The Unforced Rhythms of Grace

I'm sitting alone feeling lonely. Revelation. How is it that I used to love being alone and now that I have so much freedom in which to bathe I want interaction, friendship, and intimate conversation? I am frustrated with myself. We make our own decisions in life, but I'm struggling with finding the paths I've imagined in my dreams.

If I could take a magic "happy pill" right now, I would--but wait. They have those. They're called "drugs." And they simply numb reality or charge happiness from tomorrow to today. Not gonna work.

Change is like dragging a sack of rocks around each day with the hope of one of them falling out. Or could it be that I have traded one sack of rocks for another. "Come to me, for my burden is light." Okay Jesus, here's the sack. Help me with that lighter burden. Somehow I must be taking on more than I should, because it doesn't feel light. What can I let go of? Finances? Friendship? Art? Vanity? I think you are prying my hands open to let go of all of it. Or maybe not prying--maybe simply reaching towards me and asking me to release those weights I hold so tightly.

And so I post this photo, which I took today on a simple rail, carved by someone, probably a teenage, who believed in love. I wonder where they are and if they still do.

Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

Painting Lonliness

I think everyone can picture the image of Munch's famous painting, "The Scream." It is not pretty, nor a thing of technical expertise, but people connect with it. Today and many days before, I have felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. No regrets about my choices that put me here, but a yearning to connect with someone who cares squeezes my heart.

I went to church last Sunday, arriving just after first service so I could talk with someone, meet someone. I smiled at folks, tried sitting at a table by myself and looking welcoming, lingered at the information center and when that failed, went down the road for coffee. There a young lady stopped and complemented me on my outfit. I had to hide the tears that came so quickly. Determining to give the church a second try, I returned and really put myself out the second time. I saw two men sitting with a small stack of books that looked compelling. Asking if I could see them, I tried to engage in conversation. When I shared that I was questioning some things I had always taken for granted, one man asked if I was a new Christian--not kindly, but sort of disdainfully. When I told him "no," I had been one for 40 years, he launched into a diatribe against environmentalist. Hello? I asked if they had any groups that discussed apologetics. One man said that was too complicated for him. My legs tired as the second told me how knowledgeable he was about the subject, but didn't need to go there because the Spirit would do the work. I squatted next to them as he continued. Neither man ever offered to get me a chair. I eventually left.

How is it that the world has kindness and compassion mastered better than so many Christians? A cookie. A complement. A simple act of kindness. So,
back to the portrayal. I have a vision of what to paint, but can I do it? Maybe this is why I have been chosen to feel these hard things--so I can put a visual on pain and we can each connect with our own internal screams.

Nesting

Well, I actually touched my art supplies today--They were in the way of gym equipment I need to sell, which is currently residing in my studio-to-be. As I fussed with rearranging boxes, unpacking, and throwing out, it reminded me of getting ready childbirth. There was this nesting obsession that occurred immediately preceeding the "big event." Before my daughter was born I planted the entire garden (which was huge). When I had birth pangs with my youngest son, I got up at 2am and washed the floors of the whole house. Odd. Instinctual. But readiness.

Something is about to announce itself, I can feel it. So instead of condemning myself for not actually creating again, I am accepting that this is part of the process--the gestation of a painting.

Getting "Through" Instead of Getting "Past"

Sleep holds some answers when we slip into that subconscious fall. Instead of being sweet escape tonight, images, doors, even computer icons swirled in my head. I woke, chasing after their elusive tails and I believe I caught one or two of the little troublemakers. Writing my thoughts down, it dawned on me that rather getting "past" my pain so I could get "to" my art, I need to use my art to get "through." Through the grief. The pain. The confusion. The loss. All those emotions are clogging up my art pathway, and haven't artists used their art to express those very things for years? My hope is they would be ever lightening as I brush my journey, instead of ever darkening as they were for Van Gogh.

To Paint Again

I've just rediscovered my blog...Between then and now I've 1) Had 7 surgeries, 2) Been a caregiver for my mom until her death in Sept. 2010, 3) Started and almost finished divorce proceedings (after 30 years of marriage), and 4) Moved to Bend, Oregon to begin a new life. Chapter 2. Sigh. But I haven't painted---Me! The one who has always coached everyone else to paint. I can hear my teacher Harley Brown saying "Make the first stroke." I need to move a mountain of boxes out of the way to find my art materials. It's a season, and something in my heart lies dormant. Is there too much hurt in the way? I want to start...then all of a sudden sleep sounds very good. I post this to keep myself accountable. As I paint, I'll display the results. Come along for the ride.