TC Larson

Stories and Mischief

Seesaws and Pendulum Swings

19
Jun

Things hold very little hope for getting better.

This is a truth that I seem unable to hold in my head for very long. I keep thinking that I understand it, that I’ve accepted it. Soon the “understanding it” subsides. I experience some kind of convenient amnesia and go back to not really getting it, not being able to accept the grim reality my dad faces, and us along with him.

There’s a possibility that I’m in some stage of denial, but that sounds so cliché I have a hard time thinking it could be real. And yet all of a sudden something pops for no particular reason and it all floods the tubes at once. My boat begins to sink in powerlessness and sadness, holding all at once the emotions I’d kept at bay without even trying.

I’m starting to realize I may not be equipped to handle this on my own.

While I’ve never received any counseling past the pre-marital counseling my husband and I did before our wedding (and does that really count? I’m not sure), I’m not at all opposed to it. I have a feeling there are coping strategies that could be helpful when dealing with loss and grief. For a while now, my reaction to things seems to either go from an emotional flat-line to all feelings at once as if I’m trying to drink from a proverbial fire hose. There ought to be some middle ground in this, some balanced space of holding the possibility of permanent separation alongside an appreciation of the time we all still have together.

http://mrg.bz/ptSqzA

http://mrg.bz/ptSqzA

Ought to, schm-ought to. The bare truth is that my dad’s not getting better, and there’s a very real possibility — a very strong probability — that he’s going to leave us. See? Even now I can’t speak the harsh truth because it’s too much to admit.  It’s too big, too scary, too terrible. It’s something I only admit in the dark, when no one else is listening, when I can’t convince my brain to focus on anything else. Is this what it’s like for everyone? Would it make me feel better or worse to know it isn’t like this for other people?

Does it make it worse that I’m here to witness the slow ebbing away of him? Or would it be worse to experience the jarring juxtaposition of him healthy one visit, and then a few months later discover him weak, thin and slow? Who freaking cares which is worse? This is what the situation is. This is the one I’m a part of, and contrasting it with anything else doesn’t make it any less or any more. It just is.

Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

But it isn’t just. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

(I’ll have more on that idea soon, on the shitty deal and non-nepotism of God instead of playing favorites. That’s good news if you’re the one on the outs, but it’s a lot harder to bear if you’ve been the diligent, dedicated son all these years and not the prodigal. A little party on your behalf would be nice, a little cut to the front of the line, so to speak, a little preferential treatment.)

For now, the irritating pendulum swings between being numb and being overcome, with a possibly unhealthy emphasis on numbness, are in my line of sight, and I figure I should try to have some idea of how to handle what may come. Even if I don’t really want to know what’s going to come. Even if I am dreading it even as I approach the subject with robotic matter-of-factness. That right there should be my indicator of a need for facing the thing head on, but I can really only look at it with my peripheral vision as I charge ahead, busily avoiding people and topics that could lead to an uncorking of the anger, fear and sorrow that licks at my heels.

Have I mentioned cancer sucks?

If you’ve got resources that have helped you through grief or loss, don’t keep ’em to yourself. I don’t really know where to start,  and could use some recommendations.

Dissonance and Significant Moments

27
May

My daughter had her kindergarten performance last week.

She was excellent, of course. She sang the crap out of “My Hat and Gloves” and when she acted surprised during the line at the end, you really believed that she had no idea her hat and gloves were already on her hands and on her head. Perfection.

She sat pouty when they first took their places, because she couldn’t find me in the audience. That was because some toddler with less-than-attentive parents was standing on his chair directly in my daughter’s line of sight. I leaned from one side to the other, trying to make eye contact but that squirmy toddler was all over the place. Finally I moved one chair over, which meant that I was right next to a stranger but now my daughter could see me and all was well with the world…besides the fact that there were two empty chairs to my left and I was rubbing shoulders with someone I did not know. I was outside the boundaries of normal Midwestern space allowances. Here, the unspoken rule goes, you keep at least one chair between you and a member of the next party. This makes for challenges at any even with assigned seats, because on the one hand, you want to obey the dictates of your ticket, but on the other hand, the one seat buffer rule runs strong.

Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

I sat there and listened to song after song, all with special actions and costumes. The kids’ practices in the months leading up to the event made it go very smoothly, and no one panicked or went off script. They did a great job all around.

As they exited and the audience filed out of the auditorium (which was really just a gym), it finally struck me that this is the end of my last child’s last year of less-than-all-day school. My daughter only does half-day kindergarten, and she’s my youngest. That means that next year my three kids will all be in school all day long. This is a milestone for our family, a very significant moment for her, for my kids as siblings, and for all parents of young-ish children everywhere — we thought we wouldn’t make it! We thought the napping schedule, the potty training, and the endless snacks would undo us! But we have triumphed! 

