“Daddy and I made a star!”
The residual effects of large quantities of cold medicine taken this fall are showing themselves evident in my communications. Words come out of my mouth with purpose and because my mind has heard them and my imagination understands them, I feel I’m clear. Yet time and again I’m seeing that my words are misleading and falling wildly short of their original intent. A perfect example of this is what happened this Sunday.
Emma and I skipped happily out the door to church leaving the boys(one with an ear infection and the other was to be the grown-up) with what I thought to be clear instructions on an activity for their time. . . Make a star out of sticks for the tree.
****I should interject here and state that the star we’ve had for the last 10 years was hideous and just wouldn’t do it for me again this year so I ditched it in hopes of finding the perfect folk-like tin star(like this) for our modest little tree.****
Ok, so we left and everything was hunky-dory. . . that is, till we came home. Fortunately Eddy was upstairs at the time. When I came into the dining room I gasped! Mouth widely agape. The lovely whimsical dogwood branches I had carefully arranged in the corner as decoration were hacked off completely. . .all of them. . .it was violent. Shockingly, I wasn’t angry, shocked, not angry, speechless, not angry. Josiah proudly says, “Daddy and I made a star!” What happens next is a train of thought. . .Ok, that’s cute. . .I’ll just cut some more branches and not worry about it. .. the star is probably amazing with those branches!. . . Oh, look, there it is, all fastened securely, virtually permanently to the top of our almost toppling tree. . .is that even a star, really?. . . Seems like more of an asterisk. . . .Yes, it is definitely an enormous asterisk. . . Ok, I’m going to smile and think about this a while.
After a couple of days I feel more humorous about the whole thing and can joke with Eddy over the lovely typographical symbol gracing our tree. He finds it actually funnier than I, which I don’t know how to take, except that I know had I been clearer and perhaps even drawn out some visual instructions we wouldn’t be having this discussion.
So there you have it. Words really are important. And in my case if I could see them written out and could then edit them for clarity I might spend less time dealing with the results.
Merry Christmas! May whatever star you have on your tree remind you of the Bright Morning Star and Everlasting Light this season.
**Painting/collage, Star by Jennifer Davis.
when everything comes undone
Recently, I survived a series of illnesses, the last of which knocked me out for a good week. My body rebelled in weakness as I helplessly watched my home fall apart from the inside out. The worst part of being a grown-up is that when your sick the world doesn’t stop spinning. The kids still needed to make the bus in the morning with lunches in hand, Eddy still needed his ankle surgery(scheduled months before), Halloween couldn’t be postponed, the dog still needed to go outside and certainly the family still needed food and clean clothes. But then the storm passes and the skies clear. When this sort of experience happens I find a renewed perspective or joy in being well and accomplishing the mundane. Sometimes I wonder if sickness is actually a gift, a vehicle for gratitude and hope?
I found that during this rash of illness, I was still compelled to create. The pieces that resulted were fully abstract, but symbolic. It seems some experiences cannot be expressed in words or recognizable images, but are so emotional and cellular that restricting them to some sort of pretty picture is not giving them the freedom to go further. These abstractions are a first for me. The visual images I normally make are usually much more identifiable, but I simply couldn’t do it. I couldn’t trivialize the truly molecular transformation I was undergoing. A risk worth taking.
or a portrait of your home
Ever wanted to remember a place you set down roots, or a home where your relatives originated? I began thinking about roots several years ago as a fairly obvious metaphor for the longings in my heart.
Only recently did I imagine them growing out of my house as seen here:
Just today I thought, “Maybe other people think of their homes like this or maybe they would like to have Grandma’s house remembered this way!”
And so I’m pleased to offer personalized, hand-drawn, customized portraits of the home of your choosing with roots extending below! Horray!!! Simply send or email me a photo of the home and I will recreate this image with roots in graphite on an 8″x10″ piece of heavy printing paper. If you have any questions about this service you can check out my Etsy listing here: http://www.etsy.com/listing/82806111/customized-house-portrait-with-roots
or Comment on this post and I will get back to you as soon as I can.
a portrait of a family
I love the Beerhorst family and have been following them for a while. They are all artists from youngest to oldest and they really press the boundaries of creating as living. I recently found this video on a friend’s blog and simply had to share it with you. We own some of their work and are so blessed by it. I highly encourage you to check out their amazing wares.
practically perfect in every way
As we were to find out last night, six years is the perfect age to fully appreciate the humor of Mary Poppins. We tried it at four with disappointing results.
