and I find my hand reaching for the alcohol. Am I actually enjoying this and trusting to go where I feel the leading? I wonder what would happen if I stood several feet away from table and sprayed my paper with a light spritz of alcohol. Small dots appear on my dark tree branches. I stop.

I return to creation #1.  I hate it. "It looks contrived," I say to Aletheia. And it is slightly BROWN. Smiling brightly she replies, "Is there anything on the other side? No? Well then turn it over and start again." Turn it over and start again. Duh! Whack with the holy 2x4. Just begin again. Isn't life about new beginnings? After Wednesday comes Thursday and always I can begin again.

Red on the paper, followed by blue and then I let it drip in long streaks. I add a fine mist of pink and silver with an atomizer. It's not quite finished. Pick me. Pick me, whispers the gold from across the room. Three drops on the paper and I am blowing on them with a straw. They take on shapes. The paper, as well as the wise advice from my neighbor, tell me it is finished.

I paint the words "Bearing Fruit" on the now dry tree branch creation. It is a title the painting called me to give it. For tonight's process was abundant with fruit for me, learning lessons about listening to the still small voice that clues me in on when to stop AND when/how to start over.  My prayer of expectation is that there will be more fruit to come, if only I say YES to letting it ripen.

I watch my "begin again" dry. The colors remind me of the Aurora Borealis photos I have been looking at recently and my three golden shapes appear as angels. I am "Aurora with Angels Ascending" it says to me. SO BE IT.

This morning "Aurora with Angels Ascending" tells me more about its name.  I remember a monologue from Tony Kushner's "Angels in America."  Harper Pitt is on a flight to San Francisco describing what she sees from the window:

Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead of people who’d perished from famine, from war, from the plague and they floated up like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning....In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind and dreaming ahead.

I think of the three dead (as of this morning) in the Boston bombing. I know we will mourn for them and so many other victims of violence, war, famines, and disease. I will still grieve for those I've lost. Sometimes I long for life I left behind, there are days when I still desperately want it back the way it used to be, but I am dreaming ahead.

Upcoming: Listening to our Dreams

I am so excited.  Someone else is actually going to publish an essay I write.  There are black and blue marks where I have been pinching myself.

At the beginning of the year, my friend Meg encouraged me to think about looking for places to submit some of my work for publication.  She even suggested a couple of starting points. As is typical for me, I placed it on the back-burner to let it simmer for a bit, too scared (although I wouldn't admit that out loud) to actually actively look.  I decided that I'd wait a year or so and see how things go.

I regularly read the essays posted on A Beautiful Mess blog and website run by author Kristin Ritzau with help from her managing editor Rebecca Stone.  One of the posts included a call for submissions for Spring or Summer, each season with a different "prompt" or theme.  It simply jumped out at me. I am sure these "calls" are posted several times a year on the site, but somehow I NEVER noticed them before. Whack on the head with the Holy 2x4. Here is what I'd been encouraged to do - RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES, and all I need to do was ask. Ask, and it will be given. After some encouraging self-talk I dashed off a note to Ms. Stone, suggesting that I could write an essay. AND, lo and behold, an answer, asking me to submit a piece on "Listening to Our Dreams."

My submission deadline is mid-May for early June publication/posting.  I will cross-post the essay here, too.  In the meantime, please visit the good women over at A Beautiful Mess and have a look around. They've left the light on.

Guest Post - Woman Behold Your Son

Today's guest post is a Good Friday sermon written and preached by my friend Rebecca Myers on March 30, 2013. Recently ordained a Deacon in the Episcopal Church, Rebecca is finishing seminary at General Theological Seminary in New York City and is exploring the possibilities of serving as a Priest in Kentucky, Massachusetts, or California.  Over our decades long friendship, we have laughed, cried, hiked, cooked, camped, traveled, protested, worshiped, and dismantled racism together.  A mother of two children and two grandchildren, she has traveled extensively, lived in more than a half-dozen states, served as an elected member of a school board, and has worked as a social worker, lobbyist, program director for organizations like The Girls Club, Hospice and National Association of Social Workers. We survived and learned from many "This Is Wednesday" moments.  A wonderful storyteller, Rebecca weaves stories of her life (and some of our shared life together) into the biblical story of Mary, mother of Jesus, at the foot of his cross found in John 19:26-26.

You will find an audio of her 19 minute sermon here. There is a bit of a hymn at the beginning and the sermon follows.

Blessings.