It felt like a passing, as well, like the end of an era. It is the end of those youngest years and the beginning of official school-age-dom. She’ll do great, she’s ready, it will be fine. But it is also something worth marking as a significant transition, both for her and for our whole family. It was sweet but tinged with nostalgia for the safety, innocence and dependence of those first years.

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Later that evening, my husband Pete and I left the kids with a sitter. We drove across town and joined the rest of my family at my parents’ house in Minneapolis. We had received some terrible news that morning, and it was one of those times when it is helpful to be together in order to shore up one another, to distribute the weight of the burden over all our shoulders. It is a crushing weight even for ten people, so for the only one or two people most affected by it to be forced to bear it — it would lay them out flat.

We sat outside under the fushia colored crabapple tree in full bloom, its scent filling the air and wrapping around us.  My dad was physically with us, but his disease made him slow and confused. He sat quietly as we talked around him, taking it all in. These are the people he loves most, these are the ones he raised, these are the ones he wants most to protect from the pain of his illness. He cannot protect us now. He never needed to, but it’s built in to his habits, the habits of being the father.

The dissonance of my day, the way the planet continues to rotate even when your own world feels at a standstill, the pride and excitement of my daughter’s kindergarten performance at the beginning of her life and my dad’s diminishing health at what may be close to the end of his, the significance of the events of my day — these things left me filled with incongruent emotions.

Those conflicted emotions may be the new normal for us. We may be in a new chapter when we must savor the beauty of the moments we have, even as we jam every important moment into an abbreviated timeframe.

(It feels disloyal to even admit the possibility that my dad might not recover. That’s not how we function as a family. We always find the positive and focus on that.)

Those moments, while being meaningful and sweet, are also nauseating and laced with sorrow because they are unlikely to be repeated again. Can you fully enjoy something when you know it is probably the last time you’ll have that experience? How can the present warmth be coated with the frost of the future? Somehow they coexist, mingling and informing everything I come in contact with.

It’s exhausting. I don’t know how to do this. I especially don’t know how to do this with grace, patience, acceptance, all while being dignified. I feel small, powerless, numb and shrunken. Maybe I’ll figure it out. Or maybe this is just how it will be for me. Either way, however I manage to approach it, it will continue. I’ll have to just follow along and figure it out as it comes. There’s no individualized guidebook for this. We all just handle it the way we’re able, and that’s good enough. That has to be good enough.

Frost door window porch

Frost

 

 

An Involuntary Slowdown

19
May

Night games at camp for at least ten years.

Daytime games at camp that they eventually banned because of the dangerous conditions which always led to injuries…of other people.

Season after season of gymnastics’ four events.

“Rambo runs” in the woods over uneven terrain.

Sledding, waterskiing, snowboarding, biking.

All these things and more I have lived through, and never once have I been injured.

Put me out in my yard this weekend, however, and let me drag a tarp filled with leaves from the oak tree. Let me have children to love to dig holes. Let one of these small holes be dug directly in my path, let the wind cover said hole with the leaves I’m trying to clean up, then let me walk right into this hole.

All of that adds up to this:

Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

When it happened, just before I fell to the ground, I heard the “scritch” of something in my ankle bending a way the good Lord did not intend.

Get a load of this, though. As I lay there on the ground, I had a moment. It was one of those weird “moments in time” when all of a sudden you notice the sound of the wind in the tops of the trees, the sound of the leaves rustling, the number of birds flitting around in the swamp beyond the wire fence. And it made me wonder, how many of us chug along through life and never realize how much of it we’re missing?

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I’m not here to point fingers. I’m just as oblivious as the next guy. We walk around with miracles blooming around and in us, and barely register the wonder of it.

Think of the last time you had a terrible head cold. You were miserable, uncomfortable, couldn’t taste, couldn’t swallow, your head aching and your whole body one gigantic exposed nerve. Very soon after you were done feeling awful, you were appreciative of each breath you were able to take through your nostril, the way you could lay on a sheet and not feel every cottony fiber of it scrape against your skin.

If we stop to appreciate every single wonder we encounter in our day, we won’t be able to make it very far in our schedules. There’s definitely a limit for how micro and how macro we are able to focus. As an every day rule, there isn’t time allotted to “stop and smell the roses” of every single rose. In appreciating the warmth and wonder of a candle with its flickering light, we allow dinner to burn, kids to run amuck, bathtub to overflow. Reports will go unfiled, appointments will be missed. We can’t dance that close to the flame for long, or it will consume us.

We can all do a better job of noticing, though. As Gerald Manley Hopkins wrote in one of my most favorite poems of all time, that “the world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil.” (This is from his poem, God’s Grandeur.) Sometimes it takes a sprained ankle to slow us down long enough to pay attention.

http://mrg.bz/tNCzHm

http://mrg.bz/tNCzHm

What things around you do you appreciate today? Even though it’s Monday, there are definitely things to be thankful for. Let’s remind one another by calling them out. Ready set go.