Last night, however, the room was full of laughter and amazement as with a *snip-snap* the nursery was tidied. Siah sat enraptured by the chimney sweeps jumping across roofs, singing and dancing all the while. His favorite part to be said many times throughout. How sad it was to Em that the children wouldn’t always see Mary, would she come back to visit them? she asked.
Personally, I was stunned by the brilliant whiteness of her teeth. . .I know it’s a weird thing to observe, but I notice teeth for some reason.
All said and done it was a lovely viewing experience for the whole family, which I have to confess isn’t true about other shows. . .Power Rangers, for instance. I’ll let you know next year if seven is too old.
untangling, unwinding
I’m slowly pulling the threads apart from the tightly woven knot of my summer. Each cord seems in itself uneventful or even plain as it separates itself from the mass. Together they were a weighty creature. Now that routine is restored, and the strands are aligned in the proper places I feel my mind pulling back together.
Toward the end, as nerves ran high, emotions boiled and boredom prevailed, I could be found feverishly drawing out patterns, tight complicated arrangements of shapes and dense grouping of lines in black ink. Most evenings I could hardly hold a conversation, only draw. There were moments during this fury of mark-making that I questioned this phenomenon, but it was a resolution for a deep need of order and so I kept drawing. It felt satisfying to dissect my chaos into understandable and even organized patterns.
I’ve experienced this in years past when I was less habitual with my sketchbook. At those times it would manifest itself in an obsession with Sudoku or Crosswords or some other sort of solving. I rather like the tangible qualities of these little drawings. They seem more descriptive of my state. Sudoku doesn’t do that.
Now as I return to sketching, it’s not with the same intensity. I feel more free. My lines are lighter. Spaces are growing between boundaries. Shapes are becoming objects. I use pencil and paint. My mind is quieter.
drinking alone
It is a silent moment tucked between the chaos. The silence is different today. It wraps itself around me like a blanket, comforting, soothing, warming. The whir of the laptop, the hum of the refrigerator, the occasionally peep and flutter of the canary sparkles in the weight and gravity of my quiet. Summer break looms on the horizon where moments like these are accompanied with complete fatigue. Soon the race will start with routines and responsibilities enough. For now I drink the silent air.
My children bring with them each an overwhelming vibrancy; I’m uncertain whether I can sustain the exhilarating ride. Can I hold these firecrackers in my hand, amazed at their flicker, but afraid of the show to come? Their energy propels me, their love fills me, their curiosity intrigues me. How much fuller and deeper and wider my life is with their uniqueness! Just hang on, I say. I’m so equally in love with and exhausted by my family and I know someday I will turn my aging eyes to see the beauty of what is being forged today and remember not these seasons of fire. So I hold on and stop to drink the silent air.
“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
**Painting La Mer en Rose by Mary Ann Wakely
time in the muddle
Yesterday was an incredible day of sunshine and feverish spring planting. Preparing the plot for seeds is always my least favorite, weeding, digging, amending. . . but yesterday was different.
As each gardening year passes, I’ve grown more interested in the preparation and care of the soil. Everywhere I turn garden experts encourage such obsession and finally I heeded their nagging voices.
Yesterday was different because of the work I did last fall. My hands pulled with ease loosening new weeds, the soil structure light and full of organic matter. Suddenly I was planting! With the energy left over I created labels to remember where I planted what in my Mondrian-like grid of square-foot sections.
I assure you, this is not typical spring planting behavior for me. I’m usually wild-eyed, frantic and most certainly I’ve procrastinated to the point of desperation lunging myself towards the small, quickly closing crack of time in which we can successfully plant in my zone. Though my kids were driving me mad with endless crises, my calmness and joy in the task before me were zen-like.
What a blessing preparation can be! The applications for this forethought are limitless.
Actually applying it. . .well I guess that’s where wisdom and patience become graceful garlands for your head and pendants for your neck.
**Painting Composition 8 by Piet Mondrian
Etsy ooo la la
I know you thought I’d given up on the Etsy lifestyle, but what you didn’t know is that my creative habit is becoming hard to live with. . .that is unless I rid myself of the mounds of drawings that have mysteriously morphed into furniture in our dining room. It’s a little unnerving and they must be released to find new homes. Your home perhaps?
Check it out:
