miss understood

so the waiting is on again. the waiting seems to always be on in my life in one respect or another. but as long as i don't scrape myself across the mental cheese grater, i'm fine.

as long as i don't pin my worth on some damn book, i'm fine. as long as i remember, it is well, it is well. it is all well, i am fine.

i read this bit in a book i'm reading on creativity, by matthew fox:

When Picasso painted Les demoiselles d'Avignon in 1907, it created such a stir among friends and foes alike that he did not display it publicly for several years. This painting, today considered a masterpiece and turning point in the history of art, brought fierce opposition down on Picasso. He comments on the importance of taking risks:

Painting is freedom. If you jump you might fall on the wrong side of the rope. But if you are not willing to take the risk of breaking your neck, what good is it? You don't jump at all. You have to wake people up. To revolutionize their way of identifying things. You've got to create images they won't accept.

Only two dealers showed interest in Picasso's work, and one of them commented:

What I'd like to make you realize at once is the incredible heroism of a man like Picasso, whose moral loneliness was, at the time, quite horrifying, for none of his painter friends had followed him. Everyone found that picture crazy or monstrous.

i have long thought picasso genius. his disjointed perspective was utterly new. something unknown before him. how did he persevere with a vision others could not grasp nor even consider? how did he press on?

how will i press on? is my work the stuff of genius? or madness? that is not for me to decide. but i take these my cues from the masters and create something, i believe, worthwhile. whether it is understood or not. for that is what we do, artists, poets, saints. we risk conveying our whole hearts and being crucified for it.

one quote more from fox:

Otto Rank spent his life counseling great artists, including Anais Nin and Henry Miller, defines the artist in terms of death when he says: 'The artist is one who wants to leave behind a gift.' 'Leave behind,' he says. Why does he say that? The artist is leaving us, exiting, and knows it. The artist is not in denial about death. Furthermore, the artist is not exiting quietly. No, the artist is leaving us with a memory, a memorial, a painting, or a song, or a symphony, or a poem or a dance or an insight--but not just any memory, memorial, painting, song, symphony, poem, dance or insight--but one that can be recognized as a gift. There is a blessing to this left behind thing; there is a goodness to it; it is a gift, not a curse; it is a gift not a neutral thing. And why a 'gift'? Why do we deserve a gift from every artist who leaves us? well, it is not what we deserve. It is not a gift to us, though it is a gift for us. The gift is life itself. The gift is a thank you to life. The gift is to the life-giver, and, as Rank dares to say, the gift is always to God.

my gifts, then, are to God. all of them. if people enjoy them along the way, so be it. i do not hang my hopes on the praise of men.

brunette goddess

all saints day. a new month, there is something immensely gratifying about ripping that lined out calendar page off and seeing the whole month before me. unmarked. though there is a lot coming up, it is nice to see it out there on the horizon.

listening to a tape on happiness,

thought structures,

dr. carlson says,

are like movies. separate entities, not reality. to contemplate them is about as beneficial as contemplating static on the tv.

hmm. you know how much time i've wasted analyzing my thoughts. too much.

thoughts, are like steering wheels,

he says,

an angry thought precedes angry feelings. low thoughts precede low feelings.

and he repeats,

low moods happen, learn not to make life altering decisions during them or take them too seriously.

if you find yourself repeating similar circumstances, it is because of a construct of thoughts which are reinforced by your experience.

he says

we will actually ignore (not necessarily intentionally) evidence contrary to our thought structures and lay hold only of the evidence which supports our thought structures.

wow. my girl listening along with me yesterday said,

you are putting me in a low mood by talking to me that way.

that's not what he means,

i tell her. but i'm glad she is listening and hearing what the good doctor is saying.

i still have no answers. perhaps fewer than before. but this one certainty. God is Sovereign. that is it all for me. i know and understand nothing else.

i'm ready for an overhaul in my voice though, my thought processes and structure. i can't wait for tomorrow because today is so damn good.