Fear and Hairbrained Ideas

17
May

Some things are bigger than ourselves. There are forces at work we are not able to see.

Conditions begin to align, phone calls come seemingly out of nowhere, chance meetings occur in random locations.

The dots, which have always been present, are finally connected and the complete picture comes into focus, the picture they’ve been making all along.

The timing is right, the tumblers click into place and it is clear that the idea should move forward. It does so almost under its own momentum.

In those times, we have a choice. Will we continue to mention the idea when the conversation opens the opportunity? Or will we ignore the opening, ignore the possibility? Will we make that phone call and allow the person on the other end to make his own decision, or will we make the decision for him without him even knowing?

Mentioning, calling, speaking up — these are scary things. Our hearts race, our body temperatures rise just considering the act.

But I think this is more than just being scared. It’s a deeper fear than that. It isn’t focused so much on the action but on the actor.

It’s about us. It’s about me.

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Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

Getting Caught Up in the Fear

We can keep our fear at arm’s length if we stay focused on the action we’re considering, rather than the why behind the feeling of fear. If we stay focused on the foreground of the picture, the action of taking that step or initiating that process can receive our energy and attention. If we re-focus, however, the thing that shows up in the picture is not the action; it’s the identity and the fear of being found lacking. Many times the nerves about a specific action stem from an internal fear about ourselves. We’re in an argument with ourselves.

The argument goes something like this:

1. I’ve got this great idea.

2. I’ve run this idea past some trusted people in my life, and they think it is more than just a passing whim.

3. I know some next steps that could make this idea a reality, or at least take it from just being in my head to being out in the world.

4. When I think about this idea, nothing in my spirit gives me reason for concern. If anything, when I consider what God would think about the idea, I feel like He would give it His endorsement.

5. Doing something with the idea is intimidating. It is a new thing, something that requires me to take action in a new way.

6. The questions of “what if” start to rise. What will happen if the idea is met with resistance?

7. The questions of my own value and qualifications start to rise: who do I think I am to pursue this idea?

8. Those questions continue to gain silent momentum, camouflaging themselves as weak spots in the plan to move forward/ They often appear as hindrances to the success of the idea.

9. If left unattended, these doubts and insecurities will undermine any further steps. The idea will fall away and become one more hairbrained scheme I came up with, one more plan that didn’t work out. This will only serve to fuel the questions of value and qualification the next time an idea presents itself. The cycle will repeat.

We quell the momentum, kick ashes on the embers and let fear keep us from adventure. We don’t allow God to fill in the holes where we can’t do it ourselves. We exclude ourselves before we even get started. It’s one thing to be smart and press a plan to find any weak spots in it, and not all ideas are good ones. However, it is another to let our inner doubts keep us from undertaking anything with an unknown outcome.

Where Do You Need to Step Out?

I’m going to share some specifics but insert your own situations, dreams, goals, etc. in place of mine, okay?

There are two possibilities on the horizon for me, particularly as my husband and I consider what things are going to look like this fall, when all three of our kids will be in school the whole day. One possibility is a longer-shot in my mind, and involves selling certain one-of-a-kind items online. The other possibility, which is closer to my heart, involves helping others discover a different form of prayer that centers on visual expression.

In both of these, there are strong indicators that I’m not just talking myself into the idea. Outside sources have provided good feedback and doing these activities brings me joy.

But I’m scared.

These are new endeavors, and I can’t present myself as an expert in any way. But at the same time, they have been so naturally developed, and come as such an outflowing of my interests and experiences up to this point, I feel like they draw on my eclectic interests and background. That makes me the right person to pursue them.

But I’m scared.

I don’t want to give anyone false impressions about my qualifications, my training or degrees. I don’t want to have the impression about myself that the things I would sell look awesome and are meaningful, only to find they look juvenile or wholly amateur to the skilled professional. I am afraid I’ll invest time and energy and nothing will come of it, thus feeding my reputation (even if its only in my mind…but I’m pretty sure it’s public) of pursuing crazy ideas only to have them fall apart.

See what I mean? Ultimately, it’s not even about the activity, it’s about what the activity says about ME.

Does this sound at all familiar?

Send Up Tiny Flames

Did you ever see that creepy part of the Lord of the Rings movies where they’re crossing that terrible bog? There had been a huge battle long ago, and the bodies of the dead were still intact, just under the surface of the water. Sometimes little flames would appear on the top of the water. If any unfortunate travelers followed these lights, they’d go the wrong direction.

Let’s take that creepiness, flip it into its opposite, and use it for our own purposes.

