If there were plaques given monthly for the employee with the most golden stars, Callie's would be the face plastered all over the wall in the hallway next to the public restrooms, right around the corner from the customer service desk. All the other employees should be jealous. Everything she does she does well. If it's guarding the out of doors, she does it with panache; if it's resting, she's in the coolest spot in the house splayed out on the tile in the kitchen in the middle of everyone's feet; if it's displaying happiness, she has the toothiest, most satisfying dog smile you've ever seen; if playful, she loopdeeloops the front room to the hallway to the kitchen with the best of 'em, pausing in pounce mode occasionally just to make sure you're still watching.
But when it comes to begging, Callie is the most dedicated of all her colleagues. Incredibly patient in her strategy, she'll calmly sit directly before you with the most serene, expectant expression, vacillating her gaze between you, the eater, and the food she wishes would be shared. She will eventually scoot ever so much closer to you, but at the speed of a tortoise, so that you've hardly noticed until it's almost too late. Once you have noticed, however, if you tell her to take two steps back she'll remove her gaze from the food she was so close to scoring and look you in the eyes while taking exactly two steps back. Very innocent, very endearing, very Callie.
Callie used to have actual competition in the house. Sisters from the same litter, Maggie and Callie were threatened with death by drowning in a river in the mass grave of a farmer's sack. My mom's friend couldn't stand to let her brother-in-law do such a thing so she drove across the state to rescue a dozen great pyrenees/blue heeler puppies. The result was a sea of fluff-balls in our front lawn in Oklahoma, adults and children corralling canines in a circle, giggles escaping our throats, our faces plastered with smiles as big as the river from which the pups had escaped. The task to choose only one was met with the opposition of four children each with a heart inclined toward a different puppy. Parental compromise was made and the 4K's were allowed to keep the puppy of their choosing for a group trial period, the end of which would result in three broken-hearted youngsters and one chosen family pet. We went to sleep that night with four yippy voices in the garage and four pleading voices in the house: "Why must they stay out there? Can't you hear them? They're so sad!" Our cold-hearted parents were adamant, but I had the privilege of seeing their wisdom as I push-broomed heaps of infant dog poo out the garage door the next morning.
At the end of the trial period, no one could settle on a fair choice, so Dad wrote descriptions of the puppies on pieces of paper and drew one description out of a hat. This was how Callie came to be ours. A perfect mixture of the two breeds, her fur was calico and she was of a medium build. In the next few months we learned that she enjoyed corners and squeezing into the under sides of furniture. We were riveted as her little legs grew and she learned how to climb the stairs. She. Was. Adorable.
It was then that a wrench was thrown into Callie's serene existence. A new dog. A visiting dog. Her sister. Not amidst the heap of fluff that afternoon in our front yard, Maggie had been kept by her rescuer, with the intention of serving as a companion to a full-grown pyrenees... and a cat. But the cat wasn't consulted in this decision nor was it keen on this idea. As most cats are want to do, cat had to demonstrate its level of hierarchy, and Maggie's eye quickly learned to what extent that cat disdained her new 'companion' (read: competition, or, servant). A smaller puppy only served as batting practice for her swinging paws. I don't remember how long we kept Maggie while her family was out of town, but during that time we bonded over administering medicine to her wounded eye and lots of comforting pets. Callie and Maggie also bonded and she quickly seemed like part of the family. I remember attempting to withhold my love, because she wasn't promised to be mine, but when her family returned they asked if we wanted to keep her. From that moment on Maggie was mine.
More pyrenees in build and shape, Maggie had longer black hair, a beautiful curly tail, and the most beautiful white socks with black spots on her feet. The end of her tail looked as if it'd been accidentally dipped in a can of white paint, and her belly matched her feet. She was elegant, and I think she knew it. But she was fiercely loyal and extremely protective of me. She was my running buddy, my cuddle buddy, and she would lean so hard into me with her hello that both of us would begin to tip over.
There are two events etched in my memory related to when Mags and Cals escaped. In our chain link fencing where the gate met the body of the fence there was a gap. Insufficient construction or shifting of land over time caused it, I suppose, but whatever the reason, Dad had jerry-rigged a piece of plywood to the gate as an extension to fill in the hole. Still, the dogs somehow escaped. Therefore, on the same street where at a younger age we would host 'leaf races', a game played in the rain where you must carefully follow your own leaf before it was obstructed by a stick or went down the drain, I threw open the front door and sprinted after my own dog, who at this point had grown to around 65 pounds. My family had recently begun training under our friend in his start-up Crossfit gym, so I felt primed to practice those functional movements that Crossfit loves so much. With adrenaline pumping in my chest I caught up to her, squatted, grabbed her under the legs and performed a move between a dead-lift and a clean, and held her close to my chest and carried her all the way home, so that this functional real life workout also incorporated a bit of a sandbag carry, but instead of a dead-weight non-living thing, I was carrying a squirmy, sleek-haired dog.
The other event was more tiresome on our emotions as the dogs were both gone overnight. We couldn't find them anywhere. We performed the typical search for your dog maneuvers, asking local neighbors, throwing ourselves into cars - windows down, yelling said dogs names, heads hanging out car windows so that those extra few inches would increase our dog-sighting abilities, enlisting friends to drive around, too... to no avail. Our house was heavy and forlorn that evening as we felt the vacancy of our live-in creatures.
We attempted to go about our normal lives the following day, (I still haven't perfected the art of compartmentalizing) and late in the afternoon Mom spotted them. Across a busy street and lining the length of Rock Creek Road there was this natural woodland area called Sutton Wilderness. One of the first things I did with my Dad when I was young was to ride our bikes to the trail. For Dad it was a much slower, more boring ride, but for me at that age, the mile to the trailhead on a street with cars was tiptoeing the edge of possible death, but traversing the trail made death's escape well worth it. Connected to the border of Sutton Wilderness and right across the street from our neighborhood was a really large cemetery. It was filled in the center with the kind of stone markers that to a kid's eyes looked like houses - the kind you could walk right in but never leave - (you might be stuck, but you had room to walk!), but also had modest ancient markers right next to the street so that I loved to attempt reading them while waiting for a traffic light to turn green. It was this border where our dogs were sighted, gallivanting about with no care for the heartaches they'd caused their human family. It took a bit of coaxing to lure them home away from their playground of new smells, new tastes, and free range.
Wholly unexpectedly, Maggie died four years ago during my sophomore year at school. She had to be put down suddenly due to a quick growing cancerous tumor in her jaw. A text message received in between classes in the middle of Day of Prayer brought me the news. While waiting for my keyboarding classroom door to be unlocked, I read the text, and in cinematic dramatic fashion slid down the wall on the fourth floor of Fitzwater Hall. My heart felt like it stopped. I cried dragon-sized tears and my friend took me out for comfort donuts.
Four years later, and now in my third week visiting Albuquerque post graduation, we were prepared for Callie not to return home from a trip to the vet. She's been exhibiting signs of being in lots of pain, is fourteen years old, and for a while now has had tumors that we have checked on annually. We've been shocked she's made it this far. I've left home from school breaks hugging her neck with tears running down my face in anticipation that it would be my last time to see her, probably three times now. I said goodbye for the fourth time yesterday, but she returned, tired, but happy to be walking in the front door. She's the clock that keeps ticking. The fluff-ball that loves well; and the beggar with persistence.
Dear Callie-dog, this is my ode to you: thank you for your comforting, fluffy fur that you let me bury my face in. Thanks for tolerating Keanan when he uses you as a pillow and doesn't care for your level of comfort - you let him do it, anyway. Thank you for your delighted dance when we say those familiar words, "wanna go for a walk?!" and the way you corral us until we've gone for your leash. Thanks for the way you communicate you're ready for chow-town. We say, "are you hungry, Callie?" and you respond by licking your chops, but never before we've asked the question. Thank you for always being excited for us to return home. You may have gotten older, and you don't always spring from your rest, but you wag your tail and look our way. Thank you for remembering me. I've been away for a year at a time, and each time I return you run to me with your biggest toothy grin and bury your head in my legs and lean in like there's no tomorrow. Thank you for sitting on the front porch with me. We no longer have one in New Mexico, they aren't quite the rage they were in Oklahoma, but I like to crouch on the front step, and you sit next to me while I hold your collar so you won't chase other dogs, neighbors, or cars going by. Thanks for sniffing the thunder-storm laden sky with me when we get rare storms in ABQ. I get excited and like to crack the front door for you to smell the change in the air with me. I can tell you're usually like, 'hmm, this is weird, but thanks for the experience, human'. Oh, you definitely judge me when I'm weird, but you let me be myself without interruption except for your concerned, 'is everything okay?' look.
Sweet Callie, you have been faithful. You have been around just under half of my lifetime, and in doggy years you are well out of your youth. You've kept the grounds safe, you've kept us comforted, you've made us laugh, you've made us smile. You escaped the death of an angry farmer, you've pounced through hills of snow, you've traveled through three states, you've tasted mountain glory, you've barked at hot air balloons, you've been sprayed by skunks, and you did God knows what in a cemetery and wilderness area. I'm so glad you're still around, but when you decide to go, you've lived well, fluffer-pup. You've lived well.
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
Saturday, May 25, 2019
Just for a Moment
The air is thinner here.
24 hours on pavement instead of 3-4 in the sky tremendously help lung adjustment.
I'm getting old. The kind of old where it's become necessary to make such traveling adaptations so that your body can better adjust to changes in the climate. I'm only 31. Cringe.
Sun-rays filtered through my eyelids still shine brightly. Prisms of light dance about before the back of my hand pressed to the bridge of my nose helps to block out some intensity. Laid between pavement and skin a towel prevents inevitable bodily harm, but the decrease in clothing I'm wearing enables it. Sliding into my third day at 'home' one of my only goals thus far has been to acquire a base tan by laying out first thing when I get out of bed. Eyes still closed and with a slight smile on my face I mentally move my index finger in the air with a quick swipe. Check.
Laying on the ground in my backyard, eyes closed, I inwardly take in my surroundings. The lack of clutter comforts my ears. My senses are warmed by the wind stirring the dust and dry pine needles about me, the leaf blower powered by the man next door acts like a sort of white noise machine, and a sense of contented emptiness hangs in the air -- empty only because of what's lacking -- the rush of traffic, voices of pedestrians, the patter of someone's feet running down the apartment hallway, and the gyrating vibration of road construction. I love the city. But I also love to leave the city.
Click-clack sounds the small rectangular flap over the small rectangular door cut into the side of the garage wall, and I know that my large fluff of a canine has joined my solitary backyard party. My ears discern her paws padding and her snout sniffing. She's performing her perimeter examination before she joins me in the party's main event. At the gate near the driveway she belts out a few cautionary reminders:
Woof! this is my territory; Woof! your approach is most unwelcome; and Woof! should you not heed this warning properly you will experience regret.
By sniffing my ear and my armpit (why?) she concludes that though I'm laying prone on the ground, I'm okay, and she marches off to complete her guard duty at the other gate. Having successfully warded off threats of crow, car, and canine, she joins the reclining-on-cement-party, although her choice of prime real-estate seems to be one that is lacking in rays of sunshine.
Turning to my stomach, I rest my forehead on the book I've yet to read during these tanning sessions, as the necessity of my head seeking comfort away from the cemented ground seems to be greater than the urge to find out what happens next in A Man Called Ove. But without the distraction of another's story to occupy my mind, the goals I need to attain in the coming weeks begin to creep in...questions, action steps, a little bit of worry...
Hard stop.
NNNNOPE!
I nip the existential crisis which inevitably follows a season of intensity-suddenly-concluded in the bud. Journaling, filtering, organizing, categorizing, systematizing, planning, searching...save that for later. In time. Soon. Currently, breathe in. Feel the sun on your skin. Enjoy the lack.
Rest in this present, gifted moment.
I yawn and stretch a little, then settle back into my sprawled rag doll position. Callie does the same.
The sun still blankets my skin.
Sigh, this is nice.
24 hours on pavement instead of 3-4 in the sky tremendously help lung adjustment.
I'm getting old. The kind of old where it's become necessary to make such traveling adaptations so that your body can better adjust to changes in the climate. I'm only 31. Cringe.
Sun-rays filtered through my eyelids still shine brightly. Prisms of light dance about before the back of my hand pressed to the bridge of my nose helps to block out some intensity. Laid between pavement and skin a towel prevents inevitable bodily harm, but the decrease in clothing I'm wearing enables it. Sliding into my third day at 'home' one of my only goals thus far has been to acquire a base tan by laying out first thing when I get out of bed. Eyes still closed and with a slight smile on my face I mentally move my index finger in the air with a quick swipe. Check.
Laying on the ground in my backyard, eyes closed, I inwardly take in my surroundings. The lack of clutter comforts my ears. My senses are warmed by the wind stirring the dust and dry pine needles about me, the leaf blower powered by the man next door acts like a sort of white noise machine, and a sense of contented emptiness hangs in the air -- empty only because of what's lacking -- the rush of traffic, voices of pedestrians, the patter of someone's feet running down the apartment hallway, and the gyrating vibration of road construction. I love the city. But I also love to leave the city.
Click-clack sounds the small rectangular flap over the small rectangular door cut into the side of the garage wall, and I know that my large fluff of a canine has joined my solitary backyard party. My ears discern her paws padding and her snout sniffing. She's performing her perimeter examination before she joins me in the party's main event. At the gate near the driveway she belts out a few cautionary reminders:
Woof! this is my territory; Woof! your approach is most unwelcome; and Woof! should you not heed this warning properly you will experience regret.
By sniffing my ear and my armpit (why?) she concludes that though I'm laying prone on the ground, I'm okay, and she marches off to complete her guard duty at the other gate. Having successfully warded off threats of crow, car, and canine, she joins the reclining-on-cement-party, although her choice of prime real-estate seems to be one that is lacking in rays of sunshine.
Turning to my stomach, I rest my forehead on the book I've yet to read during these tanning sessions, as the necessity of my head seeking comfort away from the cemented ground seems to be greater than the urge to find out what happens next in A Man Called Ove. But without the distraction of another's story to occupy my mind, the goals I need to attain in the coming weeks begin to creep in...questions, action steps, a little bit of worry...
Hard stop.
NNNNOPE!
I nip the existential crisis which inevitably follows a season of intensity-suddenly-concluded in the bud. Journaling, filtering, organizing, categorizing, systematizing, planning, searching...save that for later. In time. Soon. Currently, breathe in. Feel the sun on your skin. Enjoy the lack.
Rest in this present, gifted moment.
I yawn and stretch a little, then settle back into my sprawled rag doll position. Callie does the same.
The sun still blankets my skin.
Sigh, this is nice.
Thursday, January 10, 2019
The Spacious Disciplined Community-filled Vulnerable Communicator
Oh hey there, my blog! Long time, no see.
I've been wanting to write for three months now. Something's been stewing for some time, I just haven't been able to identify what it was...what am I learning, and about what do I actually want to write? If you know me well you know that I'm thinking about a LOT almost CONSTANTLY, so you'd think I'd be well versed in the ability to pinpoint the answers to those questions. I eventually get there, but usually things must steep for quite some time...which can be frustrating to me, and frustrating to others. (Shout out to those few sweet, wonderfully patient, safe people who allow me to verbally figure myself out and listen when to me it feels like a mystical jumble of words. I find that this handful of people has been growing lately, and for that I am filled with gratitude. I appreciate you.)
