On Friday afternoon I walked the gas line path down to the river with my boys and two nieces. The 7 year old ran ahead, squatted at the edge of the next drop till I was in view before proceeding, moving effortlessly to our destination. At the river, that flowed more heavily this day then the previous 2 she scales rocks moving away, up or down. She talked of brining her dad there to swim in the summer and when I offered her a hand, said, she didn't need it.
At the start of our reaching fingers in to the cold water, I considered and tried to save my phone from the threat of the place, and in process let it slip soundlessly to the bottom. I swore and turned mean in an instant. After a few knocks of it, a quick text to say it was going to die, i set it in the sun and tried to move into the glorious space. It was sunny and 50's and I had art supplies and time. Then the 7 year old slipped and plunged chest deep into the water. "Too cold to be wet today," as yesterday when she fell in we stayed. "We have to go home." I think I lectured her on how she needed to trust me and I offered my hand to avoid this. I also think my face read anger, because inside I felt like a raging storm. She headed up the stubbled hill and disappeared, reached home and I did not see her for a few hours.
When I was eight at summer camp, I did the same thing. I wanted to play on the rocks and fell in during a breakfast far from our cabin and was warned not to get wet, just before soaking myself in the lake. I had to leave my group and find my own way back and I may have had to rake rocks on the beach during our free hour.
Today I prepared to fill in the most simple application for David's school, to try to get him into the best public school in the district, only to find that I am 11 days too late. I had the wrong date. I messed the whole thing up and they don't make exceptions. I am out. David is out. This is the second year I missed the deadline, so my track record is not looking promising. I am realizing that the fantasy of booking a campground within the deadline, a phone recovering from submersion, a missed deadline to a good school are not things that are going to magically work out. People don't make exceptions. On top of it all my best friend has tried to call twice and text from Thailand and I did not have a phone. I am sitting on vacation in Florida, in a house with wifi, my smartphone always in my pocket and I can't hear it.
My sister's bible study looked at the Exodus passage where the Israelites are looking at the Red Sea ahead and the Egyptian army behind and they say this, Leave us alone that we may serve the Egyptians? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness." (Ex 14:12). It is sort of how I feel and how I can relate to my niece wanting to do it alone, because going forward into the water is too difficult, into failure, into my own strength. I just can't. That is why I love what Moses says, "Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the LORD, which he will work for you today. For the Egyptians whom you see today, you shall never see again. The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to be silent."
I'm not sure how to be silent today. It makes me feel weepy. I don't want to grab Gods hand or anyone else's for that matter, but today I am glad I have no other choice, because looking back and ahead both feel too hard, so I will try for only being silent and watching the LORD.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
The Artists Way
I am on the run from myself. Each day packed with tasks, missing library books, last minute chaffering, play dates and kids school events. Valentines Day is here and I haven't thought of it yet, but for a dinner out and kisses this morning. The weekend looks open and I search for people to commit myself too, while at the same time wanting to curl up in a ball and pretend I can't hear anyone.
If I had time, I would want to . . . MAKE ART. I have been thinking a lot about visual arts lately. Two weeks ago at Wednesday's open studio, I pulled out my good old set of Golden brand acrylics. I have had these paints for 15 years, costing more then the classes I took when I first used them in. Over the years I passed them to others for their classes, switched and repurchased all the colors in oil and now find myself fingering Cad Yellow and Burnt Umber on our large wooden table.
My therapist assigned me the task of making two paintings, one of what inadequacy looks like and the other of ME as adequate. I fiddled with colors and select apples and oranges to replicate, because I can't commit to the project. I scribble and scrawl ideas, but make no attempt at imagining myself Whole. Sitting in my chair across from the Dr. two weeks later with my scribbled chaos of inadequacy, explaining that I can't make a picture, it came to me that what I could paint was a room. The image so clear is of a dark grey drippy cement walled Artist Studio, with nothing in it but a table. It looks dark and drab and I think out loud of how depressing this seemed, but am offered the insight that it is empty, void of distraction, of people, SAFE.
Of course now that I can see this space, I want to build it out of the corner in my basement, the one now used as a pre-school. The idea is for a safe space to be, without others or books or anything, no big bag of knitting to haul, just in case I am not enough.
My therapist said something about my needing to see myself, to paint as a way to look inside and seeing what is in there. I will keep trying to listen. He said, you can't be an inauthentic artist without hurting yourself. I sometimes feel in my running about for others, I am doing damage, getting smaller.
So I have a new goal, one of drawing myself every day, looking at my face, my hands, my view, anything, that allows me a window into who I am. I listen to the stories Moses and the Israelites in Exodus when they are building of the temple and realize how beauty and elegance are a part of honoring God. God created, requests things in his house be precious and this makes me feel some permission to also look at beauty, create with clay, wash with ink, clear away and redraw myself over and over.
And in this spirit, I am considering beginning another journey through the Artist Way. I have handed this book to so many people, because I love how it impacts my own listening and permission to make art. I want to engage in the discipline and faith of creating!