Let’s see a peaceful day, warm breezes, no mosquitos, the sun shining gently on our backs. Each person gets their own expansive, healthy marsh, teeming with life and energy.

Let’s see all our gifting and interests as beautiful rock formations under the water, gleaming and precious. Any one of these would be a gift in itself, and their minerals enrich the quality of the entire water system.  These rocks slowly change shape over time, much like a stalagmite (or is it stalactite?) would do.

Occasionally a small flame appears on the surface of the water. The flames indicate a healthy environment and a path that will bring the best views. We can follow these flames, and in doing so, discover the development of our gifts and interests, using them in new ways when they are at a proper stage. Along the way, we can bring a gem up out of the water before it’s fully formed, but if we wait, we fill find that gems which have been allowed to fully develop — these are the most beautiful and healthy. The small flames show us which way to go as we enjoy our walk through the picturesque summer wetland.

What passions of yours are sending up little flames for you right now? What direction are the tiny lights guiding you?

Fire spark flame

http://mrg.bz/BBh66i

Fight through the Fear

We can ignore the indicators in our lives, of course, and get along fine. However, I think we are at our most fulfilled when we heed our passions and interests, even when they shift. We are not statues — we change and develop over time, even in adulthood. What worked for us ten years ago may not work for us now. That’s not a sign of weakness or flightiness; that’s growth. Even if we take incremental steps, working smart and being conscientious, we can still be attentive to that internal appetite that desires fulfillment through using our own uniqueness.

So take that risk. Be bold. Be brave. You can do it. And when you do, you’ll have more ammunition against fear the next time around.

I can’t wait to hear about the ways you’re fighting through the fear. What risks are you taking lately? In what areas are you growing and how? Inspire the rest of us with your bravery!

 

 

Not Yer Typical Grateful Mother’s Day Post

11
May

Breaking all the rules today: it’s Sunday, this will take more than five minutes, and I’m rolling two posts into one. Oh yeah – I’m also using improper grammar/vocabulary because I’m pretty sure “yer” isn’t an accepted dictionary word. Let it slide today my friends, will you?

I know I’m feeling contrary but I want to ask why mothers must feel bad for the fact there’s a day that celebrates them, why they must feel bad for the fact they were able to become mothers in one way or another, why in recent years we’ve started to feel we must celebrate in hushed tones rather than accept one specific day of appreciation?

It’s so typical Martyr Mom, isn’t it? “Oh no, no, sweetheart, I wouldn’t want to do anything for Mother’s Day. I might make someone feel bad if they weren’t a mother.” It’s a tricky spot to be in.

It’s a little bit like the way my sons feel when I compliment one of them. I tell Rex, “I really like the comic book you’re making.” Bobo hears that and comments, “You don’t like the thing I’m making.” Over and over, I assure them that if I compliment one of them, it has nothing to do with the other. Just because I say one of them is good at something, it doesn’t follow that the other is BAD at it, less than, or anything relating to them at all. It is just me calling out something about one individual. It isn’t a finite substance — as if there’s only so much talent available.

It may stem from some twisted old-timey notion that full womanhood is realized in motherhood, or that somehow women are redeemed through childbirth. We don’t have time to dig into the origins of that now, nor can we dwell on how that informs our current attitudes, but if a person is seen as forever less-than if they’re not a mother, then it’s no wonder there are some significant hang-ups surrounding it.

If you ask me, people would be smart to create their own personal Mother’s Days. Think of the brunch pandemonium we could avoid. Imagine the pick-me-up moms could get in northern regions where winter can drag on for way too long. Pop your own personal Mother’s Day in the middle of that, and break up the monotony. And does anyone save any money by purchasing flower baskets or earrings marketed around Mother’s Day? Not likely. Plus, I’ve got to say, I don’t really desire to hear “Happy Mother’s Day” from a pulpit or a person who is not somehow related to my mothering or somehow being my mother. There’s something about seeing Mother’s Day doggie leashes (Now Mom can walk the dog in style!) or Mother’s Day paperclips (Help keep Mom organized!) that detracts from the sincerity of the occasion anyways. However, Mother’s Day is firmly established now, and if the baseline is a Mother’s Day card that costs $5, you know that corporate America isn’t going be quick to give up Mother’s Day. It’s too big of a money maker.

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Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

As I write this, I’m sitting at a restaurant, waiting for my mom. She’s supposed to meet me, but she’s lost. She gets lost a lot. She is more of an instinctual, landmark-reliant driver rather than a direction-following driver. Even if you write out directions for her, she doesn’t generally get there the way you map it out for her.

That sums up her approach to a lot of life. She doesn’t set out to challenge the status quo; it’s her inherent BS sniffer and her inquisitive mind that prompt her to ask the question on everyone’s minds, to say what no one else is willing to, or to proclaim that the Emperor isn’t wearing any clothes. Before they retired, she was a pastor’s wife (although, do you ever really stop being a pastor or a pastor’s wife, even after you retire? It’s kind of hardwired by that point.). She never did fit that stereotype, and that was a constant source of both pride and struggle for her. When people don’t know how to categorize you, it’s easier to just dismiss you as an anomaly rather than find a new spot for you in their minds.

Mom is opinionated, curious, adventurous, spontaneous, restless, loyal, and sensitive. She thinks non-linearly, which can make the linear people around her a little crazy. And let’s admit it, she is a little nuts. She’s random, resourceful, freakin’ hilarious, and sometimes doesn’t know when to quit. She’s one of those who underestimates the power of her words because she underestimates her significance. That underestimation can lead to misunderstandings, and coupled with a zinger or two, it can be a dangerous combination. On the one hand, she’s surprised that anything she’d have to say would actually mean something important to anyone, and on the other hand she’s hurt when it isn’t heard. She’s contradictory that way. Oh crap. Didn’t I say at the beginning of this that I was feeling contrary? I AM becoming my mother!

I’m grateful for her. She’s an unceasing cheerleader, and sees the potential for good things for all her kids. She believes in you, even when you don’t have the courage to believe in yourself.

I’m grateful there’s a special day created that helps people take time to acknowledge the mothers in their lives. On top of that, I’m grateful for the many people who have been mother-types to me throughout my life, for the women who modeled serving behind the scenes, and those who modeled leading from up front. I’m grateful for the people who helped me when things were hard, the people who teamed with me to try something new, who fed my hair-brained schemes and picked me up after epic failures. These may not have all been women, but in many senses these people played a mother role in my life.

From the objections I raised about feeling bad about being a mother on Mother’s Day, I know you’re questioning my sensitivity to those for whom this is a difficult day. It’s not that we shouldn’t have Mother’s Day, nor should we exalt motherhood. A woman is more than her ovaries, and a woman need not have a child to be fully actualized. Not every woman wants to be a mother. I know there are women out there who long to be mothers and cannot, those who have become mothers and could not raise that child, adoptions that have fallen through, heartache that seems bottomless. These things don’t stop being a part of us when this day passes. I hope we can all be kind to the varied circumstances of others, and not assume that our story is the story of every person we meet, easy story or difficult story.

We can all be mothers to one another. We can be tender, we can be tough, we can be supportive, we can be stern. Even if we didn’t have those loving mothers in our lives, we can find them. They are out there. You may already have one in your life and just never viewed him/her as such. You might have an opportunity to mother someone (you don’t have to call it that) and help them find their footing, their voice, or their stride. That is an important role. Do not diminish it just because it doesn’t involve an infant.

Let’s all become the best people we can be, and inspire one another to take those leaps of faith that are done so much more easily with the support of others.

You can do it. I can do it.

We are better together.

Happy Mother’s Day.

A New Type of Mischief, Part 3

28
Apr

In this final installment, I’d like to level with you, dear readers.

I want this to be a space where we can talk about difficult things, but at the same time I don’t want people knowing everything about me. I want us to be able to share openly, but I don’t want to share TOO openly.

This blog is not some kind of diary or journal. That kind of blog works for some people, and I say more power to them.

But that’s not me.

You don’t need to hear all my inner thoughts (believe me, you really don’t) and I don’t need to vent all my issues here. You don’t need to know what I look like when I first wake up or the fact that I don’t wash my jeans after wearing them once.

However…

I also want you to know that I’ve been keeping things from you. I’ve shied away from writing as much, not knowing quite how to stretch out our small talk, not wanting to overwhelm you with gloom or all the mixed up feelings I’ve got about the church (amongst other things) right now. If you look at the overall arch of my personality and tendencies, I’m a pretty upbeat person who tries to look for the positive even in rough situations. Getting bogged down in negativity just isn’t my style. Because it isn’t my style, and in the spirit of “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” I’ve found that words are not my easiest medium right now.

Even working on the fiction projects I love — those have been more energy draining than life-giving right now. You might already know I’ve been working on revising a novel I wrote about a year ago. In the fall I started writing a new novel, but when we discovered my dad’s diagnosis, any energy I might have had to put towards that project fizzled out. I’ve tried to pick up these stories, put in some time moving them forward, but mostly they’ve sat quietly on the back burner.

Words escape me.

That’s where art journaling comes in.

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Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

In our two previous installments, I fear that I’ve minimized the impact or significance of this art journaling discovery.

Today I hope to clarify that.

First of all, I want to state for the record that I don’t fancy myself a painter. I can’t draw realistic objects very well — they come out flat or with the perspective wrong so they’re either stretched out too long or super stubby…or both at once.

Secondly, I want you to know that it doesn’t matter if I’m not a painter. It doesn’t matter if you’re not a painter. Art journaling is for anybody.