Jumping right in
Before leaving Chicago for Christmas break in Albuquerque, I posted a picture to Instagram stating that reflections on 'space' were forthcoming: "I've been thinking a lot about space lately...not the final frontier kind, just space to exist, think, create, and be. More on that later". Now is as good a time as any to explore the thoughts that have been percolating over the last semester on space (and beyond) insofar as it applies to the components of creativity.
So, what are the main components of creative expression?
Space
To some degree I believe that the majority of Americans have subjected themselves to endless seasons of ceaseless activity. It is a culture that we have cultivated to our detriment to the point where 'self-care', rest, and 'being' are social movements that have to be taught. Our eyes, necks, and fingers are perpetually plugged into our devices that we do not allow ourselves down time, times of silence, or times of reflection (for it is in these times that we actually begin to confront the larger questions in life - the ones that truly matter, and we're frightened). This perpetuates our feelings of harried-ness, our pressure to be something else, compare our lives, as we grasp for things that we do not currently have, unable to be thankful for what is ours, unable to sprout new thoughts of our own, incapable of being curious, unable to explore. However, when we make room for that space, we can find that uprising from the doldrums of boredom spring new ideas, inquiries, inspiration, and invention. When I am endlessly tired from ceaseless input and activity, I have no energy to create.
I just finished a season of busy harried-ness. While in this season I found myself longing for the space to create, for boredom, and for a blank canvass of time.
Discipline
I finally got that blank canvass of time.
Currently, in a four-week season of 'space', I've had almost literally nothing to do.
(...As far as routine goes. I've made stuff to do...Related side note, there's nothing like not having a schedule for an extended period of time to remind you that humans are meant for work and purpose.)
My break consisted of four weeks. The first week I spent sleeping and getting over altitude sickness. (Albuquerque is over five-thousand feet higher than Chicago.) The second was family focused. The third and fourth have been spent back in Chicago where insomnia and extreme loneliness hit. I've been doing a lot of reading, a lot of podcasting (listening to not making of), a lot of thinking, and a lot of exercising.
And a lot of avoiding. Yup. Avoiding.
Where space is available, there must also be discipline. Without discipline and the decision to just DO something, just START, even with ample space, nothing is created. Whatever your process, whether it's scheduling time to create, or making yourself put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, palm to paintbrush, or breath to vocal-fold, just begin. Your creativity is a blessing waiting to happen, not only for yourself, but for others as well.
Which leads me to...
Community
Creativity is never done in a vacuum. There is nothing truly new under the sun.With the exception of YHWH, who created ex nihilo (out of nothing), we always have something influencing our creativity. YHWH, as the Triune God, Creator out of nothing, Beginner and Originator of all things, created in community with Himself. The Creation account in Genesis 1 makes it clear that the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters, and the first four verses of the first chapter of John clearly state that Jesus was with God in the beginning and through Him everything was made.
Our creations are never solely our own. Yes, we may add a new twist, and of course we offer our own perspective and life experiences to whatever we touch, but we stand on the shoulders of thinkers and creators who have gone before us. We learn from their mistakes, improve on or seek to emulate their successes. We ruminate on their styles, their approaches, their time-period, their socio-economic status, etc., and all these factors (and more) affect our own creations. Our creations are made better because we explore the thoughts of others, while seeking to maintain a desire for growth and understanding, and we express these things through our own works.
Furthermore, creation in community is Truth-seeking. When left to our own devices, holed up in an apartment somewhere for two weeks alone (ahem), our minds tend to turn inward, we become self-focused, navel-gazing, and often depressed...(I wonder who she's talking about?). But when we open ourselves up to community, to the people who love us, and also to the thought processes of those whom we don't understand, we have a broader understanding of knowledge other than our own, of experiences other than our own, and our world becomes a little more we-focused than me-focused.
Our creations are often from a single-person perspective - an expression of something you the creator have been through - but your creation is still not a result of your being the only being in the world. Your creation was shaped by an experience which was most likely caused by other humans in your little world, which is part of the large, messy, beautiful winding tapestry of all humans in the world - community.
This certainly does not mean that every work of art must be done in collaboration. Of course not. I am saying, though, that it is naive to think that our creations are ours alone. We are influenced and shaped by those around us, and we are the better for it.
Furthermore, placing your own creation out in the world for others to see means that is is now part of the influencing sphere. It is available to look at, ponder, hear, agree with, disagree with, touch, hate, love, talk about, discuss...this in of itself can be terrifying, which brings us lastly to...
Vulnerability
Oh vulnerability, you saucy little minx. You seduce us and repel us simultaneously. We're both horrified of and drawn to you. We admire those who've learned to use you well, saying we wish could be more like them, but we also criticize the same, saying, they share too much, they are too much.
For any human the process of creating is one that reveals the inner world of the self. In this way creativity is very raw. It's a grappling with emotions and influences, thoughts, and imagination. Sometimes it's a reconciling of a hurt, of a past, seeking to understand emotions that are still very present. At the time of creation and presentation, the emotions that we focus on are our own. The fear of rejection, of not being good enough, of being weird, of failure, mixed with the fear of not completing something, the fear of not accomplishing a calling, or expressing something well enough, of not doing a feeling or a message justice; these all co-exist in those moments of creation and presentation. But as creators, we have to try.
The dictionary of human emotions is a deep and endless pool which separates and connects us - for though we may not share the exact same emotion stemmed from the exact same situation at the exact same time (separates), we all have some point in time where we can identify a similar emotion (connects). However, the revealing of the self provides opportunity for another to find agreement, and to give voice to their own experience. Vulnerability sows vulnerability. Vulnerability levels humanity on the same playing field. Vulnerability creates opportunity for understanding. In this way vulnerability ties into community. We truly benefit others when we dare to be courageous enough to reveal that which would seem safer to conceal.
Vulnerability is the shaking hand of courage, acknowledging that this 'piece of me' could touch and encourage you, my neighbor.
----------------------------
I'd love to hear your thoughts on these things! Do you consider yourself creative? If not, why? What do you like to create/how do you perform? What is your process? What would you like to create? What are your thoughts on Space, Discipline, Community, and Vulnerability? What might you add to this list? What would you change? Feel free to comment here, or under the Facebook/Instagram post. I'd love to hear from creatives in all art-forms. How have you experienced these things in your creative journey?
Stay tuned for an upcoming post where I'll explore some of the ways that these things have been manifesting themselves in my own journey through the discovery of my voice.
I've been wanting to write for three months now. Something's been stewing for some time, I just haven't been able to identify what it was...what am I learning, and about what do I actually want to write? If you know me well you know that I'm thinking about a LOT almost CONSTANTLY, so you'd think I'd be well versed in the ability to pinpoint the answers to those questions. I eventually get there, but usually things must steep for quite some time...which can be frustrating to me, and frustrating to others. (Shout out to those few sweet, wonderfully patient, safe people who allow me to verbally figure myself out and listen when to me it feels like a mystical jumble of words. I find that this handful of people has been growing lately, and for that I am filled with gratitude. I appreciate you.)
Jumping right in
Before leaving Chicago for Christmas break in Albuquerque, I posted a picture to Instagram stating that reflections on 'space' were forthcoming: "I've been thinking a lot about space lately...not the final frontier kind, just space to exist, think, create, and be. More on that later". Now is as good a time as any to explore the thoughts that have been percolating over the last semester on space (and beyond) insofar as it applies to the components of creativity.
So, what are the main components of creative expression?
