Fog covered my view of the city as I drove across the bridge. I thought of the story in the Old Testament when God led the Israelites through the desert--a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night. This low-lying cloud seemed to symbolize my artist's journey for the last fifteen years--following that metaphorical cloud--trusting I'd be led to the next stop. These thoughts ran through my head as I made my way to a writing workshop. The location for the class was close to my house. I had confidence that I'd find the Eclectic Cafe quickly. I'd be early.
I missed my turn. I became lost in my own city. My GPS went berserk, and I drove around in circles. Finally, I stopped and asked for help. "Where is Spring Street?" I spoke loudly from the car window, the fog still thick. The kind woman's face looked blurred. She yelled back, "You're close. Go straight, and it's to the right." Thank God. I sweated with apprehension. The workshop had already started. I would not be early. I hated being late, everyone looking at me, an interruption.
I couldn't find parking--so many one way streets. At one point I drove down a street the wrong way, another driver enraged and flipping me off. How could I be so stupid? My thinking gradually deteriorated as I drove maniacally looking for parking. "I might as well pack it up and go home; it's hopeless. I'm already late." I sat at a stop sign ready to turn right and head home, then looked up and there just across the street was an open space. Was I hallucinating? There were no "Two Hour" parking signs--no "Parking Pass Required" warnings. I'd have a long walk. I'd go. I arrived sweating and somewhat off kilter--very, very late. But there at the table sat five other smiling artists who welcomed me, embraced me. "We just now started. Sit down. We're so happy to see you."
Once again, God's leading proved sufficient to guide me to the next stop on the artist's pathway. And always there are other artists, like a choir, each one singing their part, the harmony of voices like Siren songs that don't destroy. I realize, too, that I'm part of that choir, my voice adding to the beauty of our anthems. Because all of us keep opening our mouths to sing, because we keep practicing, our hands wet with paint, our fingers stained with ink, our voices hoarse, our sinews sore from the dance, we urge each other on. Our collective passions bring validation not only to each other, but also to a world that craves our arias of comfort and hope.
I wend my way home, tired after a hearty morning of writing prompts and learning to revise. Practice, practice, practice, more steps along the artist's journey. God leading, a song on my lips.
God went ahead of them in a Pillar of Cloud during the day to guide them on the way, and at night in a Pillar of Fire to give them light; thus they could travel both day and night. The Pillar of Cloud by day and the Pillar of Fire by night never left the people.~Exodus 13:21-22, The Message
There is a hint of autumn about. I took advantage of the subtle change and headed out for a walk, the sun warm on my back, like a lover's gentle touch. How good it felt to be moving, lifting my face to the sky, inhaling the freshness of the day. One more day. New mercies.
Fisherman dotted the tidal creek where I typically walk. I longed for solitude so headed another direction--to a piece of property in my neighborhood that sits back on a wooded lot. The house that once stood is gone. A vine-covered foundation is the only remaining visage of the long-ago home. I'm drawn to this property again and again. Sometimes I perform stretching exercises on the cement foundation. A stage.
This day I followed the patches of sunlight that dappled the grounds, hopping from one circle of light to another. I turned around and faced the other direction, the sun behind me, to move again along the lighted pathway. My shadow jumped alive. There I was. And this shadow was the one I always hope I resemble--a bit thinner--elongated--drawn up taller and more graceful. I felt surprise and delight to see that shadow self. I began to dance. There was no one around. I felt free. Pandora pulsed through my earbuds. It was the perfect chance to move and breathe with no pressure to perform. I positioned my hands like a ballerina, swirling and artfully moving across the sun-drizzled grasses. Happy.
It came to me as I walked back home, as I contemplated that sublime shadow of mine--the slender, confident woman who let go and danced through the light on a Friday afternoon: This is how God sees me. Sees us. He is the one who says, "View yourself as I do; know that you are my delight. Know that I created you with great detail and precision. And it gives me infinite pleasure when you let go, when you shrug off the idea that you are in a performance-based relationship with me--when you live life without the confinement of a stage--when you are liberated from thinking that your worth is based on performance. No. Actually, there is a great celestial hallway with framed pictures of all the ones I create. I often walk the gallery and gaze at the faces, each one highly prized, each one dear to my heart, each one the apple of my eye. I don't value my creations for what they do, but rather for who they are.
Live carefree before God, He is most careful with you. (From I Peter 5:7, The Message)
The manuscript languishes. I have not touched it in three months. I wrote 25,000 words on my latest book and then got stuck. In the last ninety days a close colleague passed away, my boss of ten years moved on, and I escaped Hurricane Matthew. Over these last few months I've felt as if I'm swimming in the ocean at night. There is no sunlight penetrating the depths; there is moonlight, pale and smoldering in the darkness. I hear my breath as I turn my face to the side, taste salt on my lips. My feet make subtle splashes as my body undulates across the murky waves. My arms keep moving; I try not to think about the creatures beneath me. Sharks. I force my mind to concentrate on the shoreline in the distance. I know it's there. I'm convinced I'm swimming in the right direction, paddling under the specter moon, my sole companions the constellations overhead--the grace of God my buoyancy.
Sometimes when experiencing difficult circumstances, it is easy to look at what I haven't accomplished instead of focusing on what I've managed to keep doing--the way I've been able to keep swimming. While I haven't been able to see the shoreline, I've continued the American crawl. And I haven't completely abandoned the page. I've journaled daily, I've written weekly blog posts, I've attended two writing workshops and made three essay submissions. I've continued to walk as much as possible, because walking invigorates creativity. It's as if I'm declaring with each stroke of my arms, "God is kind, and supports me; each difficulty can be used to strengthen me." Breath. "God takes my accumulated sorrows and buries them in this expanse of ocean." Breath. "He brings me to sunlit waters." Breath. "He calms me with His love and sings over me in this wide sea." Breath. "No despair." Breath. "He is present." Breath.