Because I’m a word-nerd who is struggling to find energy to put towards those words, art journaling has become a great way to tap into the creative stream without relying on language to convey meaning.

It has been a great relief to still scratch that creative itch but in a different form, one where colors, textures, shapes, and layers give “voice” to a feeling behind an idea.

Thirdly (aren’t we organized today with our linear points?), art journaling allows me to engage in active prayer conversation.

What the heck is that?

To be honest, I don’t exactly know. I made it up, although I’m sure there are a gazillion others who have articulated it better and practiced it ahead of me (Ignatius might qualify as one school of thought on this). What I know is that I feel that many times as I put paint onto the page, I am communing with God in a way I haven’t been able to in a more formal way.

Because I don’t know what to pray.

Because I know the Spirit prays when I don’t have the words. (Romans 8:28)

Because I’m scared to pray because I want my own way and have no assurances that I will get it.

Because trying to put words to the ever shifting waves of my brain and heart sounds like a monumental task that I’m just not up to right now.

And so, art journaling has become a way for me to move in prayer, contemplation, wrestling, meditation, and spiritual discovery, all while using a different non-verbal part of my brain.

Those are all fancy ways of saying that when I open up my art journal and get to work, God shows up. I don’t know how, I don’t know why. I just know that it has become a form of spiritual connection when words aren’t working for me. Time passes quickly as I experiment with different types of paints and goo to see what will happen. And in the midst of experimenting, there is a joy in creating and discovery, a joy in cultivating the spiritual connection that I deeply desire but for which traditional forms are falling flat right now.

Thanks for listening. I just didn’t feel I had done it justice yet. Art journaling is more than just playing around with watercolors, or dabbling with a new hobby, although there is an element of play and an element of learning something new. My art journal is helping sustain me through a challenging time, and is actually enriching my spiritual walk.

I’m becoming convinced it can do the same for other people as well.

Do you have a non-traditional activity that feeds your soul in times of dryness? Would you share it here, along with how you discovered it? I’d love to hear from you.

A New Type of Mischief, Part 1

17
Apr

Sometimes I dabble. I’ve been known to dabble. I’m dabble-y, a dabbler. Even though some people find their one thing and stick with it for years on end, I have a smattering of interests that come and go. Sometimes they don’t come back, or they return with a renewed intensity. Maybe it has to do with the barometric pressure??? Here are some examples of things that ebb and flow in my year.

Scrapbooking

Don’t stop reading. I know scrapbooking is a deal breaker for some people, but stay with me, okay?

Scrapbooking is interesting to me, and I want to record the lives of my children and family. It’s just that in order for me to really make pages I like, I have to drag out a bunch of stuff which I then have to put away. That’s no fun. In addition, I don’t really work in an organized fashion, so I have to play around with stuff and discover what I want to put together. That makes me a slooooow scrapper. That means I pull out all that stuff, only produce two pages, and have to put it away. Or, as is more often the case, I have hopes of finishing a couple more pages tomorrow, so I leave out the gear…and it sits on the table, getting in the way of everything, for the next two weeks.

I am finding solutions in a couple different approaches to scrapbooking so it doesn’t require quite so much effort/work. More on those another time.

Gardening

I love to work in the garden. I love flowers and dirt under my fingernails. I do not love nettles, Creeping Charlie or allergies. I also do not love sweat in my eyeballs.  And did I mention the weeds? Most times I start out strong, but fizzle out as the summer progresses and the humidity makes me drip just by throwing back my sheet in the morning. But the payoff of those flowers keeps me coming back.

Knitting

Maybe it was only implied above but I should mention my short attention span. I’m challenged by anything that requires more than a couple days of work or slow progress of any kind. There have to be a lot of built-in rewards and successes. You’ll never see me knit an entire sweater. You might see me finish one enormous mitten, but only one, since it would require too much work to fix the first one and plus, it is pointy like a stick and who wants to wear a pointy mitten anyway? (Can you tell I speak from experience?) It is also not nearly as much fun to knit in the summertime, so it is reserved for a winter activity.

Where’s Your Follow-through, Man — er, Woman?

Contrary to what you may think, I’m actually quite comfortable with my dabbling.

The few listed above are only a sampling of the things I’ve tried along the way (friendship bracelets, beaded safety-pins come to mind), and that’s okay.

These are all experiments with different types of creative expression.

Some of them are steps to build upon, some of them are ways to find out what things don’t work. It is easy to decide something is lame or outdated if you don’t have the context in which it was discovered or used. Each of these expressions have been tied to relationship in my life, often times a shared activity or an outgrowth from a friendship. Some of those friendships were tied to place, season of life, mutual interests or proximity. Those things changed over time, and that’s just part of the natural cycle of things.