Space
To some degree I believe that the majority of Americans have subjected themselves to endless seasons of ceaseless activity. It is a culture that we have cultivated to our detriment to the point where 'self-care', rest, and 'being' are social movements that have to be taught. Our eyes, necks, and fingers are perpetually plugged into our devices that we do not allow ourselves down time, times of silence, or times of reflection (for it is in these times that we actually begin to confront the larger questions in life - the ones that truly matter, and we're frightened). This perpetuates our feelings of harried-ness, our pressure to be something else, compare our lives, as we grasp for things that we do not currently have, unable to be thankful for what is ours, unable to sprout new thoughts of our own, incapable of being curious, unable to explore. However, when we make room for that space, we can find that uprising from the doldrums of boredom spring new ideas, inquiries, inspiration, and invention. When I am endlessly tired from ceaseless input and activity, I have no energy to create.
I just finished a season of busy harried-ness. While in this season I found myself longing for the space to create, for boredom, and for a blank canvass of time.
Discipline
I finally got that blank canvass of time.
Currently, in a four-week season of 'space', I've had almost literally nothing to do.
(...As far as routine goes. I've made stuff to do...Related side note, there's nothing like not having a schedule for an extended period of time to remind you that humans are meant for work and purpose.)
My break consisted of four weeks. The first week I spent sleeping and getting over altitude sickness. (Albuquerque is over five-thousand feet higher than Chicago.) The second was family focused. The third and fourth have been spent back in Chicago where insomnia and extreme loneliness hit. I've been doing a lot of reading, a lot of podcasting (listening to not making of), a lot of thinking, and a lot of exercising.
And a lot of avoiding. Yup. Avoiding.
Where space is available, there must also be discipline. Without discipline and the decision to just DO something, just START, even with ample space, nothing is created. Whatever your process, whether it's scheduling time to create, or making yourself put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, palm to paintbrush, or breath to vocal-fold, just begin. Your creativity is a blessing waiting to happen, not only for yourself, but for others as well.
Which leads me to...
Community
Creativity is never done in a vacuum. There is nothing truly new under the sun.With the exception of YHWH, who created ex nihilo (out of nothing), we always have something influencing our creativity. YHWH, as the Triune God, Creator out of nothing, Beginner and Originator of all things, created in community with Himself. The Creation account in Genesis 1 makes it clear that the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters, and the first four verses of the first chapter of John clearly state that Jesus was with God in the beginning and through Him everything was made.
Our creations are never solely our own. Yes, we may add a new twist, and of course we offer our own perspective and life experiences to whatever we touch, but we stand on the shoulders of thinkers and creators who have gone before us. We learn from their mistakes, improve on or seek to emulate their successes. We ruminate on their styles, their approaches, their time-period, their socio-economic status, etc., and all these factors (and more) affect our own creations. Our creations are made better because we explore the thoughts of others, while seeking to maintain a desire for growth and understanding, and we express these things through our own works.
Furthermore, creation in community is Truth-seeking. When left to our own devices, holed up in an apartment somewhere for two weeks alone (ahem), our minds tend to turn inward, we become self-focused, navel-gazing, and often depressed...(I wonder who she's talking about?). But when we open ourselves up to community, to the people who love us, and also to the thought processes of those whom we don't understand, we have a broader understanding of knowledge other than our own, of experiences other than our own, and our world becomes a little more we-focused than me-focused.
Our creations are often from a single-person perspective - an expression of something you the creator have been through - but your creation is still not a result of your being the only being in the world. Your creation was shaped by an experience which was most likely caused by other humans in your little world, which is part of the large, messy, beautiful winding tapestry of all humans in the world - community.
This certainly does not mean that every work of art must be done in collaboration. Of course not. I am saying, though, that it is naive to think that our creations are ours alone. We are influenced and shaped by those around us, and we are the better for it.
Furthermore, placing your own creation out in the world for others to see means that is is now part of the influencing sphere. It is available to look at, ponder, hear, agree with, disagree with, touch, hate, love, talk about, discuss...this in of itself can be terrifying, which brings us lastly to...
Vulnerability
Oh vulnerability, you saucy little minx. You seduce us and repel us simultaneously. We're both horrified of and drawn to you. We admire those who've learned to use you well, saying we wish could be more like them, but we also criticize the same, saying, they share too much, they are too much.
For any human the process of creating is one that reveals the inner world of the self. In this way creativity is very raw. It's a grappling with emotions and influences, thoughts, and imagination. Sometimes it's a reconciling of a hurt, of a past, seeking to understand emotions that are still very present. At the time of creation and presentation, the emotions that we focus on are our own. The fear of rejection, of not being good enough, of being weird, of failure, mixed with the fear of not completing something, the fear of not accomplishing a calling, or expressing something well enough, of not doing a feeling or a message justice; these all co-exist in those moments of creation and presentation. But as creators, we have to try.
The dictionary of human emotions is a deep and endless pool which separates and connects us - for though we may not share the exact same emotion stemmed from the exact same situation at the exact same time (separates), we all have some point in time where we can identify a similar emotion (connects). However, the revealing of the self provides opportunity for another to find agreement, and to give voice to their own experience. Vulnerability sows vulnerability. Vulnerability levels humanity on the same playing field. Vulnerability creates opportunity for understanding. In this way vulnerability ties into community. We truly benefit others when we dare to be courageous enough to reveal that which would seem safer to conceal.
Vulnerability is the shaking hand of courage, acknowledging that this 'piece of me' could touch and encourage you, my neighbor.
----------------------------
I'd love to hear your thoughts on these things! Do you consider yourself creative? If not, why? What do you like to create/how do you perform? What is your process? What would you like to create? What are your thoughts on Space, Discipline, Community, and Vulnerability? What might you add to this list? What would you change? Feel free to comment here, or under the Facebook/Instagram post. I'd love to hear from creatives in all art-forms. How have you experienced these things in your creative journey?
Stay tuned for an upcoming post where I'll explore some of the ways that these things have been manifesting themselves in my own journey through the discovery of my voice.
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
Tracks in the Snow
There's a specific sort of cadence one has to adopt while walking in snow boots.
It's a slightly indescribable awkward rhythm that weighs you down as you venture. You find that once you're on solid ground there is a freedom of movement you didn't recognize was gone while you were in the snow - such was the concentration of getting through the snow.
I love tracks in fresh snow. Tracks of couples. Tracks of groups. Solitary footsteps forging their own path, leaving the sidewalk behind. I like those best...Even more I appreciate bunny tracks. I imagine their hip hop hop, they pause, and their nose twitches as they test the crisp air. Bunnies are flighty little fellas and I still gasp in surprise and delight when I see them scampering through patches of grass (or snow) in the city.
Last night there was a man sleeping in a coffee shop. First I was surprised. Then I was thankful. This was a place of safety - warm enough for him to snore in peace for a while.
But they politely kicked him out while I was there. They weren't rude - they were closing up shop and began first by cleaning his place of rest. It made me mad; I could stay and he had to leave.
There was an odd extra clunk as he walked. I raised my eyes to the reflection in the window. Did he carry a cane? Was he wearing strange boots? Now outside, eyes roaming, betraying his sense of displacement, I saw his boots. The entire bottom of his shoe flapped, detached as he walked, exposing his feet to the cold and wet white fluff I had been admiring. My heart cried. I had no boots to give him. No socks to replace his tattered pair, no hat to cover his bare and balding head - his lengthy hair also betraying his homelessness - it was long and unkempt - the shape of a monk, the length of a rocker. I prayed he found a place of refuge for the night.
I felt guilty for my own groanings. Mine are very philosophical currently. I certainly have physical concerns as well...indeed some worries, but mine weren't so immediate or dire as his. I didn't need to ask, 'Where will I stay for the night? Will my feet survive?' I hate cold feet in my bed; he had no bed.
