This December I’m on a hunt for truth and beauty. Not the bendable truths and digitalized beauty of the world today, but truth seen through the filter of God’s word and beauty that reveals a hint of God’s everlasting glory. A friend recently said, “I want to learn to see. In art and in life, I want to look for God moving through the background.”
I’ve lived on a particular kind of beauty and truth these last many years, often wrapped in a cloak of painful situations. Certainly God’s love has been revealed throughout that time and in that revelation there has been beauty, but my soul desperately needs to notice some other aspects. These have more to do with sunsets dipped in apricots hues and the pure, ringing laughter of a four-year old, both reflections of God’s truth and beauty.
Not only do I want to seek them out, I want to share them as well; with my children, with you, and many people I know who sit in an all too familiar darkness. The darkness we see is not darkness to God and He calls us to be be windows of His light, so others can see a glimpse of His glory.
Here’s a beautiful poem crafted with the truth that our Savior left his throne and came down to a smelly, sweaty stable for you and for me.
by Luci Shaw
Blue Homespun and the bend of my breast
keep warm this small hot naked star
fallen into my arms. (Rest…
you who have had so far to come.)
Now nearness satisfies
the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps
whose eyelids have not closed before.
His breath (so slight it seems
no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps
to sprout a world. Charmed by doves’s voices,
the whisper of straw, he dreams,
hearing no music from his other spheres.
Breath, mouth, ears, eyes,
he is curtailed who overflowed all skies,
all years. Older than eternity, now
he is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed
to my poor planet, caught
that I might be free, blind in my womb
to know my darkness ended,
brought to this birth for me to be new-born,
and for him to see me mended,
I must see him torn.
(I’m thankful to the friend that brought me to Luci Shaw’s poetry this summer. This poem came from a book called “Accompanied by Angels: Poems of the Incarnation”, a great read for this month.)No comments
(spoiler alert: major plot points of Jane Eyre are revealed in this post)
I re-read books.
I love to re-read books.
There are some books that have been such intimate friends over the years that I can pull one off of the shelf, open it to any page, and be transported to the world of my favorite character, the colors and details as vivid as a movie playing on a screen.
Sometimes I read selfishly, savoring the first half of the book, the build, the love story when the love is still new and unblemished, when the characters are still true to themselves and each other, and then I stop.
I stop before time travel moves from excitement to terrifying for Henry and Clare in the Time Traveler’s Wife. I click off my book light before Jane Eyre leaves Mr. Rochester and spends months in pain instead of newfound joy.
And then I flip to the end. I have the right to do it, I’ve already read the book a dozen times, suffered with her, I’ve earned the right to skip if I want to.
But the end is never as exhilarating if I skip the hard parts.
The first time I walked with Jane toward Mr. Rochester when they finally meet again-well, there weren’t any words for that moment. Together we’d chosen starvation over sin and then faced the temptation to forsake our hearts altogether for a life and marriage without love. I might smile and nod happily when I skip those parts and turn to the last chapter, but take away the hard parts and where’s the story that stole my heart to begin with?
I’ve begun to see my own story in the same way. What is my story without this middle part?
I spend a lot of time running away from pain, either present pain, or past pain, anxious to get to “the good part”. But when I look back at my story of 34 years, which parts do I skip? The past that I once wished to leave closed, present chapters included, are all intricately connected. Events, moments of impact that once (and sometimes still) cause me to cry out, “Why?”, don’t make any sense as individual stories.
When I look back now those collection of moments resemble the Extreme Dot to Dot that my 11-year-old finished last week. 636 dizzying dots that eventually revealed a complete picture. I don’t know the number of days of my life so I don’t know how many dots are left to connect, but enough to know that God’s plan has been purposeful, not one extraneous dot in this book. Each moment has brought me a little more faith, trust, love, and hope, sometimes while the pain is fresh, sometimes later.
“You cannot amuptate your history from your destiny..my past is something Jesus takes hold of and makes into a destiny. That’s called redemption.”
While reading someone else’s painful story this week, I felt challenged to be a steward of my story, instead of running from it. As I read Mary Beth Chapman’s book about the accidental death of her 5-year-old daughter, she spoke of God making her and her whole family a steward of their story. What an amazing response to the pain allowed into their life (deeper pain than I’ve ever experienced). And they have done just that, through their lives, through their books, through their music, through their ministry. They didn’t hide, they opened their story to the world, their whole story.
Stories, both real and fictional, don’t make sense without the hard parts.
What story has God made you a steward of?
Last friday night we sat in the booth at Panera, just me, my husband and our four-year old, while the big kids were busy at parties and youth events. The soup bowl lay empty, the dishes shoved aside, while we tried out a drawing game I’d recently seen in one of my new favorite art books for kids.
