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 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.

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

Words - An Invitation

Looking back I often regret that I did not take Latin in high school. At the time I thought it was stupid and old fashioned. At 14 or 15 I certainly had no interest in being involved in anything that might be remotely considered old fashioned. The cool kids were not taking Latin and I wanted to be a cool kid. "What's the point of a dead language?" we all said. The value of studying Latin only became apparent to me as an adult. I no longer care if I am cool, hip or da bomb. It's still flattering if someone calls me cool, I'll admit, but it doesn't matter anymore. I am living by my own lights.





The older I get the more I like words and understanding their origins. Endlessly fascinating to me, is researching the Latin, Greek, Old English or other linguistic roots and meanings of a word. Inspired by my friend and wordsmith, Dody, who chooses and uses words in the most spiritual way, I have come to see that unexamined words are like birds in a tree. They fly by me most of the time and I don't really need to bother to identify them, to notice the details of what they really look like. When I get out my binoculars to look closely at the birds I can not only see their species, but I can also observe their behavior thereby making them more meaningful to me. And it can be that way with the words I choose. If I stop for a moment to examine a word at its root I can often use it in a way that is more potent for both reader(or hearer) and me.





Recently, I have been exploring being a catalyst. This word comes from the Greek kata, meaning “down” and lysis or “a loosening.” A catalyst is a person who can break ideas down and loosen up the energy within, thus being an agent for change. The catalyst is the means and vehicle for change, not the change itself. The change is already within the people waiting to be loosened and unleashed.






I am, by nature, a collaborative person. This is especially true when working on projects, creative and otherwise. When I began writing this blog I was thinking of it not only as a way of writing my story, but also as a way of reaching out to others whose lives have not gone the the way they planned. I wanted them and, by extension me, to feel less alone, less odd and less adrift on a sea of uncertainty.






Your feedback has not altered my goal, but rather has suggested that I am on the right track. While the site is mine, (meaning you can't use anything here without my permission and proper attribution), I would like it to also be a place where you can share your Wednesday stories. I hope that I, through this site, can serve as a catalyst for bringing forth your stories, your struggles and your joys as you find your own paths.



Please email me your This Is Wednesday stories at thisiswed@gmail.com

On Hoarding, Quicksand, Grace and Writing

My dining room table is covered with half-read newspapers, books, unopened mail, notes and that Sunday School project prototype I'm gluing. There's a stack of cookbooks on the floor and a pile of unshelved CD's in the corner. The desk is scattered with receipts needing to be organized. Littering the floor are enough cat and dog toys to make someone think a toddler lives here.  

The state of my dining room is a mirror to my mind, to my soul. For me, trouble in mind equals dirty dishes in the sink and stacks of paper on the table. I can't decide where to put things, what to keep and what to discard, what I'll never use again and what will be essential to me later. What if, what if, what if...

I have to write a blog post. I have to be at work in ten minutes. I have to clean up. It's driving me crazy. Someone's coming over later. I could cram it all in the closet. The closet is full. Why do I hang on to some of this stuff? Ack, I should be on an episode of "Hoarders." 

It's all a little overwhelming at the moment. I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment!

I sit on the couch and stare into the dining room, my mind as cluttered as the table.
I am scared. I am procrastinating. I feel that familiar paralysis begin to set in. First the body and then the mind. This is territory I know all too well. The surface might look solid, but there is water flowing underneath making the soil of my life loose its friction. I tell my inner hiker to stay on the path for there is quicksand all around.

Is this a good title? Where should that paragraph go? Am I on the right track? Is this where the Holy Spirit is leading? Should I be looking for a "real" job?

Too late, I stepped into it. My husband always hikes with a stick, but I don't know where mine is today. The sand covers my ankles and gently pulls me in. It might not be too deep. If I retrace my steps, I could back out of this now.

Should I spend more time with mom and sister? Can I pay these bills this week with what's left in the bank account? Can I afford health insurance? What if I get sick?

In a flash, I'm up to my knees and sinking fast, but if I just try to push on I'll be okay. Solid ground is just up ahead.
 
Will I ever finish that scarf and beading project idea I started? Can I ever retire? The bathroom needs painting. I never should have torn out the kitchen floor without a plan to replace it. I never get anything done. I never finish anything.

Cue the Ennio Morricone Spaghetti Western soundtrack as I'm sucked down to waist level. Flailing around with my arms I forget everything I've ever learned about quicksand. My inner hiker is in panic mode only now.

My business venture failed. Should I delete this sentence? Will anyone read it?  Does it matter? Why did I commit to doing this? It's too hard. Will I ever write anything again?

As I sink up to my armpits, I feel that choking anxiety in my throat as the quicksand of self-doubt presses around me. Desperately I thrash about for something, ANYTHING, to hang onto. What will I do? How will I survive?

GRACE. Those moments of GRACE that save me. 

Unbidden in conversation my friend John says, "Your writing is a wise testimony for others. Don't worry about it. Just let it FLOW from the Spirit through you." And he prays for me right then and right there where we are standing.   

It dawns on me. I remember that I am denser than water, denser than quicksand. What I learned comes flooding back. I CAN FLOAT, spread myself across the muck and FLOAT.  I'm not out of this yet, but I'm not sinking.

Having Saturday morning breakfast with Bob, I tell him I am trying to follow my heart. "You seem calmer, happier somehow," he shares. I worry aloud that I won't ever be able to put fingers to keyboard again and have it make sense. Smiling, he quips, "So does Salman Rushdie!" 


GRACE. Looking up I see a low hanging branch. Was it always there? I paddle slowly, but steadily, toward it.

My sister, who has a gift for making beautiful handmade cards, gives me a card of encouragement about manifesting dreams and not letting age, resources or timing limit one's vision. On the back she printed a Bible verse from Habakkuk, "Write the vision, make it plain on tablets..."  She checks in on me to see how I am doing with my "Vision Board."

GRACE. AGAIN GRACE. I can see what looks like solid ground.

I read these words, "...without knowing it I can let myself become overwhelmed...I have believed the lie...I have given up fighting...I have felt sorry for myself," written by my younger and wiser friend Aletheia over at [according to aletheia].


MORE GRACE. I reach the branch, climb out of the pit and onto the path again, astonished that I did not realize that sometimes I can CHOOSE to NOT be overwhelmed. Like Aletheia, this is, now, one more thing I DO know.


Special thanks to Doug Gelbert, author of my favorite Doggin America and Bark in the Park series of books, from whom I learned SOME of what I know about quicksand. If you like hiking with your dog visit Doug's website
http://www.hikewithyourdog.com/ 


 

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."