The longer I'm alive the less just the world seems. Suffering seems to be round every corner, staring back at me in the face of those in pain. Life seems harder than I remember it being as a child, even a child who thought deeply, a child who never felt she truly belonged. Many of my own generation are pondering these difficulties. Why so much struggle? Why is life so much more difficult than we anticipated? This isn't what I thought my life would be. Why is life so hard? Why are so many people hurting? How can it be that such breathtaking beauty and gut wrenching pain can exist in the same space? To the girl with the five year old Sorel boots, though falling apart internally and occasionally causing blisters on her heels, yet structurally sound on the outside and keeping her dry, the snow is a delight to walk through...even frolic in. To the man with the maimed boots the snow was a peril to his survival.
Why must one man have more and the other less?
I've found myself on both sides of this question.
Why must my life be more difficult than so and so? Why must everything they touch turn to gold? Why do they seem to have it so easy? Why must I work so hard for what I have? Why do I have no one?
Why on earth do I have more than they? Why do I have people who care? Why do I have food and they don't? Why am I not begging on the street? Why do I have a warm place to sleep? Why am I physically safe?
For a girl who wants to fix and take care of everyone these can be difficult questions.
I used to long for marriage. For a family. For delightful fulfillment in this world. I can tell you though that I have never longed for Heaven like I have this year. Sin must be a horrible terrible thing for it to have wrecked God's creation like it has. No one is exempt from its influence. Everybody fails. Often, it seems Christians are the worst offenders. And if so, then who in the world can I trust? I know all the right answers. But sometimes the 'right' answers can feel like empty promises.
When did we begin to so tightly grasp the notion that life would be easy/shouldn't be hard? The Bible never, ever promised such things. In fact it's full of suffering. If God is good, and He created us, out of nothing, and sin was the ultimate betrayal against Him, then we deserve absolutely nothing. He's withholding suffering that we deserve. If God is ultimate good, and the perfect expression of love, and is in fact love, then He deserves all good and had absolutely no business sacrificing Himself for the sake of His enemy. That's grace. Absolutely no one on this earth is ultimately good.
The world is a difficult place to be in. Has been since our first father and mother believed a lie and acted on it. Will we truly only praise God when life is easy?
It is for discipline that you have to endure. God is treating you as sons. For what son is there whom his father does not discipline?"
It's a slightly indescribable awkward rhythm that weighs you down as you venture. You find that once you're on solid ground there is a freedom of movement you didn't recognize was gone while you were in the snow - such was the concentration of getting through the snow.
I love tracks in fresh snow. Tracks of couples. Tracks of groups. Solitary footsteps forging their own path, leaving the sidewalk behind. I like those best...Even more I appreciate bunny tracks. I imagine their hip hop hop, they pause, and their nose twitches as they test the crisp air. Bunnies are flighty little fellas and I still gasp in surprise and delight when I see them scampering through patches of grass (or snow) in the city.
Last night there was a man sleeping in a coffee shop. First I was surprised. Then I was thankful. This was a place of safety - warm enough for him to snore in peace for a while.
But they politely kicked him out while I was there. They weren't rude - they were closing up shop and began first by cleaning his place of rest. It made me mad; I could stay and he had to leave.
There was an odd extra clunk as he walked. I raised my eyes to the reflection in the window. Did he carry a cane? Was he wearing strange boots? Now outside, eyes roaming, betraying his sense of displacement, I saw his boots. The entire bottom of his shoe flapped, detached as he walked, exposing his feet to the cold and wet white fluff I had been admiring. My heart cried. I had no boots to give him. No socks to replace his tattered pair, no hat to cover his bare and balding head - his lengthy hair also betraying his homelessness - it was long and unkempt - the shape of a monk, the length of a rocker. I prayed he found a place of refuge for the night.
I felt guilty for my own groanings. Mine are very philosophical currently. I certainly have physical concerns as well...indeed some worries, but mine weren't so immediate or dire as his. I didn't need to ask, 'Where will I stay for the night? Will my feet survive?' I hate cold feet in my bed; he had no bed.
The longer I'm alive the less just the world seems. Suffering seems to be round every corner, staring back at me in the face of those in pain. Life seems harder than I remember it being as a child, even a child who thought deeply, a child who never felt she truly belonged. Many of my own generation are pondering these difficulties. Why so much struggle? Why is life so much more difficult than we anticipated? This isn't what I thought my life would be. Why is life so hard? Why are so many people hurting? How can it be that such breathtaking beauty and gut wrenching pain can exist in the same space? To the girl with the five year old Sorel boots, though falling apart internally and occasionally causing blisters on her heels, yet structurally sound on the outside and keeping her dry, the snow is a delight to walk through...even frolic in. To the man with the maimed boots the snow was a peril to his survival.
Why must one man have more and the other less?
I've found myself on both sides of this question.
Why must my life be more difficult than so and so? Why must everything they touch turn to gold? Why do they seem to have it so easy? Why must I work so hard for what I have? Why do I have no one?
Why on earth do I have more than they? Why do I have people who care? Why do I have food and they don't? Why am I not begging on the street? Why do I have a warm place to sleep? Why am I physically safe?
For a girl who wants to fix and take care of everyone these can be difficult questions.
I used to long for marriage. For a family. For delightful fulfillment in this world. I can tell you though that I have never longed for Heaven like I have this year. Sin must be a horrible terrible thing for it to have wrecked God's creation like it has. No one is exempt from its influence. Everybody fails. Often, it seems Christians are the worst offenders. And if so, then who in the world can I trust? I know all the right answers. But sometimes the 'right' answers can feel like empty promises.
When did we begin to so tightly grasp the notion that life would be easy/shouldn't be hard? The Bible never, ever promised such things. In fact it's full of suffering. If God is good, and He created us, out of nothing, and sin was the ultimate betrayal against Him, then we deserve absolutely nothing. He's withholding suffering that we deserve. If God is ultimate good, and the perfect expression of love, and is in fact love, then He deserves all good and had absolutely no business sacrificing Himself for the sake of His enemy. That's grace. Absolutely no one on this earth is ultimately good.
The world is a difficult place to be in. Has been since our first father and mother believed a lie and acted on it. Will we truly only praise God when life is easy?
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.
Do Not Grow Weary
Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted. In your struggle against sin you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood. And have you forgotten the exhortation that addresses you as sons?
“My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord,
nor be weary when reproved by him.
For the Lord disciplines the one he loves,
and chastises every son whom he receives.”
nor be weary when reproved by him.
For the Lord disciplines the one he loves,
and chastises every son whom he receives.”
It is for discipline that you have to endure. God is treating you as sons. For what son is there whom his father does not discipline?"
Hebrews 12:1-7 ESV (emphases mine)
Struggle is worth pondering. Questions are worth exploring. God is worthy of the pursuit of understanding. Justice is worth seeking. People are worth helping. The race is worth running - and races are never easy. The winning of the race at the end is made the more beautiful because of the training, work, struggle, tension, and fight exhibited through the strain of effort. I will never have to struggle so far as to give my own blood to ratify my innocence. And though I sometimes wish I could do this for others, I cannot, for sin is far more offensive and requires more perfect perfection than I could ever offer.
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Sorrowful Yet Always Rejoicing
There are days when the desire to be cared for and taken care of are so overwhelming that I can hardly function. In the same breath though, the requirement for grit is met with the determination to have it, and the grace of the Lord comes alongside to grant me the strength to press on.
I biked to work this morning knowing that it would rain this evening...but I didn't know it would RAIN this evening. I waited until the hour when weather.com informed me that there would be "showers" instead of "rain" or "rain/wind", which was around 8 pm. At 7:58 I determined this was as good as it would get and I headed out, rain jacket over running jacket, hoodie over helmet, eyes squinting in the rain.