some of the joyous words i've incorporated onto my artist's collage:

best of you
wonders
dreams do come true...
the true magic of forests is that even when you leave them, you never really do.
YES (i've waited so long, YEARS, to find that word. it should be used more in advertising)
lovely on the inside
helping others gives success true meaning
believe in happy endings
self-confidence
positivity
brunette goddess
brunettes do it better (ha!)
warriors
the style of your life
fighter
dream wildly and wait for the magic to happen
brush with greatness (i do this all the time)
remember what's good
always stylish. always beautiful.

and on and on it goes. finding joy. finding empowering language to hang my thoughts upon. yes, that is what it is all about.

by design.

today after service we were treated to bach's tocatta and fugue in d minor. what a blessing it is to find/hear art in the church. i sit there in awe of the bounty around me. and while it is not perfect, as there is no perfection apart from God, it is a joy, nevertheless.

the pews are still full of flawed folk. i still read through the sermons. today roethke kept me romping through snowbanks and thinking of tom cat entrails.

i've never heard the organ actually played. i've always only heard it banged on to get through a hymn. but to hear it opened up and do what it was designed to do, that inspires me.

have i opened up myself to create the way i was created to create. have i begun performing at the level of my design. if not now, then when? when and what will it take to coax that song from my fingertips. to call forth the work i was created to pen?

i think more and more that each moment is the fullness of life. each meal a gift. each shirt ironed (yes, i'm ironing now, and there is something zen about it), meaningful.

though i do not possess the understanding of all these things just yet, i can experience them and let them enlighten me. speak to me. reveal themselves to me.

the darkness, i've come to understand, is part of my warp and woof. i'm a tweed, perhaps pink with dark chocolate threads coursing through. woven in by the Master for His good pleasure. i will now, cease searching for an end to the darkness, but not go there (i never go there) intentionally.

when i am in darkness, i will learn the lessons of darkness. pen the works that others cannot. and bring them back with me to the light.

when i am in the light, i will ever remain tender to those who cannot find their way into the light. this is my purpose, i am sure of it.

use the gifts He's given. bless those around you.
as i will try to do as well.

amazing.

there is nothing quite like having someone understand your voice. to hear its tones and help you sing (or write) with greater clarity.

now, this side of it, having some bit of affirmation, i wonder, what was i afraid of? when i turned in my manuscripts, i was certain they were the best i could do, but i guess i wondered if it would be enough. i've come very far in my writing journey, is it far enough? do i need to keep putting distance between me and the writer i was when i first began?

sure. we all do. growing is a journey not a destination. but i was not sure, i've never been sure what i have to say and how i say it will be received. much less appreciated.

but i finally have word on my manuscripts, that word is

amazing.

and i rejoice. rejoice. and again i say rejoice.

it does not change anything other than the next step. it encourages me that this long road will actually lead somewhere. though i guess all roads lead somewhere, but the somewhere of publication is the mecca for all writers, no?

then i read this line by emily dickinson,

publication is the auction of the mind

and i check myself again.

do i want it? do i want to let this go from my hands (though it is all ready gone from my hands to the hands of one i trust, but he cannot--no one can, if anyone could, he would i'm sure--promise me it will be what i intended it to be). perhaps it will become something more than i planned and imagined, if i listen. if i let this trust guide me. if i yield to his wisdom.

the letting go of a book is a precarious thing. who knows what the marketers will say. who knows if anyone else will see value in it. i cannot do anything other than hope my voice will find a place in the marketplace. that i will be heard. and that what i have to say will be redemptive. and liberating. and invigorating. and that how i say it will be enlightening. perhaps even stimulating.

in all things may God guide me and give my editor wisdom and grace to deal with me. i can be as unruly as my hair on a misty day (frizz city). i know this. but i am trying to behave.

praise be to God.

betraying words

sometimes the words betray me. truth is too true, even for me to stomach. and i ache at the sound of it. a truth came like this to me yesterday, i wrote it and carried the pain of it with me. i had to leave the house, and that, at times is difficult for me, an exertion of great proportions. i have very little time here to just be still and silent. without having to go out.

so yesterday's words came. on the heels of previous pain. and i realized, i haven't much of a capacity, a vocabulary for joy. to describe it. to enter into it, to convey it. is that because i do not know it. i do not want to know it. or is it because i just have not studied it as i've studies so many other things and found their dedicated language familiar and incorporated it.

so i will study joy. as i set out to do this year. i have found some here and there, but i didn't realize until now, how lacking, deficient my ability without the words. where do i find them? i'm not really sure. i just have to look. and take them into me like so many words before them. like all the dark words that resound in me. like all the painful words and honesty that i so easily speak.

and then, someday, like acquiring a taste for a foreign food, i will hunger for it. i will mix up little biscuits and offer them to the hungry. i will have words to exhort one to joy, not merely from pain.

my words betray me. but not all betrayals are without merit. some are essential. crucial. necessary. some betrayals redeem.

the gift of strangers

listening to a juliard pianist on sunday, i was sitting in the front row (it was quite a dilemma for me, i couldn't see out the windows if i sat in the back--though that is where i prefer to sit. the view demanded i sit up front).

i had my head down most of the time writing, a lap desk with my journal splayed open, a roethke poetry book, the program. at intermission, a lady walks up and says

are you an artist?

i'm a poet.

looking up with a smile at being asked the very question i ask others.

your presence is amazing. i could tell. do you have any poetry with you?

as you know, i always do, but i happened to have copies of three poems i was going to give to the pianist who invited me to the concert.

here, read these if you'd like.

really?

she said, and took her reading glasses out, slipped them on and sat in the seat beside me.

you have a strong voice.

she said.

i've fought hard for that voice.

good,

she said. then asked me to read her a poem.

now? are you serious?

yes,

she said.

so i did. read it outloud right there in the front row during intermission.

do you have a poetry book? i'd like to buy one.

i'm not published yet. i'm on the cusp though.

good, where can i hear you read?

i gave her my information and where to hear me as i host a poetry roundtable in a nearby town.

she told me she writes poetry, too.

send me some of yours,

i said.

i'd love to read it.

it was a pleasure meeting you.

she said, and shook my hand.

likewise.

the gift of strangers is this, they don't know squat about the bad week you've had. they don't care. they don't know if they are grasping at straws, though the way i dress, it ain't hard to peg me as an artist. but the woman was genuine and i needed to hear it. i needed to be reminded that i have a calling and purpose. that my gifting may not be for the church. or even for my friends. but for strangers.

and i must find a way to get my works to them. to let my voice be heard.

speak, i will listen.

sometimes, God speaks.
sometimes, i can hear Him.
sometimes, i remember why I love Him.

the Processional Hymn from service today:

Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing
Words: Robert Robinson, 1758
Music: "Nettleton" John Wyeth, 1813

1. Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it, mount of Thy redeeming love.

2. Here I raise my Ebenezer; here by Thy great help I've come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.

3. O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above.


The Gradual Hymn:

I love thee, Lord, but not because

I love thee, Lord, but not because
I hope for heaven thereby,
nor yet for fear that loving not
I might for ever die;

but for that thou didst all the world
upon the cross embrace;
for us didst bear the nails and spear,
and manifold disgrace,

and griefs and torments numberless,
and sweat of agony;
e'en death itself; and all for one
who was thine enemy.

Then why, most loving Jesus Christ,
should I not love thee well,
not for the sake of winning heaven,
nor any fear of hell;

not with the hope of gaining aught,
nor seeking a reward;
but as thyself hast loved me,
O ever loving Lord!

E'en so I love thee, and will love,
and in thy praise will sing,
solely because thou art my God
and my eternal King.


Words: Spanish, seventeenth century;
trans. Edward Caswall (1814-1878);
adapt. Percy Dearmer (1867-1936), alt.
Music: St. Fulbert
Meter: CM



The Offeratory Hymn:

THERE IS A BALM IN GILEAD


“Go up to Gilead and take balm.” Jeremiah 46:11

Words & Music: Af­ri­can-Amer­i­can spir­it­u­al (MI­DI, score).


There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.

Some times I feel discouraged,
And think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.

If you can’t preach like Peter,
If you can’t pray like Paul,
Just tell the love of Jesus,
And say He died for all.

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin sick soul.




...

amen