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.

My Dream by Aletheia Schmidt | A Beautiful Mess by Kristin Ritzau

Today's post comes to us from my friend Aletheia Schmidt via Kristin Ritzau's wonderful blog A Beautiful Mess. 

Aletheia is an artist, writer, and spiritual director (you can read her bio as part of her post), but most of all I see her as one who brings forth in the true sense of the phrase. She generates excitement in a room and brings into existence the art that in already there inside us (we participants don't know that yet when we arrive!) Writing about my experience at one of her paint workshops I came to realize how deeply my memories of Junior High Art class informed how I viewed my own creativity for most of my adult life. I am grateful to Aletheia for gently guiding me to bring out for display my own fears and then let go of I can't... long enough to produce something that I like looking at! (Apparently others in my life do, too.)

Long using painting as her prayer, Aletheia recently published Awake my Soul: Contemplative Art Journal.  The beautiful colored journal contains 52 paintings and brief meditations which allow the reader to bring out for display their fears, hopes, dreams, and prayers; and in the process to bear fruit, to yield to what is already there inside.

Kristin Ritzau is another who uses her talents and skills to bring forth the gifts of many women through essays, photography, painting, poems, and prayers.  She and her Managing Editor Rebecca Stone provide a safe space for honesty and inspiration at A Beautiful Mess week after week. Some contributors are published authors and others are those writing publicly for the first time, but all bring out for us something from their hearts and souls.

Be blessed by Aletheia's paintings and brief meditation and Kristin's blog. As Aletheia says "May your heart be encouraged and your soul set free."

My Dream by Aletheia Schmidt | A Beautiful Mess by Kristin Ritzau

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.

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.

My prayer in the Desert

My faith community, St Paul's Episcopal Church, put together a booklet of Meditations for the Lenten Season.  Various members, along with friends and family of members, contributed brief meditations on the lectionary for each day.  Most of us chose our scriptures at random by merely signing up for a day on the calendar or pulling a day that our editor, John, had placed on slips of paper we pulled "from the hat" one Sunday in January. 

Cool, I thought.  This will be great! My excitement for the project slipped a bit when I looked at the scripture texts for my chosen day, March 5th.  Uh-oh, not so great... I found my assigned passages to be dense and offered me little to which I could relate. I read them.  Still not so great.. I re-read them. I procrastinated a bit more. Then with the deadline looming, I put off writing even more. Finally 4 day AFTER the deadline I forced myself to the keyboard and penned the reflection below.

so that they should set their hope in God, and not forget the works of God,
but keep his commandments; and that they should not be like their ancestors,
a stubborn and rebellious generation, a generation whose heart was not steadfast,
whose spirit was not faithful to God. ----Psalm 78:7-8

All the texts for this day point to God’s unending provision and grace. The Psalmist, the Prophet Jeremiah, and Jesus in John’s Gospel all remind us that we are provided with food, water, and direction
(hope) when we were (and are) in the desert, even when we are less than grateful to receive it. Paul’s letter to the Romans continues to reinforce that God will not forget covenant made with Abraham and
that it extends to all who put their hope in God. Over and over we forget this promise and so we need to be reminded. For me this calls to mind a praise song I first heard sung in worship at New Hope
Community. At a time when I felt lost, this hymn from Hillsong Community in Australia, powerfully reminded me of God’s promises and that I “…should set my hope in God and not forget the works of God, but keep God’s commandments…”

This is my prayer in the desert
When all that's within me feels dry
This is my prayer in my hunger and need
My God is the God who provides
This is my prayer in the fire
In weakness or trial or pain
There is a faith proved
Of more worth than gold
So refine me Lord through the flame

CHORUS:
I will bring praise
I will bring praise
No weapon formed against me shall remain
I will rejoice
I will declare
God is my victory and He is here
This is my prayer in the battle
When triumph is still on its way
I am a conqueror and co-heir with Christ
So firm on His promise I'll stand

BRIDGE:
All of my life
In every season
You are still God
I have a reason to sing
I have a reason to worship
This is my prayer in the harvest
When favour and providence flow
I know I’m filled to be emptied again
The seed I’ve received I will sow

Little did I know how powerful that desert imagery would become for me in a few weeks! A week later my friend Barb encouraged me to go through a couple of boxes of books that had belonged to her mother. An avid reader of spiritual books, Barb's mother had recently gone into a nursing home, leaving most of her library behind.  "There are a lot of Celtic books in there you'd like. Mom made a pilgrimage to Iona," she explained. Along with books on Scottish and Irish high crosses, Celtic Saints, and the Lindesfarne gospels I pulled  David Adam's A Desert in the Ocean. I am grateful for such providence.  Thanks, Betty! Thanks be to God.

If you wish to see all the Reflections for Lent penned by the St Paul community you will find them posted on St Paul's The Ship's Blog.

Redaction of Shakespeare

Romeo and Juliet
read Helter Skelter
girls
clustered in a dune buggy
casting the spell
that would 
mean
hope
must stay
awhile
for days & wonder

Redaction of a poem entitled Shakespeare by Kari which was posted on the wall at The Makespace in Harrisburg, PA on February 15, 2012.  Participants in the monthly 3rd in the Burg art event were encouraged to redact pages of written words to make new poetry and/or new stories.