At first it was enjoyable. The slight gust of wind and the constant rain caused reflection on my heritage (supposedly Hembree's are originally from Devon in Britain which is marked by gorgeous coastal lines, and a history of piracy - which maybe explains my adoration of harbors and longing to be on the water but not in it) [side note- I've been doing some minimal {read not so minimal} research and I'm a little obsessed and very much want to go someday], and took me back to memories of spending one night and day in Wales with my sister before we boarded a ferry to Ireland. The wind was mighty next to the sea and we marveled at the power of God demonstrated through the power of moving air.
...But it quickly grew miserable and scary. Cars became troublesome objects to avoid, and even though I was moving extra cautiously there were several close calls - it felt like I was in a video game called dodge the vehicle to stay alive. It quickly became a life metaphor to me (as you do) and my initial bliss was like naivete before life gets hard and then the unexpected threats of the cars were like life's troubles popping up to bring you down. So then hot tears intermingled with the cold of the rain and the sweat that I couldn't feel and the wind blowing against my entire body and I was determined not to cry and spoke to myself that I would not and could not cry in this moment because visibility is quite important while biking, and it worked for several blocks but it didn't last long and my determination gave way to the gravity of the situation and my bottom lip just popped out and quivered and when my bottom lip pops out you know the sorrow is dadgum real (long sentence to be read with quickening speed, fyi *wink*)!
In my crying to the Lord I exclaimed that I may never be rescued in this life and I may never be pursued in this life, but I will be carried - for I am redeemed! I am a child of God. While that does not mean an easy life, it does mean a bought life, a belonging life, and an eternal life.
He carried me home. And even though once through my back gate I collapsed over my bike in heaving sobs I knew He was with me. He'd seen me safely through and He'll carry me home.
At first it was enjoyable. The slight gust of wind and the constant rain caused reflection on my heritage (supposedly Hembree's are originally from Devon in Britain which is marked by gorgeous coastal lines, and a history of piracy - which maybe explains my adoration of harbors and longing to be on the water but not in it) [side note- I've been doing some minimal {read not so minimal} research and I'm a little obsessed and very much want to go someday], and took me back to memories of spending one night and day in Wales with my sister before we boarded a ferry to Ireland. The wind was mighty next to the sea and we marveled at the power of God demonstrated through the power of moving air.
...But it quickly grew miserable and scary. Cars became troublesome objects to avoid, and even though I was moving extra cautiously there were several close calls - it felt like I was in a video game called dodge the vehicle to stay alive. It quickly became a life metaphor to me (as you do) and my initial bliss was like naivete before life gets hard and then the unexpected threats of the cars were like life's troubles popping up to bring you down. So then hot tears intermingled with the cold of the rain and the sweat that I couldn't feel and the wind blowing against my entire body and I was determined not to cry and spoke to myself that I would not and could not cry in this moment because visibility is quite important while biking, and it worked for several blocks but it didn't last long and my determination gave way to the gravity of the situation and my bottom lip just popped out and quivered and when my bottom lip pops out you know the sorrow is dadgum real (long sentence to be read with quickening speed, fyi *wink*)!
In my crying to the Lord I exclaimed that I may never be rescued in this life and I may never be pursued in this life, but I will be carried - for I am redeemed! I am a child of God. While that does not mean an easy life, it does mean a bought life, a belonging life, and an eternal life.
He carried me home. And even though once through my back gate I collapsed over my bike in heaving sobs I knew He was with me. He'd seen me safely through and He'll carry me home.
- O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.
O Love that Will Not Let Me Go
George Matheson, 1882
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Rest & Finding Who I Am
Have you ever turned your ankle while dismounting your bike whilst wearing heels?
Haha, stop laughing.
You may have guessed that I did. Last Sunday.
You can't make this stuff up.
With an engagement directly after church and the habit of always biking to church...and the need to present myself in a certain way at said engagement after church I biked to church and post engagement...in heels.
Now they were just one inchers, and really a merger between kitten heels and wedges, so I felt just fine biking in them. The only problem is that they are pointy in the toe and I was afraid of scraping them on the pavement while pedaling. That never happened. Underestimating my speed at dismount and miscalculating the stability of my landing in said footwear, however, did happen. Were it not for the kindness of strangers in the middle of Chicago I would not have gotten home.
Have you experienced the desire to be at rest when it felt like you were in constant motion? Have you also experienced the desire to be in motion when you are finally forced to rest? All the things one could be doing instead of lying in bed with their foot up... I want to read when I can't read and now that it's nigh my only option...
So I'm thinking. Thinking on the many things that have transpired over the past two months. They've truly been quite wonderful months. I have done many things that have been scary to me. Some of them have been moments of large decision, some...small decisions that I consciously knew affected those that are larger and chose to say yes to the small scary, knowing that it is often the small "scaries" that add up and in turn influence the big "scaries".
I have chosen to be bold and vulnerable. I have been courageous and yet dependent. I have stepped out in leadership. I have tackled things I thought were only in a far off dream, or my distant future, but by God's severe mercy have been here and now.
As someone who has spent the majority of her life recoiling in fear and imprisoning herself in the confining cell of comparison...
...and the thought that something may go horribly wrong so why try?, I have been training my mind to instead have the audacity of hope. This may go wrong...this truly may flop, and it could be incredibly embarrassing, but what if...WHAT IF it succeeds? What if this small step, which may produce not the best result still presents something good...which then grows to something better.
What if I try?
This new mindset has been incredibly freeing, and I cannot tell you the weight that this freedom relieves.
This freedom sheds death; it sends searching tendrils of hope that push through the weight of dust and soil and reach for the light.
So maybe I'm a storyteller. Maybe. And not the best of them around, but maybe my strengths do not lie in retaining facts or figures, spouting facts or figures, debating with the best of them, or even in being able to communicate my own strengths aptly. Maybe there is strength in emotion. Maybe there is sometimes strength in silence. Maybe there is strength in listening and observing, in pondering for days on end, in understanding people. Maybe there is beauty in a narrative, in raw emotion felt so deeply, that it translates into art, into communication beyond words, beyond just now.
Therefore, even amidst the pains of growth, I must find delight and joy in shaking off the dust and the chains that entangle and soar ever a bit more into the arms of my Savior. Further up and further in into the realization of a kingdom coming. A whisper heard in full. And a dream a reality.
Haha, stop laughing.
You may have guessed that I did. Last Sunday.
You can't make this stuff up.
With an engagement directly after church and the habit of always biking to church...and the need to present myself in a certain way at said engagement after church I biked to church and post engagement...in heels.
Now they were just one inchers, and really a merger between kitten heels and wedges, so I felt just fine biking in them. The only problem is that they are pointy in the toe and I was afraid of scraping them on the pavement while pedaling. That never happened. Underestimating my speed at dismount and miscalculating the stability of my landing in said footwear, however, did happen. Were it not for the kindness of strangers in the middle of Chicago I would not have gotten home.
Have you experienced the desire to be at rest when it felt like you were in constant motion? Have you also experienced the desire to be in motion when you are finally forced to rest? All the things one could be doing instead of lying in bed with their foot up... I want to read when I can't read and now that it's nigh my only option...
So I'm thinking. Thinking on the many things that have transpired over the past two months. They've truly been quite wonderful months. I have done many things that have been scary to me. Some of them have been moments of large decision, some...small decisions that I consciously knew affected those that are larger and chose to say yes to the small scary, knowing that it is often the small "scaries" that add up and in turn influence the big "scaries".
I have chosen to be bold and vulnerable. I have been courageous and yet dependent. I have stepped out in leadership. I have tackled things I thought were only in a far off dream, or my distant future, but by God's severe mercy have been here and now.
As someone who has spent the majority of her life recoiling in fear and imprisoning herself in the confining cell of comparison...
Well, for understanding, here's an insight:
If you've ever taken the Strength's Finder Test, you'd know that Intellectualism
is one of the many options for your Top Five. Having taken the test I was
shocked to discover that it was my third quality, because I've not viewed
myself as intellectually smart in a long time.
I equate being an intellectual as someone who knows a lot, knows well what they
know, and can articulately explain exactly what it is they know.
I, however, lack the ability to swiftly craft sentences on the fly, stringing together
scholarly words (heck even laymen's terms) that communicate exactly what I
want to say. My brain is always a jumble of thoughts and ideas, questions and
quandaries, worries and wonders. You know those scribbles of charcoal-colored
mess that hover over the brains of characters in cartoons when they're frustrated,
or can't communicate their anger?
It's like that.
Or, Oh!...
It's like a ball of yarn - but not one quite so tidy, wound up in nice circles before
it's begun its use - strewn about the room by the curious paws of
a playful kitten, the fibers coming undone from the carefully wound chord, then
swiftly gathered together by the kitten's owner, aghast by the mess silly kitty has
made, quickly crumpled in a tangled mess, for company is coming you know,
and carelessly thrown into the yarn basket, where its chords become entangled with
other strings, strands, and colors from other balls of yarn (the cat has a habit of making
a mess directly before company) and it takes a substantial amount of time to find one
strand and follow it, making sense of the jumbled mess of ideas, thoughts, indecision,
worry, endless possibilities, probing inquiries...influenced by a deep (I mean deep)
understanding of emotional i.q., feeding, feeling, and sensing the feelings
and thoughts of others...this is my mind. When I open my mouth I feel as if
the tangled yarn is revealed, and linear thought just doesn't compute.
...and the thought that something may go horribly wrong so why try?, I have been training my mind to instead have the audacity of hope. This may go wrong...this truly may flop, and it could be incredibly embarrassing, but what if...WHAT IF it succeeds? What if this small step, which may produce not the best result still presents something good...which then grows to something better.
What if I try?
This new mindset has been incredibly freeing, and I cannot tell you the weight that this freedom relieves.
This freedom sheds death; it sends searching tendrils of hope that push through the weight of dust and soil and reach for the light.
This freedom searches for who I actually am, who in Christ I was made to be.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Go Back & Wait
A few days ago I was very restless. I tend to get that way when I'm between life stages, or when waiting on something the Lord isn't providing. Thoughts and questions flood my mind, my focus lapses, and I can no longer tolerate sitting still. So, after a day at work where I'd been immobile at a desk all day my insides felt like they might suddenly find themselves outside the bounds of my body. Imagine the headlines...Young Female Explodes at Work; imagine the new statistics: One in 4 billion Females Explode from Restlessness; imagine the eye witness accounts: "Yeah...uh, (wipes forehead, mouth agape) I looked over and saw her just sitting at her desk...steam was pouring from her eyes like a tea kettle...she convulsed like her insides were boiling...and within 2 minutes and 15 seconds (ironically the amount of time it takes the best of electric kettles to boil water) her colon was splat on the desk and her spleen was over there (hand points, shaking) against the wall."
And close the door on my morbid sense of humor and return with me to the present. Welcome.
When in a state of restlessness I've found that often the best way for me to help relieve the anxiety that accompanies it is to be outside and to move. So instead of taking my usual route home I walked further than necessary to the bus stop on Michigan Avenue. On the way I gloried in the fresh air, lightly laughed at the groups of children gathering in Washington Square Park, smiled a salute to Newberry Library, and delighted at the prisms of sunshine light dancing in chandelier-filled windows, Starbucks, office buildings, and 4th Presbyterian Church. Thanking the Lord for these things, and acknowledging that beauty feeds my soul, I stopped at my designated steel chariot waiting area (for those of you without an overactive imagination - the bus stop) and...well, I waited.
Being that it was a very windy afternoon and getting colder by the minute, I looked at the bus stop to see when my fair coach should be arriving. The display read 11 minutes. Eleven minutes?!? But that's an AGE to stand here doing nothing. I've been restless all afternoon. I dont't want my physical and mental progress impeded by standing and doing nothing! Ugh!
So I started walking. Oh, I know it was illogical. Walking would actually increase my commute time, and I'd be cold and accosted by the wind in the process. But this wasn't an issue of following logic. I'd be doing something, you see? The physical exertion would help calm my mind, the fresh air would do me wonder, I probably wasn't going to go running when I got home anyway, I could talk to the Lord while walking, and I'd have a great view of the lake and the city to boot. My plan was to walk as far north as I could bear, and then to take a street west to one of the red line stops which would carry me the rest of the way home.
The walk was lovely. Praise songs erupted into worship in my head. Birds were singing (probably). Thankfulness grew with the brisk pace of my steps. I did miss my bike and pondered how this would go much faster if I had Sadie. I grew conscious of how silly I must look in my dress clothes, walking along the bike trail. Then I thought of every time I'd been irritated by people in dress clothes moseying about on the trail while I, the super cool biker had to maneuver around them and pick up speed after passing them. If they are like me, just needing some fresh air and jumping at the only opportunity they would have to get some "exercise" that day, I vowed I shouldn't mentally make fun of them again.
Now reaching a point in the trail where the conscious creative would turn about and snap a photo, I gazed back at the city, my fingers searching my pocket for my phone. This time though, the Lord's voice entered my own thought stream and corrected, "No Kayla, this isn't about the city. It's about Me". Instructing me to keep walking, I did until I reached the juncture where Lincoln Park is adjacent to the trail. "Turn left here." Oh! Okay, sure. "Run up the stairs." I ran the second half. "Take a left at the fork here." Suspicion was growing in my chest. This was not close to a red line station. In fact it'd be closer to return to the station I would normally use, but that wouldn't make sense. I didn't walk as far as I'd wanted. I'd intended to push through as far as I could! Take a couple pictures. Maybe write a cute story from the experience. You know?? Express myself!
But not unlike the Lord when in the middle of teaching his child a lesson, His calm, authoritative voice redirected my steps: "go back from where you came and wait for the bus". Are you sure? I asked, still a little attached to my reasons for this spontaneous adventure. "Go back from where you came. I want you to wait for the bus."
Well...nuts.
Okay.
(About faces and plants feet in the direction from whence I'd come.)
Lord? I mused. This feels like one of those Old Testament prophet stories, where you tell them to do things that don't make sense in order for people to learn things from them...
But once again worship songs flooded my mind and we were walking again, I was enjoying His company, and the next thing the Lord brought to my mind was that He is for me a fortress. I looked to my right and the home standing strong next to me was built like a medieval fortress, made from stone, shaped with round turrets and complete with those square cutouts on the top. I imagined archers with their bow and arrows at the ready, eager to defend a fortress which needed no defending.
Finally, my feet having carried me across the street from the chariot waiting area, that I'd left so impatiently half an hour before to boldly forge my own path and make my own progress, my eyes are shocked with the sight of not one, but three 147 buses. Um, hello,wait! I squirm, internally speaking to the bus, anxious that I'll miss all three opportunities to get home. You're supposed to be more spread out than that! You see Mr. Bus, my traffic light is red, and yours is green, and if you all make it through the green light, then I'm likely to be waiting a very long time for the next bus!
At least another eleven minutes!
Lord? I return to Jesus. This isn't fair. What if I have to wait a very long time now? He replies with a phrase I've heard more often that I'd like to admit: "Do you trust Me?" Sigh, well... I suppose if You could allow three buses to be clumped up in such a fashion, it's possible that one could come quickly behind them and I might not have to wait a very long time. (I attempted to reason out time and sovereignty and their affect on my current situation.) And, Lord? If You don't want me to have any of these buses right now and You want me to wait, I think I trust You then, too.
At this point two buses have made it through the green light, but suddenly the traffic light turns red! My walking signal directs me to GO, my feet bolt into action, and right on time I'm on the third northbound 147 outer-drive-express bus heading home.