If I had time, I would want to . . . MAKE ART. I have been thinking a lot about visual arts lately. Two weeks ago at Wednesday's open studio, I pulled out my good old set of Golden brand acrylics. I have had these paints for 15 years, costing more then the classes I took when I first used them in. Over the years I passed them to others for their classes, switched and repurchased all the colors in oil and now find myself fingering Cad Yellow and Burnt Umber on our large wooden table.
My therapist assigned me the task of making two paintings, one of what inadequacy looks like and the other of ME as adequate. I fiddled with colors and select apples and oranges to replicate, because I can't commit to the project. I scribble and scrawl ideas, but make no attempt at imagining myself Whole. Sitting in my chair across from the Dr. two weeks later with my scribbled chaos of inadequacy, explaining that I can't make a picture, it came to me that what I could paint was a room. The image so clear is of a dark grey drippy cement walled Artist Studio, with nothing in it but a table. It looks dark and drab and I think out loud of how depressing this seemed, but am offered the insight that it is empty, void of distraction, of people, SAFE.
Of course now that I can see this space, I want to build it out of the corner in my basement, the one now used as a pre-school. The idea is for a safe space to be, without others or books or anything, no big bag of knitting to haul, just in case I am not enough.
My therapist said something about my needing to see myself, to paint as a way to look inside and seeing what is in there. I will keep trying to listen. He said, you can't be an inauthentic artist without hurting yourself. I sometimes feel in my running about for others, I am doing damage, getting smaller.
So I have a new goal, one of drawing myself every day, looking at my face, my hands, my view, anything, that allows me a window into who I am. I listen to the stories Moses and the Israelites in Exodus when they are building of the temple and realize how beauty and elegance are a part of honoring God. God created, requests things in his house be precious and this makes me feel some permission to also look at beauty, create with clay, wash with ink, clear away and redraw myself over and over.
And in this spirit, I am considering beginning another journey through the Artist Way. I have handed this book to so many people, because I love how it impacts my own listening and permission to make art. I want to engage in the discipline and faith of creating!
Wednesday, February 05, 2014
"All My Fears Come Back to Me"
My inner critic returned and was fired up to hammer me with my imperfections this week. HE knocked me back into reactive space, where I yelled for my kids to get ready and eat and be content if we didn't go to a Jungle Java after school. I wonder how I ever got rid of my questioning self for the time I did.
As I watched the movie "Her," I was struck by the main character's desire to hop into a fantasy world, where a computer could meet his perceived desires, know him, flatter him, love him, and how much I do look with anticipation to my own phone, to a imaginary message, a new pair of running shoes, the fitbit, athletic clothing stores, a new story I could create or a life inside Facebook that is better then my physical presence amongst needy and desperate people (mainly myself).
In "Her," the computer tries to read the characters everything and be a perfect lover. On a blind date with a real woman, they both drink a lot, then the lady tells him how to kiss, "less tongue," she keeps saying. Then as they consider what to do, she begins to doubt his long term commitment, saying, "You aren't going to be one of those guys who doesn't call in the morning?" Going back to a computer was a relief, since the reality of a real person seemed impossible. The guys real wife was hopeless, because she couldn't live with him (or him with her?). There was such a sad empty feeling to it all. The pattern of this movie resonates, fantasy, projection of that imaginary scenario on reality and then the panic that it is not possible. I'm not in control of you, the weather, amn't enough to satisfy myself.
I want a cultural revolution! My google friend (he works for google) lives without air conditioning, manages with one old car, walks to work wearing is granddad's long coat and drives home to New Jersey to see his family. My version of his life is my family all huddling around our wood stove, canning and storing food for winter and being together.
I am reading a book for my neighborhood club, called Astrid and Veronika, where two women have time and space and one another, except it's so dark! The two women's histories are horrible, one murders her infant, the other loses her love and then miscarries, a father abuses one and then forces her to marry a horrible man. The man takes over her families farm and says after their first night together, "It's all mine now, you know. Everything you can see through that window. All mine." Her response is "There is nothing her that belongs to you. . . Nothing." And then they are married for 60+ years. Everything bad happens and the ladies in this book both seem so stuck under it's weight. I know the point of the last 70 pages and that they have each other, that they find some reason to be themselves, but it's dissatisfying to experience them being miserable and alone and I can't believe they will figure it out without help! Everyone feels more evil for having lived in relationship with hatred and disappointment about not getting to the fantasy life.
In my mom's group, we are sitting in the topic of fear. The teacher last week told me she appreciated that I was sitting on the edge of my seat, and fully invested! Standing in front of a large group of women, she shared the real ugliness in how we can parent our kids in our own disappointment or frustration about how they should be. We say the wrong things and just thinking of it, makes me feel my own failings. As I am exposed through her story, I see a bit more of the dark part of parenting in my own strength, parenting to protect my kids from everything, fear of losing my identity, my words or lack of words, of this time. This week the teacher said it, "We need Jesus just as much as our kids." It is funny how hopeful that feels! We are in a reality that features an amazing God who literally came into our space to be God to us, our kids, in the midst of the mess.