How to play:
The first person draws a head and neck (animal, human, fantastical) while the other players look away. The player folds down the paper until only the tip of the necklines are showing and passes the paper to the next player.
The next player keeps the top section folded and draws the middle body section down to the waist while the others look away. The player folds the paper to cover the section, leaving only a tiny bit of the waist lines showing and passes the paper to the last player.
Keeping the paper folded, the last player draws in the legs and feet and then turns the paper and then unfolds all of the sections for the big reveal.
This was a game full of fun surprises and our four-year old had no trouble keeping up!
If we had more than one pencil, we could have kept three papers rotating at one time, but we didn’t, so we finished one drawing before creating the next one.
This is an easy game to play while waiting in the car, around the table at a restaurant, or part of a family fun night. If you have more than three players, you can start two or more teams.
Happy Art-ing,Aimee No comments
For those of you who have been to Hutchmoot, I hope this bit of verse glimpses a familiar moment, even if your moment happened in a different seat with a different set of characters.
My pencil records that
which should not be forgotten
as another quote takes its place
in the cramped apartment of my brain.
I shift and shove furniture around,
wondering where to put all the guests,
while my hand scribbles on and on.
By the time the bell rings,
my head is heavy with new occupants,
and I navigate the crowds, avoiding questions.
How was your session?
people are eager to ask me,
but Dillard is still unpacking,
while Chesterton fixes a cup of tea,
and Plato sits in the corner sulking
at his motley crew of flat mates.
Lewis and Rawlings are
fighting over who gets the
window seat for supper and this
din of musical chairs,
has left me breathless and dumb.
Arriving at my bench I invite
the time-traveling tenants
into the wide-open stretch
and they heed my call,
climbing out onto tree limbs
reclining on slides and swings,
giving us all a little room to breathe.
Later, when it’s time to
collect my thoughts,
now dusted with earth,
October leaves askew in L’Engle’s hair,
I notice they’ve settled in nicely,
clearing space just in time
to make room for the residents,
of the post-lunch session.
Rabbits, any suggestions for a title?
Almost immediately after I wrote my last post, I wondered if it might sound too idealistic to some of you: the family gathered together around the table, savoring the process of making art. You’re thinking of the many art times at your house that have involved a serious level of ugly-crying (both you and the kids) and you’re a little annoyed that I’m suggesting something different happens at my house.
How Art Looks at Our House, Sometimes
That morning we did have a great time, there were no tears, no crumpled papers, no “I’m not good at art” moments. But we’ve had plenty of those moments, too. I have one daughter who is a perfectionist and she can get very intense when she works on an art assignment (picture a creature from Poltergeist). I have another daughter who is quick to doubt herself and she often has to walk (stomp) away from her work for thirty minutes and approach it with a fresh perspective. ”I can’t do it!” is most often heard from my son, who’s been watching his sisters draw since he came out of the womb.
Give Me Product, Not Process
In addition, I’m aware that I can be a product-led mama. I like things to look good with a capital “G”. I loved having an art show last year to display our family’s art work. But that part of my personality can sometimes lead me astray. I can end up framing the twelve-year old’s work, while tacking my four-year old’s art to the refrigerator, sending the younger child a silent message “Come back later when you’ve got some ‘real’ art”. When my twelve-year old was four, everything she touched with paint was as beautiful to me as a picture in a gallery. My, how expectations can rise.
Exploring Versus Mastering
Why, then, were we all relaxed during our last art session? The project was open-ended. It was about exploring rather than mastering. We’ve done a few of these projects lately, inspired from a book called The Artful Parent by Jean Van’t Hul. It’s a book that I checked out with my four-year old in mind, but it’s got all of us, ages four to thirty-six, following the scent of art to the kitchen table.
We need to play with art. We need to dip a lego brick into paint and put it to our paper without any pressure to produce something worth showing. We need to dip a q-tip in paint and see if we can create a face or a tree out of dots and then laugh if the face looks like a person with measles. Or possibly, like my son, we need to get a rubber ball and see how it works as a bouncing paintbrush.
A Little of Both
Now that some of my kids are older, we’ve leaned toward a focus on art projects that develop skills. That type of goal-oriented work has produced some great art and I enjoy seeing the skills show up in the sketch books and projects they do on their own. But there is a place for both kinds of projects. A child (or an adult) most likely won’t want to do the skill-focused projects if he hasn’t first experienced the exhilaration of making something with his hands, and continued to re-visit that freedom and joy.
Isn’t it true for many areas that combine skill and creativity? Think of the hard-working ballerina who also loves to dance to the Beatles in her living room. Or the classically-trained guitarist who plays in a Rockabilly band on Friday nights. We need to allow our children to play with art, and we need to play right along with them.
If art times are stressful at your house, take a look at what type of projects you’ve been doing. Do you need to put away the “how to draw” books for a a little while? You might need to examine your own attitude toward art. If you regularly announce to your kids “I can’t draw” or “I can’t paint” then don’t expect them to have a brave attitude toward art. Do you send a message of product over having fun? Try a different approach this week.
Here’s to a great week of art!
An artist who keeps these elements of playfulness and skill-building in balance is Carla Sonheim. She has two online classes coming up and I highly recommend you sign up for one and do it with your kids.
I cover the table with plastic bags, set out the paint trays and the paint shirts.
“Are we going to do art Mommy?!” asks the 4-year old.
We’re the only ones in the kitchen while the other kids are laboring away at grammar exercises and studying science.
“Yes, we’re doing art, Goose.”
The 8-year old instantly appears in the kitchen and says, “What are you doing?”
“We’re doing art,” replies the 4-year old.
He looks at the collection of Legos, cookie cutters, and other odd bits I’ve amassed on the table beside the paint I’m squirting into trays.
“I want to do it,” he announces and dons a paint shirt.
Seconds later his 10-year old sister arrives, “Do what?”
“Art,” answers her brother.
“I want to do it, too!” she says as she grabs another shirt.
Then, like a child sniffing cookies fresh from the oven, my 12-year old follows the scent of art and claims her chair, too.
“I’d rather do art than science tests any day!” she announces.
For the next forty-five minutes we dip, mix, stamp, and admire.
Each of the kids have the same bits and baubles to work with, the same colors of paint, the same white piece of cardstock, and yet not one piece of art matches the one next to it. Piece after piece, the floor and the top of the washing machine are now covered with drying art, each a representation of the very unique being who created it.
Our breathing and minds are loose, we are doing something we are meant to do. Sure, the other tasks are waiting (and they will mostly get done) but what a gift to start here.
Next month I turn thirty-six and I find it uncomfortable to be stretching beyond my world of mamahood. If you’re thirty-six and you’ve been a professional of some type and now you’re about to jump into the deep end of parenthood, it’s probably a similar feeling. It’s less to do with my current area of knowledge and experience and more the growing pains of learning something new.
In my case, I’m not an expert parent, but having been a parent for twelve years I’m pretty familiar with the aspects of my little world. Though I might still occasionaly look at another mama and think, “Hmm, she seems to do that part of parenting better than me,” the thought doesn’t rock my world me because over the years I’ve gotten used to having inadequacies and I know I will continue to have them forever.
Amongst my mama friends, I’m “the artsy friend”. I have one other mama friend who enjoys writing and a few mama friends that spend time drawing and painting. Through the years I’ve thought of myself as an artist of some sort-the writer part of me, the part of me that wants to create something with my hands and somehow reflect out, an inner part of my heart. Maybe months passed between endeavors, but the essence of “artist” remained.
As I’ve spent time in the last year with writers and musicians who work at their craft as a full time job and lifestyle, the gap between myself and Artist/Writer seems to have grown exponentially. Now, many of you are my friends, so you’re going to try to protest what I’m saying or it might sound as if I’m putting myself down in some way, but that’s not my goal. Most of you would agree that someone who works at a craft sporadically and “when the inspirations strikes” will not be nearly as developed as someone who has put in the hours (many hours) daily, for more years than I have been a parent. And so we’ve arrived at the gap.
As I’ve stepped off the edge into the gap it’s become very clear to me that improving as an artist requires self-discipline. It seems an obvious statement, but my relationship to art has been “when I can fit it in”, so to face the wall of self-discipline in this area is new and hard. Self-discipline has never been a strong character trait of mine, it certainly wasn’t present in school and I haven’t had to sharpen it too much over the years. That’s not entirely true, self-discipline is absolutely a requirement in Mamaland, but it looks different than the shade of discipline I’m trying to muster at the moment. Right now it’s a floppy, ignored muscle and I’m asking myself if I have what it takes to develop it.
Can I write every day, not just when I feel like it? What about the long days, the days with unexpected circumstances? Oh wait, almost all days as a parent fit that description. I’m trying to find a way to bridge the gap between myself and the artists I’ve spent time with in the last year, not for the sake of self-promotion, but to be excellent at the passions that have simmered in my heart most of my life. But the truth is that no one is going to tell me to sit down and write five hundred words or create something with my hands. It’s not anyone else’s job, it should come from me.
Most of my questions about myself and self-discipline remain unanswered. The starting place I’ve found is humility. In this world beyond the borders of Mamaland I’m not “the artsy friend”, I’m the amateur. Accepting that I’m in these early stages of development feels crucial to calling out for help and for putting the hours in to grow. I need to strengthen my writing muscles the same way I did my parenting muscles, one day at a time.No comments
I’m usually in the middle of a sentence when it happens.
My ten-year-old and I are discussing a math lesson gone bad.
“You know when you’re this frustrated, you can’t process the assignment anymore, you need to find a way out of the frustration first-”
Her face is red, her tears fresh.
I open my mouth to continue. I close it.
When did I last demonstrate a healthy way to deal with frustration? I should really tuck that away and think about that later, I tell myself.
Here’s another recent scenario:
“Your biggest challenge in the next few years will be to find out who God made you to be. You, Mookie. Instead of worrying about what other people think, or trying to please and impress the kids around you.”
“I know,” she answers, with an understanding groan that confirms this is a regular struggle for her.
I open my mouth to continue. I close it.
Don’t I still deal with that all the time? Didn’t I recently get to know a new community and feel the urge to prove myself and say the right things to show I’m a person who has something to offer? I daily choose between moving toward the person God made me to or losing myself to comparison.
A third scenario:
“You’re beautiful just the way you are.”
“I just wish I were different that I am,” my daughter answers honestly.
I open my mouth to continue, I close it.
How do I view myself every time I look in the mirror? Do I see beauty or flaws?
When I try to teach a lesson
Usually when I’m attempting to teach my children life lessons, I interrupt myself, thinking, “Hey, that’s a good point, I should really work on that myself.” It can be disheartening because I think a Mama should dole out the principles both in word and by example.
So what’s a Mama to do?
I feel like a mama caterpillar trying to teach a baby caterpillar how to turn into a butterfly while I’m still in a chrysalis, still in the midst of being transformed. How do I teach about transformation when I’m still in the middle of it? Do I stop instructing because I’m still learning and making mistakes? Or does the knowledge that I still need growth even as an adult, lead me toward grace toward myself and my kids?
As I think about it, that’s exactly what God offers in the Bible. ”No one should sin….but when he does sin, Jesus will be there to understand, comfort, forgive, and again, instruct.” Forgive and instruct, forgive and instruct, it’s a cycle that lasts an entire life, for each of us, no matter how many gray hairs we’ve acquired.
A whopping clue came when my friend asked me, “So who are your favorite poets? Who are you reading right now?” I calmly explained that I wasn’t reading poetry because I wasn’t writing poetry because I was just “writing however it came out”.
Once I accepted that the form of my pieces did fall under the heading of poetry, and once I started reading poetry, I realized how far my apple fell from the wind-sculpted tree. Last week, as I found my intended thoughts slipping through the lines of my poems, I decided to vent my frustration by, of course, writing some poetry about those feelings.
Here are two poems about writing poetry.
A Better Way to Poem
There’s something I want to tell you,
but with every new draft
the words twist themselves
into a puzzle that I can’t solve.
If only I had Dumbledore’s Pensieve
and could pull my thoughts
into a thin, blue whisper of smoke
and swirl them into the stone basin.
Then you could place your face in my poem
and sitting in a blue chintz chair,
Dear Final Draft
I liked you better
the first time I wrote you,
with your dangling participles
and your mixed metaphors,
at least we understood each other then.
Now you’ve grown distant
with your fancy synonyms,
too good for me with your verses
purring like Milton and Yeats,
instead of stumbling over syntax,
waiting for my help.
It may be true
that you don’t need me anymore,
but I’ll never forget when
I was the romantic poet,
and you were my first draft.
“I know a Pretend Mama,” announced the four-year-old over peach pie and ice cream.
“Who is a Pretend Mama?” I asked, wondering what in the world sparked this thought.
Pointing to me with a sticky finger and a smile, “You are,” she answered.
“Me?” I queried back, momentarily stumped.
“Yep,” said this pint-sized daughter of mine as she arranged another spoonful of ice-cream and peaches.
I couldn’t help myself. “Then who is the Real Mama?” I asked in a casual voice, hoping it didn’t betray my keen interest in the answer.
Again the sticky finger pointed at me, “You,” she confirmed, unaware, it seemed, of the catch-22 she’d just created. If I was the Pretend mama, I could not, in fact, be the Real Mama. And if I was the Real Mama, I could not possibly be the Pretend Mama. Further investigation seemed necessary.
“So I’m the Pretend Mama and the Real mama?” she nodded, her attention, at this point, narrowing toward her bowl. “But how can I be both?”
With the confidence of Ann Landers answering the great problems of the world in a few paragraphs, she explained, “You’re a mixed-up Mama.”
I waited a few moments for further explanation but she seemed to be done with this session of psychoanalysis, so I left her to the last soupy bites of ice cream.
How did she know, I wondered?
Do they all know, I pondered further?
Maybe the fact that I am both a Pretend and Real Mama is the white elephant in the room that we lift up and dust under on chore days. Maybe we’ve all silently agreed that it will be our little secret.No comments