Just because you try something, it doesn’t mean you have to go all-in, and it doesn’t mean you have to commit to that one thing with all your spare time for the rest of your life. I think pressure like that keeps people from trying new things.

Let’s talk about tennis. What if you wanted to try your hand at it? (I pick tennis but you could insert almost anything for this illustration.) Fun sport, you can play it with more than just one other person, good exercise, nice to be outside OR inside. What if you could only pick up a tennis racket if you were committed to the grueling training and match schedule that would make you become a competitive tennis champion. It’s champion or nothing. You’d probably resign yourself to watching it on TV — who has the time, talent and finances to commit what it takes to become a champion?

It’s a silly idea, of course, but it’s almost as if we place that level of expectation on ourselves when it comes to trying new things. We rule ourselves out because we think in order for it to be “worth it” we have to be as “good at it” as a professional or make that level of commitment. We limit ourselves before we even try.

Come Back on Monday

I’ve discovered a new kind of mischief that taps into a couple of my interests, and I think it has staying power. It combines my spiritual walk (or wrestling match, as the case may be), my love of words, and a chance to use images/color to convey ideas or emotions. It’s called art journaling — have you heard of it? I hadn’t, but I’ve stumbled into this whole other world of expression. I don’t claim to be any kind of expert, but I’m having fun and I can’t wait to tell you all about it. Here’s why I think you’ll like it:

  • You can’t do it wrong
  • If you try something and you don’t like it, you can keep going and transform it
  • Because you can’t do it wrong, you can release your perfectionist expectations
  • It taps into creative parts you didn’t know you had
  • You can discover an unconventional way of “doing devotions” or spending time investing in your spiritual side (if you choose to focus on that while working on your art journal)
  • It’s stinkin’ fun
 Did I Mention Come Back on Monday?

I wish I knew how to do fancy giveaways, because this blog could probably use some. Since I don’t know how, I think I’ll make my own rules about it. If you come back on Monday, you’ll get a chance to see a few samples of this new mischief, art journaling, and I’ll give away some “equipment” (which may be just a bottle of acrylic paint…but maybe something more!). I’ll hope to see you early next week!

In the meantime, I’d love to hear about fun activities you enjoy. Do you play a sport or make time to work on certain projects? Have you heard of art journaling or have any experience with it? Tell me everything! When you have some free time (“free” meaning you don’t have to be responsible and use it picking up groceries or running errands), how do you spend it?

Maybe we’re all undiscovered artists

11
Apr

If you ask me if I can paint, I’ll tell you no.

But it isn’t true.

Ask me if I’m an artist, I’ll shake my head.

But it isn’t true.

I see pictures in my mind, my eyes a camera to freeze the slant of light coming through my window, the odd placement of a torn shirt in treetop, the wind blowing through a cornfield, my daughter in a crazy self-picked outfit flying down the road on her bike.Smoke in light window

Bike pattern dots outside

My words describe these pictures in the stories I write, wrestle down that one feeling and pin it to the mat. Even in my conversations, the right word is important, and sometimes only a word-picture will convey the idea in my head.

YOU are an artist, you with your art classes, composition knowledge, knowing how to use and pronounce “gesso” (or even just knowing what it IS). I can’t be an artist. How presumptuous of me to even think I could be, in any medium, in any form.

Wait, though.

What if…?

If we strip away the mystery, the intimidation, the pressure to make something that looks like something else, the ideal of perfection, the definition of it being someone with one ear wearing a beret, we are all artists.

We’re just too fearful to pick up a brush.

Do you consider yourself an artist in any form of the word? Don’t dismiss this idea – sit with it for a minute. Many different things can be a form of art…you might be an artist and not even realize it.

This is a linkup with Lisa-jo Baker (http://lisajobaker.com) and Five Minute Friday. Check it out and you’ll see all sorts of different posts. These short posts on Fridays are a fun habit I’ve gotten into.

The guy on the Mat

10
Apr

Today I’m over at my friend Bethany’s site for her new series Sacred – the Dark and the Light. I’d love it if you’d come check it out. If you click this link, it should take you over to her site: http://bit.ly/1jwcsRx

Here’s a little sample to get you going…

There’s something about a cliché that makes my eye twitch.

…Maybe not literally, but you get the idea.

It’s the same with Christianese and those answers all neatly packaged that serve nothing except to shut down conversation. If I can shut you up with a tidy answer, then I don’t have to entertain your idea as valid. If I lift the drawbridge, then your issue with a certain doctrine or theology shall not pass.

Dontcha wanna come read more? Hope to see you there!

A reminder when we’re surrounded by dry bones

8
Apr

A valley of dry bones.

