2014 - The Year of the boxes

I never thought I'd be gone so long. I'm sorry if I left you hanging, waiting for more.

What I thought would be a brief hiatus for my niece's wedding in early June quickly morphed into  a "trail of tears" through boxes; family dysfunction; more boxes; relocations; still more boxes; acute, chronic and terminal illnesses; even more boxes, and finally; reconcilations followed by... wait for it... BOXES. Although it doesn't seem possible, if you somehow missed the trail marker boxes you would certainly stumble over piles of laundry, uneaten veggies in the frig, small mammal-sized dust bunnies, unanswered emails, unreturned phone calls, unopened mail and broken promises "to get together soon."  I never saw any of this coming, as I guess most of us don't, and was neither prepared to parent my parent nor to talk with my sister about fear, courage and death. 

The past half year has taken an incredible amount of energy. Despite doing my best to eat well, I have lost 15 pounds. Yes, there was some physical labor involved: packing and unpacking boxes, loading and unloading vehicles and moving furniture (again & again). However, it was the emotional toil that caught me off-guard. I felt, and sometimes continue to feel, afraid, overwhelmed and deeply exhausted much of the time. Oh, and then there is the guilt. Guilt because I can't make my mom happy, my sister well, work enough hours, pay all my bills, honor all my commitments, or even get together with my friends. I just can't seem to do enough OR do enough RIGHT.

Since July I have read little, misplaced my unfinished collage, painted only when I could clear enough clutter from the dining room table, and written NOTHING other than necessary emails and a few Facebook status updates. Then I went on retreat, returning with the knowledge that I needed to carve out a place in my house, a creative space/sanctuary/studio/workshop. Clearly this space is now as necessary to my survival as food, water, and air.

My third floor has a front room that is crammed with STUFF.  In its piles of boxes and assorted clutter are the remnants of every job I've ever had, every unfinished project, every "not-so-bright idea", every item I thought I'd repair or repurpose. Hidden among cartons are bins of "left-behinds" from guests and friends who have passed through the room, along with remembrances of those who have passed on from this world. And it's truly UGLY, too.  Boysenberry (looked much better in the can) walls, windows that don't fit well, and a hole in the ceiling from an old roof leak. Not a place, in its current state, where you'd want to spend much time. For the moment it is dubbed THE ROOM OF SORROW AND BROKEN DREAMS because it is the place where I have STUFFED it all, literally and figuratively, for decades. 

Yes, (insert nod to Jenn here) I know the title must change, but for now it is important that I acknowledge the role that room has fulfilled both in my house and my psyche. It is a metaphor for my life, serving as a kind of physical "serenity prayer," changing/fixing the aspects I can, accepting the parts of the room that cannot change and the wisdom to know the difference. Some of this I will only learn as I go, but I must go. Hence I decided to challenge myself with writing nearly everyday about  unpacking; sorting and deciding what to keep, discard, repurpose or give way. I am hoping, insha'Allah, the next 365 days will transform both my life and The Room of Sorrow and Broken Dreams into a place/space beyond my wildest dreams. Both dangers and surprises lie ahead, of that I am certain. On the journey I look forward to hearing from you.

The Woman Who Doesn't Paint - My Guest Essay for "A Beautiful Mess"

Today I am guest blogging at A Beautiful Mess

Come on over and read my essay The Woman Who Doesn't Paint

While you are visiting A Beautiful Mess take a moment to look around at the essays, poems, photo essays, artwork and multi-media posts. I know you'll find something wonderful to touch your spirit. My thanks to Kristen Ritzau and her editor Rebecca Stone for this opportunity.

Personal Art Therapy: Insights from the Shower

The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. ---- Bill Watterson, creator of Calvin and Hobbes

A friend once told me that she viewed her morning shower as a sacred experience. A wise woman deeply attuned to the spiritual, Dody explained that she accepts her morning ablutions as a reminder, a reaffirmation of sorts, of her baptism. I don't know that I think of my baptism often in the shower, but I have become accustomed to centering myself for the day ahead as the water rushes over me.   Recently I had an "a-ha" moment as I was rinsing the shampoo from my hair. What if in life, like art, you have to step back occasionally and allow the picture/story/path to reveal itself?

I am new to this whole "art thing." After 8th grade I left art, in any form, to the artists.  As an adult I enjoyed gallery exhibitions, bought original art and celebrated others artist achievements; but surely I was not an artist. Although I indulged in a few "craft" classes here and there, I never considered myself to be a creative type. Me thinks I doth sell myself too short. It has only been in the last year or two that I have allowed myself to play around with paint, beads, scraps of paper and Modge-Podge.  I doubt there is a gallery showing in my future, but that's okay. I am allowing myself to be open to the process, to step back and allow the door to the psyche to be opened. I am finally ready to accept the lessons that doing/making art has to teach me about life.

It's not about perfection, it's about finding your own voice.  I still cringe when I think of art class. I wanted to my art project to be PERFECT, whatever that means. It was never perfect so therefore my creation was ugly, I was stupid and had no talent. Whether it was poor teaching or my own lack of self-worth, I could not fathom that I was not expected to be a Rembrandt, Van Gogh or Dali. Somehow the idea that I could be myself and create something for the pure joy of it never occurred to me. Also lost to me until now was that I did not have to make something that looked like the ones everyone had created in order for it to be "good."

Perspective matters.  Yep, it really does. Just as the same scene can look different depending on where you stand to record it, so does my life look different depending on how I think about it. Just as items in the background of a picture are smaller than the ones in the foreground, if I let them, incidents in my life are lessened (get smaller) as they fade into the past. My past failures will remain turning points in my life, but I no longer feel like a failure.

If you mix too many colors together it makes brown.  If a little is good a lot is NOT always better. In Junior High I was Princess of the Kingdom of Brown, one or two colors was never enough. Long have I struggled with I am not enough-ness, finally coming to realize that doing too much (over commitment) leads to either an unfinished project or some sort of brown mediocrity. I am actually able to accomplish more of a greater quality if I commit myself to doing fewer things at a time.

Sometimes you have to put all the little pieces together first before you can see the big picture. Taking a lesson from collagery, I've learned that sometimes it is impossible to understand the whole story until I've assembled all the little aspects. Or other times I think I know what the outcome will be based on small individual parts, but when assembled it appears totally different. Or I may not see it the same way each time I look at it. I have found this to be especially true when dealing with issues of race, gender, class and sexual orientation. Being open to seeing it differently than what I expect to see is an important part of the process.

Blank paper has two sides. You CAN start over.  Complaining to my friend and painting guide, Aletheia, that I didn't like my first painting of the night, she simply replied, "Is there anything on the other side? No? Well, then turn the paper over and start again." Similarly, St Benedict observed that everyday we can begin again, letting go of the failings of the day before. I am reminding myself tday after day, all is not lost if I don't like how it turned out the first time, or the second, or the third. (See "It's not about perfection...")

You just have to know when it's finished.  I never learned the name of the woman next to me at that Painting Workshop, we didn't talk much, but in our brief exchange she gave me some advice I'll carry with me for a long time. At just the right time, she leaned over and said, "I'd frame that right now. Sometimes you just have to know when to stop, to see when it's finished." She is right on so many levels. It requires self-awareness and sometimes courage to know when a relationship, project, job or even a conversation is finished. Following through on this knowledge can be difficult when surrounded by others who don't want it to end, but listening to the still small voice never fails me. I should do it more often.

Step back from the table occasionally and allow the picture to emerge.  One seasoned painter friend told me that great art can't be forced, it must be allowed to come forth. It seems like this lesson might be a summary of all the other teachings and for me, perhaps the most scary. In order to do this I must give up being perfect, maintain a perspective, try not to mix too many colors and TRUST that I have done enough. Will I like what emerges? Maybe, maybe not. If I don't like it I can always turn the paper over and start again.

Guest Post: Adaptability by Lynne Echols

Today's guest post comes to us from Lynne Echols, a woman I met recently through an on-line book discussion series. I was so moved by one of her posts, that I knew I had to share her story with you. Lynne describes herself as a widowed mid-life Episcopalian who re-married at age 63, owned horses for 35 years, has worked as a high school French and German teacher, a journalist, a secretary, a technology transfer consultant and a riding teacher. She loves to sing sacred music, travels abroad with her BFF of 52 years' standing, and rejoices in each new day. She aspires to the ordained ministry in the office of permanent deacon, but God may have other plans. That is okay with her, because God always has a better idea of what she should be doing with her life than she does herself.
 

Lynne with her BFF on a trip to Vienna

Change is the only constant in our lives, apart from Christ, and He changes US from within, through the Holy Spirit. My experience of this came in the 18 months following the death of my husband of 30 years from pancreatic cancer in November 2008. He was a wonderful man in so many ways, but he carried a lot of well-hidden, life-long anger that even I had been unaware of until the last weeks of his life when he grew too weak to disguise it any longer. After his death I became very interested in the mind-body connection, since both anger and cancer "eat you up from the inside."

I journaled about this and found myself led to the healing ministries. I also found myself very conflicted because I didn't know where in my very busy life I would find time to investigate, let alone practice, this ministry. So I prayed that the Lord would help me find that time.

Rufus and Lynne

Back then I was a life-long horsewoman, even making it my vocation after I retired from "real" work. I spent at least 2 hours a day at the barn riding and taking care of my own horse, on top of the time I spent teaching riding and participating in an on-line community (like this one!) of over 20,000 members, discussing various matters to do with horses, riding difficulties, etc. The horse I owned was one I'd been seeking for years and had finally found a year after Bill died. He had a lot of advanced training but steady, reliable, forgiving -- a perfect lesson horse as well. Nirvana!

Then gradually I found myself less and less motivated to go to the barn. Eventually it reached the point where I had to force myself... and then I only went to check up on Kionus (the horse) but not to actually ride. I'd already advised my students that I was taking, what I thought would be, a brief hiatus from teaching. Ultimately, through a reading in the quiet time guide I was using, I was asked the questions, How do you spend the bulk of your discretionary income? -- answer: on horses -- and How much pleasure or utility do you derive from spending those dollars that way? and had to examine my soul.

The obvious answer was, None. So... from there it was a clear choice to divest myself of my horse, and gain two hours a day! So I did, and it was relatively painless (I even sold the horse for exactly what I'd paid for him, to a buyer who was able to give him an excellent home, and within the year he was donated by the purchaser to the college riding center I'd have given him to myself if I hadn't needed the money!). Somehow I'd been transformed, from the inside out, from someone who could have sworn she'd die by falling off a horse at an advanced aged and breaking her neck, to someone who now has only a small interest in horses (whom I still think are God's best work). The Holy Spirit had transformed me into a healing minister, and have even found the best possible home for a wonderful horse whom I loved.

Since then I've organized three levels of the School of Healing Prayer and have begun laying hands on parishioners who ask for this kind of ministry. No, the blind have not seen nor the lame walked, but there have been several instances of healed traumatic memories and minor ailments (headaches, upset stomachs, sore joints). I'm an imperfect instrument of Christ's healing power, praying and working on become a better one.

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.

First time at a Writing Workshop

I am a voyeur.
I relish looking at art
   experiencing art, buying art, being with art
It's cliched I know, but some of my best friends are artists
Still I don't see myself as art or artist.

Our assignment was to describe our eyes
I squinted into a mirror by the window
    struggling to see myself not through glasses, but through artist eyes
"The shape of the mirror frame changes the shape of your face,"
      one of us muses

Now, in our quiet writing time, only thoughts of music come to me
Unbidden, snippets of lyrics dance through my head
"Blue eyes crying in the rain..."
"These eyes have seen a lot of love..."
"You're too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you..."

"Go deep inside
Find your own voice," the old poet had said

I pick up the mirror once again
A voyeur of my own face

What I am giving up for Lent

"The real miracle is not to walk either
on water or in thin air, but to walk on
the earth" - Thich Nhat Hah, Buddhist Monk

This year, for Lent, I am giving up being constrained by the belief that I don't have enough - enough money, time, or talent. I am fasting from I-am-not-ness, not young enough, not attractive enough, not good enough. I am giving up FEAR, that unhealthy fear that blocks me from the miracle of walking on the earth. Saying I can't followed by the words because-I-am-not is expressly prohibited.

I have been slowly reading and savoring David Adam's little book "A Desert in the Ocean: God's Call to Adventurous Living." Adam, Victor of Holy Island (Lindisfarne), writes extensively on the Celtic tradition and has published numerous collections of prayers and meditations.  This short volume (123 pgs) is a series of meditations based on a poem attributed to St Brendan the Navigator. It asks, no truly, it INVITES, the reader to consider whether God is calling us to live more adventurously.

In the early pages of the book a passage caught my imagination and I have been turning it over in my mind ever since.  Adam's introduction suggests connections between the early Celtic Church and the Desert Mothers and Fathers, especially in their world/church view.  He outlines several of the reasons the Desert Mothers and Fathers moved into the desert: to get away from a church growing in status, to seek a life defined by something other than wealth or power, and to seek God in all things.  They were not running away from anything, but rather toward something, toward a great adventure.

They may not have thought of changing the world, but they were determined to change themselves; they were determined to die FOR something rather than OF something, to show that life had depth, was adventurous and worth living.   -- David Adam, "A Desert in the Ocean", pg 4 (Emphasis mine)

I had to stop and take a deep breath when I read those words.  Apparently having fallen into a trap of viewing "adventure" as one of those things you do/have when you travel to exotic places, try extreme sports, wear trendy clothes or eat unusual food; I assumed it was only for those who had time, money, few commitments, and courage. Typically, I don't see myself as much of an adventurer, instead counting myself lucky to live in the digital age with friends who allow me to live vicariously through them.

Still pondering this notion as I stepped into my neighborhood coffee shop this morning, my husband and I sat down with two young women, recent acquaintances through mutual friends.  As the conversation flowed from women mystics, to fixing buttons, to neighborhood gardens I was struck at how these young women are living adventurous lives. Megan is an artist and musician who easily draws-in others with her creativity. Hanni's desire (call) to create and foster community is a thread that seems to run through all she does: planting a sustainable urban garden, publishing a 'zine, or experimenting with communal living.  They are running toward things that make life worth living, not only for themselves, but by extension for the rest of us.  I am grateful for them.

Suddenly, whack, I am hit over the head with the "Holy 2x4" as a friend calls it. God wants us to live an adventurous life, to LIVE and DIE for something, not just merely live and die! Adventure, me? This is not to say that my current life doesn't have depth or meaning, its just that I think there could be more.  There IS more, if only I will embrace it.  What if I went to sleep each night with the intention of being open to the work of the spirit in my dreams, knowing that the day, God's day, starts while I am asleep? How might my life be different if I woke up every morning with excitement and anticipation, thinking, What adventure will I have today, continuing God's work in the world, the work begun in my dreams? Is not this our real work, the work of the baptized, the work we followers of Jesus are called to do - to live and die FOR something?

Today is Wednesday

I'm a coward and I'm a procrastinator. For most of my life, at least since the age when I could read and write, I have been fearing Wednesday. And so I've been putting this "writing thing" off, despite the suggestions of friends, family, teachers, even the urgings of my own heart.  I have spent decades trying to avoid being myself and trying to drown out that small voice that says,

"You aren't using your God-given talents. You aren't doing what you can do best."

And then I woke up one morning to the stark and unavoidable realization that it was WEDNESDAY.

It wasn't actually Wednesday, it was Monday by the calendar that particular morning. This Wednesday wasn't governed by the normal constraints of our clock time either, it lasted about three years.  They say, whoever THEY are, that you should write what you know. THIS is what I know.

Some years ago, as part of my work with an anti-racist community, I was a co-facilitator for a week-long training.  While finishing up our outline and training materials, one of the older (and wiser) members of the community remarked, "Ok, I think we have everything, but then there is Wednesday." She must have seen the look on my face, because before I could ask, "What's Wednesday?" she was explaining that Wednesday is the day all our training plans fall apart. Having never been a trainer for a workshop of this length before, I asked my co-trainer Dody what we'll do then.  She quietly and patiently  replied "It's when they all revolt.  There is nothing we can outline for that.  You just need to go with it when it happens."  I know, at the time, I did not grasp that it wasn't IF it comes apart, but rather WHEN. 

In the initial stages of the training the participants soaked it up like a sponge, but on Thursday morning everything seemed to come unglued.  The participants turned on us. They began to push-back, attack us, and question everything we said.  I was stunned.  It had all gone so well, according to plan. I couldn't imagine that they didn't GET IT.  I couldn't imagine that I didn't GET IT. Dody passed me a small piece of paper which read, "THIS is Wednesday."  That little note, now yellowed with age, has remained on my home office bulletin board where I placed it before I climbed, exhausted, into bed that night. I always thought it would serve as a reminder for future training workshops.  Little did I realize then how that tiny slip of paper would become a metaphor for what happens in life, or at least what has happened in my life.

I left high school with my life outline and my folder full of "training" materials tucked under my arm. There was the Wednesday when I was sexually assaulted my first month in college, the Wednesday in my 28th year when my father died, the three Wednesdays when our house was flooded, the Wednesdays I was laid off, the Wednesday my only sister was diagnosed with cancer and a host of smaller Wednesdays until finally, the BIG Wednesday when my business failed.  At a time in my life when many of my friends are ready to retire, there I am on Wednesday searching for a job. While those around me are talking about where they'll travel now that they've retired I am deep in debt on a Wednesday.

So my plans didn't work out and every time, I am stunned. I kept going back to that folder of "training materials." But the night I went to my office to find that my key would not work in the door, I sunk down on the porch steps and wept.  I climbed into my bed that night, exhausted. When the sun came up the next morning I knew it was WEDNESDAY again. This one lasted for years.

Finally it began to dawn on me that the other side of Dody's note was BLANK. I remembered her calm voice saying, "You can't plan for it. You just have to roll with it when it comes." We survived that training all those years go as did the participants. Some of us came out stronger than ever before. I've chucked that yellowed "life outline" and the folder full of battered "training materials" in the recycle bin and shredded the confidential stuff. I just need to roll with it.  I've stopped worrying that I don't know what I'm going to be when I grow up.  I have promised myself that I will no longer cringe when someone asks, "What kind of job are you looking for?"

I'm going to follow the leadings of my heart. I am going to listen to that little voice inside that says:

"Be still and know that I am God. Do not be afraid. Do not wait. Use your talent. Do what you do best. It doesn't matter that it took you decades. It doesn't matter that you are in debt. It only matters that you begin NOW. Remember Wednesday, but write your own story on the blank side."