Having shared my story with a friend during lunch break the next day she replied, "Boy you really made a big deal out of eleven whole minutes!". But this story was more than a four-minutes-short-of-a-quarter-of-an-hour-wait on a bus. The experience was a metaphor for where I was in life:
In my restlessness I can move forward on my own, thinking my way will be more effective or beneficial, and end up right back where I started. On the other hand I can follow the letter of the law in waiting, obeying all the rules, and not physically moving, but have impatience in my heart, grumbling that waiting is silly. I could do a better job of ___, {whatever I'm waiting for} should have arrived by now.
Doing anything without the Holy Spirit is pointless, and waiting without the Holy Spirit is the same. It is generally riddled with anxiety, fear, doubt, anger, impatience, and lack of joy. When we're infused with the Spirit waiting includes patience that provides peace of mind, and includes trust in the God who sees all and has all together. Patient waiting which trusts our Good Father admits dependence on Him and a lack of foresight that is inherent in all human beings.
We are always waiting on something. Whether it be a dream fulfilled or a bus ride, we are at least in good company (Romans 8:18-30).
There's purpose in the waiting. There's meaning to the journey.
...Just as much as I can enjoy the Lord's presence while walking along the Chicago lake trail with the thought in my head that I'm getting somewhere, I can also learn to enjoy His presence when I'm standing in place and it feels that I'm making leaps and bounds to nowhere.
And close the door on my morbid sense of humor and return with me to the present. Welcome.
When in a state of restlessness I've found that often the best way for me to help relieve the anxiety that accompanies it is to be outside and to move. So instead of taking my usual route home I walked further than necessary to the bus stop on Michigan Avenue. On the way I gloried in the fresh air, lightly laughed at the groups of children gathering in Washington Square Park, smiled a salute to Newberry Library, and delighted at the prisms of sunshine light dancing in chandelier-filled windows, Starbucks, office buildings, and 4th Presbyterian Church. Thanking the Lord for these things, and acknowledging that beauty feeds my soul, I stopped at my designated steel chariot waiting area (for those of you without an overactive imagination - the bus stop) and...well, I waited.
Being that it was a very windy afternoon and getting colder by the minute, I looked at the bus stop to see when my fair coach should be arriving. The display read 11 minutes. Eleven minutes?!? But that's an AGE to stand here doing nothing. I've been restless all afternoon. I dont't want my physical and mental progress impeded by standing and doing nothing! Ugh!
So I started walking. Oh, I know it was illogical. Walking would actually increase my commute time, and I'd be cold and accosted by the wind in the process. But this wasn't an issue of following logic. I'd be doing something, you see? The physical exertion would help calm my mind, the fresh air would do me wonder, I probably wasn't going to go running when I got home anyway, I could talk to the Lord while walking, and I'd have a great view of the lake and the city to boot. My plan was to walk as far north as I could bear, and then to take a street west to one of the red line stops which would carry me the rest of the way home.
The walk was lovely. Praise songs erupted into worship in my head. Birds were singing (probably). Thankfulness grew with the brisk pace of my steps. I did miss my bike and pondered how this would go much faster if I had Sadie. I grew conscious of how silly I must look in my dress clothes, walking along the bike trail. Then I thought of every time I'd been irritated by people in dress clothes moseying about on the trail while I, the super cool biker had to maneuver around them and pick up speed after passing them. If they are like me, just needing some fresh air and jumping at the only opportunity they would have to get some "exercise" that day, I vowed I shouldn't mentally make fun of them again.
Now reaching a point in the trail where the conscious creative would turn about and snap a photo, I gazed back at the city, my fingers searching my pocket for my phone. This time though, the Lord's voice entered my own thought stream and corrected, "No Kayla, this isn't about the city. It's about Me". Instructing me to keep walking, I did until I reached the juncture where Lincoln Park is adjacent to the trail. "Turn left here." Oh! Okay, sure. "Run up the stairs." I ran the second half. "Take a left at the fork here." Suspicion was growing in my chest. This was not close to a red line station. In fact it'd be closer to return to the station I would normally use, but that wouldn't make sense. I didn't walk as far as I'd wanted. I'd intended to push through as far as I could! Take a couple pictures. Maybe write a cute story from the experience. You know?? Express myself!
But not unlike the Lord when in the middle of teaching his child a lesson, His calm, authoritative voice redirected my steps: "go back from where you came and wait for the bus". Are you sure? I asked, still a little attached to my reasons for this spontaneous adventure. "Go back from where you came. I want you to wait for the bus."
Well...nuts.
Okay.
(About faces and plants feet in the direction from whence I'd come.)
Lord? I mused. This feels like one of those Old Testament prophet stories, where you tell them to do things that don't make sense in order for people to learn things from them...
But once again worship songs flooded my mind and we were walking again, I was enjoying His company, and the next thing the Lord brought to my mind was that He is for me a fortress. I looked to my right and the home standing strong next to me was built like a medieval fortress, made from stone, shaped with round turrets and complete with those square cutouts on the top. I imagined archers with their bow and arrows at the ready, eager to defend a fortress which needed no defending.
Finally, my feet having carried me across the street from the chariot waiting area, that I'd left so impatiently half an hour before to boldly forge my own path and make my own progress, my eyes are shocked with the sight of not one, but three 147 buses. Um, hello,wait! I squirm, internally speaking to the bus, anxious that I'll miss all three opportunities to get home. You're supposed to be more spread out than that! You see Mr. Bus, my traffic light is red, and yours is green, and if you all make it through the green light, then I'm likely to be waiting a very long time for the next bus!
At least another eleven minutes!
Lord? I return to Jesus. This isn't fair. What if I have to wait a very long time now? He replies with a phrase I've heard more often that I'd like to admit: "Do you trust Me?" Sigh, well... I suppose if You could allow three buses to be clumped up in such a fashion, it's possible that one could come quickly behind them and I might not have to wait a very long time. (I attempted to reason out time and sovereignty and their affect on my current situation.) And, Lord? If You don't want me to have any of these buses right now and You want me to wait, I think I trust You then, too.
At this point two buses have made it through the green light, but suddenly the traffic light turns red! My walking signal directs me to GO, my feet bolt into action, and right on time I'm on the third northbound 147 outer-drive-express bus heading home.
Having shared my story with a friend during lunch break the next day she replied, "Boy you really made a big deal out of eleven whole minutes!". But this story was more than a four-minutes-short-of-a-quarter-of-an-hour-wait on a bus. The experience was a metaphor for where I was in life:
In my restlessness I can move forward on my own, thinking my way will be more effective or beneficial, and end up right back where I started. On the other hand I can follow the letter of the law in waiting, obeying all the rules, and not physically moving, but have impatience in my heart, grumbling that waiting is silly. I could do a better job of ___, {whatever I'm waiting for} should have arrived by now.
Doing anything without the Holy Spirit is pointless, and waiting without the Holy Spirit is the same. It is generally riddled with anxiety, fear, doubt, anger, impatience, and lack of joy. When we're infused with the Spirit waiting includes patience that provides peace of mind, and includes trust in the God who sees all and has all together. Patient waiting which trusts our Good Father admits dependence on Him and a lack of foresight that is inherent in all human beings.
We are always waiting on something. Whether it be a dream fulfilled or a bus ride, we are at least in good company (Romans 8:18-30).
There's purpose in the waiting. There's meaning to the journey.
...Just as much as I can enjoy the Lord's presence while walking along the Chicago lake trail with the thought in my head that I'm getting somewhere, I can also learn to enjoy His presence when I'm standing in place and it feels that I'm making leaps and bounds to nowhere.
"...but they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint."
Isaiah 40:31
"Love the LORD, all you his saints!
The LORD preserves the faithful
but abundantly repays the one who acts in pride.
Be strong, and let your heart take courage,
all you who wait for the LORD!"
Psalm 31:23-24
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