Decay

Death

Loss

A life broken down

Hot wind swirls the dust into the air, diffusing the sun, invading lungs. Any move to reposition, to turn your back to the wind shifts your uneven station. Try for stable footing and kick up more sand, amplifying desperate rasping cough. Pull your shirt over your mouth, try to filter out debris, find the good air. All around you are bones and little else, lifeless, evidence of the Final Destination.

////

The building didn’t excite me. I figured if I was going to visit another church, I should at least make it worth my time and do something different, but if the building was any indicator, I was walking into something that had a different name but was just the same ol’, same ol’.

People wore name tags.

The former pastor latched onto me and told me (three times — he’s getting on in years) the same four tidbits about his wife and about the woman playing the piano. He also hugged me, which made me wonder if he thought I was someone he knew instead of a complete stranger.

They had kneelers. We didn’t use them in this service, which both disappointed and relieved me.

The pastor wore a collar.

The guy who sat in front of me must have had some chips stashed in his pocket, Napoleon Dynamite style. The smell of cool ranch kept wafting back to me.

They passed the peace. They did numerous call and response-type readings. They did a Kyrie Eleison (and not down the road where I must travel). The congregation fully participated in the service, if only to pay attention and stand or sit as dictated by the bulletins in our hands.

Sun lit the huge stained glass window, which hadn’t been visible from where I had parked and entered the building. That window was a form of worship in itself, the way it painted bright color blotches on the wall and filled the whole room, all the way up to the soaring roof, with gentle light.

I didn’t expect to have any need met that morning. I just wanted a change of pace from the mega-church I attend, wanted a sense of rhythm and tradition. I wanted to be reminded that the Church is wide and the little mousehole I inhabit is not indicative of the mansion of faith expression.

I didn’t expect God to show up — I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on Him.

/////

Maybe it’s a normal passage used during the Lenten season.

Maybe it is dictated by church calendar or a book of the order of service that this denomination uses for all services.

Maybe it was a fluke.

That morning, I came to church having just worked through an art journal that focused on a passage in Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones.

[Let me just say, as a general rule, I don’t spend a lot of time in Ezekiel — or any of the minor prophets for that matter.]

Here, let me show you what came out of that attempt:

Dry Bones Flowers

So when the pastor (a woman, also something different (and refreshing) that you don’t see all the time) began her sermon and focused on Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones, my heart gave a start.

Why, out of all the entirety of the Bible, was she working from this text on the one and only time I’d ever stepped into her church?

/////

It is so easy to concern ourselves with the micro, the zoom-in, the close-up.  We get so focused on the inner workings of one system that we forget about the whole organism.

In terms of church, it is really easy for me to focus on evangelicalism. It’s what I know. It informs my worldview in ways I’m not even aware of. It’s the subculture I’ve lived in my whole life.  I can’t stress enough the ways this influences me without me meaning it to — it’s the same way you can’t hear your own accent when you’re around other people who have the same accent. Only when you are around someone with a different accent do you become aware that there are different ways of speaking…and you still think you don’t have an accent!

There have been so many hard things happening in the evangelical world and so many ways in which I feel like the entrance door keeps shrinking and shrinking, even for those who have been allowed in previously. There seems to be less and less room for conversation, less consideration of the conflicting sides of issues (without simply waiting until it is your turn to make your argument) and the merits of a differing conclusion, and suspicion about the true state of someone’s faith should they want to have these discussions. It is disheartening, demoralizing, and to be honest, it makes me want to crawl into bed for a month of Sundays.

This is why it is so essential to zoom out.

Stained Glass Window pews bones

Instagram: tclmn

As much as the evangelical church has a corner on the “right way” to believe, there are other, long-standing (longer-standing, in fact) expressions of faith. These are usually viewed with condescension in evangelical corners, or a raised eyebrow about the validity of the parishioner’s real relationship with God, but these non-evangelical congregations tap into something evangelicalism doesn’t — a sense of history, tradition, and world-wide connectedness. There is a whole history of church movements that I am largely ignorant of, and each movement has an arc — a rise and a diminishing — within the larger story of faith.

I don’t delude myself into thinking that all the answers are simply in a different denomination, something mainline or even non-Protestant (is there anything that is non-Protestant that isn’t Catholic???). I know enough about church life to know that the church, whatever church that is, is made up of humanly human people. There is no perfect church.

However, as a visitor, upon hearing the pastor preach on a fairly obscure verse that I had been focused on in the days leading up to that visit, I have to tell you that I was reminded of the size of God, of His movement and activity in places I will never know about, in people I’ll never encounter, in expressions I might not recognize at all.

God’s crazy like that.

And me, with all my angst and grappling and raging, I am just one dry bone that God breathed into and brought back to life. There is a whole valley around me, other bones God is working with, breathing into, bestowing His Spirit on. He is big enough to handle it.

Thank God for that.

What is your faith tradition? Does it satisfy your desires for expression of your faith? What are ways you incorporate your faith into daily life?