I told a second grader today about Jesus coming into our space and he laughed and said, no way. Yes way! "Here, a baby, a child," I said. He started doing the, "did he go to the bathroom, pick his nose, take bathes, eat with a spoon, drive in a car, live in a house?" I said Yes to some of those and no to others, but marveled in the fact that he was here and to blow our minds further, that he still is. The kid said the inevitable, "But we can't see him," and I mentioned the trinity to which my kindergartner responded with, "Yes, it's complicated." It's is a great complication, because I can't buy the fantasy anymore.
I live in my imperfections, in light of Christ.
David and I are reading The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe and when we sat in the moment after Aslan died, his face went pale. He looked at me, confused. He kept thinking Asland would fight and beat the evil guys that were hearing at him. His real dead body, tightly bound and lifeless, confused us. I didn't spoil the punch line for him, but watched the lion lie cold on the stone table, the evil queen conquering and then heading into her triumphal battle with anyone who sided with this dead king. The mice come and start to nibbling and their is a loud cracking as the table splits in two, and Asland is no longer on it. He is alive. It is the hope I have, walking into this next minute, hour, relationship, vision for my work and life. Asland is on the move and I can walk beside him!
As I watched the movie "Her," I was struck by the main character's desire to hop into a fantasy world, where a computer could meet his perceived desires, know him, flatter him, love him, and how much I do look with anticipation to my own phone, to a imaginary message, a new pair of running shoes, the fitbit, athletic clothing stores, a new story I could create or a life inside Facebook that is better then my physical presence amongst needy and desperate people (mainly myself).
In "Her," the computer tries to read the characters everything and be a perfect lover. On a blind date with a real woman, they both drink a lot, then the lady tells him how to kiss, "less tongue," she keeps saying. Then as they consider what to do, she begins to doubt his long term commitment, saying, "You aren't going to be one of those guys who doesn't call in the morning?" Going back to a computer was a relief, since the reality of a real person seemed impossible. The guys real wife was hopeless, because she couldn't live with him (or him with her?). There was such a sad empty feeling to it all. The pattern of this movie resonates, fantasy, projection of that imaginary scenario on reality and then the panic that it is not possible. I'm not in control of you, the weather, amn't enough to satisfy myself.
I want a cultural revolution! My google friend (he works for google) lives without air conditioning, manages with one old car, walks to work wearing is granddad's long coat and drives home to New Jersey to see his family. My version of his life is my family all huddling around our wood stove, canning and storing food for winter and being together.
I am reading a book for my neighborhood club, called Astrid and Veronika, where two women have time and space and one another, except it's so dark! The two women's histories are horrible, one murders her infant, the other loses her love and then miscarries, a father abuses one and then forces her to marry a horrible man. The man takes over her families farm and says after their first night together, "It's all mine now, you know. Everything you can see through that window. All mine." Her response is "There is nothing her that belongs to you. . . Nothing." And then they are married for 60+ years. Everything bad happens and the ladies in this book both seem so stuck under it's weight. I know the point of the last 70 pages and that they have each other, that they find some reason to be themselves, but it's dissatisfying to experience them being miserable and alone and I can't believe they will figure it out without help! Everyone feels more evil for having lived in relationship with hatred and disappointment about not getting to the fantasy life.
In my mom's group, we are sitting in the topic of fear. The teacher last week told me she appreciated that I was sitting on the edge of my seat, and fully invested! Standing in front of a large group of women, she shared the real ugliness in how we can parent our kids in our own disappointment or frustration about how they should be. We say the wrong things and just thinking of it, makes me feel my own failings. As I am exposed through her story, I see a bit more of the dark part of parenting in my own strength, parenting to protect my kids from everything, fear of losing my identity, my words or lack of words, of this time. This week the teacher said it, "We need Jesus just as much as our kids." It is funny how hopeful that feels! We are in a reality that features an amazing God who literally came into our space to be God to us, our kids, in the midst of the mess.
I told a second grader today about Jesus coming into our space and he laughed and said, no way. Yes way! "Here, a baby, a child," I said. He started doing the, "did he go to the bathroom, pick his nose, take bathes, eat with a spoon, drive in a car, live in a house?" I said Yes to some of those and no to others, but marveled in the fact that he was here and to blow our minds further, that he still is. The kid said the inevitable, "But we can't see him," and I mentioned the trinity to which my kindergartner responded with, "Yes, it's complicated." It's is a great complication, because I can't buy the fantasy anymore.
I live in my imperfections, in light of Christ.
David and I are reading The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe and when we sat in the moment after Aslan died, his face went pale. He looked at me, confused. He kept thinking Asland would fight and beat the evil guys that were hearing at him. His real dead body, tightly bound and lifeless, confused us. I didn't spoil the punch line for him, but watched the lion lie cold on the stone table, the evil queen conquering and then heading into her triumphal battle with anyone who sided with this dead king. The mice come and start to nibbling and their is a loud cracking as the table splits in two, and Asland is no longer on it. He is alive. It is the hope I have, walking into this next minute, hour, relationship, vision for my work and life. Asland is on the move and I can walk beside him!
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