All these strokes and breaths eventually bring me to serene waters, turquoise and clear. I turn on my back and float, arms behind my head. I breathe deeply, my face turned toward the sun. I observe the shoreline on the horizon. Clown fish dart amidst purple coral. I have persevered through the dimness with each stroke and breath. And that incremental persistence leads me to this enticing environment. Back to the manuscript. Daylight.
What is one thing that you can do to keep swimming toward your shoreline? It's not how far you go; it's about one more stroke and breath. You can do it. Your art is valuable; you are worth it. God is for you.
I knew she'd been the homecoming queen at her high school some years ago. I could believe it. She had impossibly blue eyes and I think what must have naturally been a golden brown halo of hair curling around her smooth, fair face. Now her eyes blazed just as blue, yet filled with anger, her now dyed red hair thin and lank. Her skin, though, still dewy and youthful. She hated me.
I went mute. Her outburst moved in on me like silent fog. I hadn't expected such vehemence. I could feel anxiety manifesting physically--the pink flush rushing up my neck and face, the prickly onset of perspiration on my upper lip. I actually didn't want to fight back, defend myself. I wanted to run--flee from the rasping, toxic voice. Be done with her.
But I couldn't be "done with her." She was a patient at the clinic where I work. She wasn't following the rules. In many ways, I could understand how she felt. To her I was like a cop, zeroing in on how she'd broken the law. In her tirade, she'd shouted, "Don't you know how hard I'm trying?" Then answered the question herself. "Of course you don't. You could never understand me."
I would have liked to say, "If only you knew that we're so much more alike than we are different. Human beings all have some form or other of pain and misery that we're attempting to move through. And we all have guidelines that we must navigate in this life. We all have failed at one time or another." But she couldn't hear. She was too mad. Too ashamed, I think, down deep to become vulnerable. She was in protection mode. I understood. How many times have I, too, been in protection mode? Rejecting help. Refusing to engage with people who've wanted to help me. Pushing God away.
She wasn't capable of speaking to me, so I prayed, "God, what do I do?"
"Pray. See her as a child. Imagine her as a four-year-old, curious and innocent. Imagine that child trapped in a place where she had no control, little unconditional love. Blaming herself for the misery in her home. Thinking, 'If only I could be perfect, things would be okay.' Then reaching perfection. Homecoming Queen. Doing all the right things. But that still not working. And now life has gone so far south, she has almost no hope. And she told you she knows me. Remember that session where she told you she has faith in me? Remember? She's my beloved. My beloved homecoming queen. See her that way and allow all your resentment to drain away. Yes, both of you are so much alike. You are both my beloved. And you are further along in knowing your Kingdom identity. But she is not. And she needs your intervention. She can't hear you. But I hear you, and I love you both."
And so I've pictured this woman as a darling child. That helps. I've prayed that her mind be opened to God's empowering presence. That she be healed physically and emotionally. That her hope be restored. That grace replace shame--that she be delivered of this horrible shame that blankets her mind, heart and soul. That she allow her gracious God to lift her head, to meet His loving gaze. Be vulnerable to Him. Allow Him to grasp her hand, pull her up. Be embraced and encircled by His light and love. And, you, kind reader, pray for her too. Pray that she would understand her Kingdom identity. The beloved. The cherished.
He is mean--a short man with a pot belly. He dons pinstripe suits and green plaid bow ties. He wears a sour expression, his lips pursed in perpetual derision. He is the penultimate critic. He scolds. His mantras include a plethora of reproof: "Why did you do it that way? This way is much more efficient." "Who told you that was a good idea?" "I've never seen the likes of that." "You missed a spot." "You'll never go anywhere doing things like that. What are you? Crazy?" Well, perhaps so--when I listen to Professor Zizzle's harsh litany of personal censorship. I named this character after he showed up in my dreams several times over. His pinched up face, bald pate and tufts of gray, wiry hair ringing his head make him recognizable. In the last dream, he brags that he can fly by psyching himself up and imagining that he is aloft. And in the dream I watch as Professor Z zips around a few feet above ground, cackling with glee that he is oh so much better than I or anyone else.
Gratefully, I remember another dream. I am walking down a grass-covered pathway in the mountains. I don't know where I am. The day is warm and I hear people talking, but I can't understand what they're saying. There is a hum of laughter. Pleasant. I grab a pliable circular swath of material, like canvas. When I grasp it, I feel a vibration of energy. I know the round, durable expanse of taupe-colored fabric will make me capable of flying. I rise. Other people are flying as well, some in pairs, others alone. The sky is purely blue, acres of clouds. I feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful. I let my body float behind me and begin to enjoy the sensation of flying. I do not look down.
Then I sense I must go higher and allow the spherical mass to propel me upward. I dare to look down and am mesmerized by the view. I see eclectic hues of cobalt, sapphire and indigo that I almost cannot take in. There are white-capped mountains reflecting the sun. I am flying above everything, and must remember to hold on. Hold on. Hold on. I discern an opening in the clouds, blue spilling from a portal. I sweep inside and the azure sky seems to fill me, to expand my chest. Pleasure from the colors is so distinctive I cannot pair words with the experience. And then higher, the ethereal clouds my floor, more sky my ceiling. There is no one around now. I am alone and flying higher. My only thought is to hold on to this incredible, powerful momentum that takes me to where I've never been.
"What is this power?" I ask. This dynamic transcends a million times over what Professor Z can accomplish. This force decimates the professor's measly attempts at flying--dilutes and washes away his toxic remarks and accusations. His condemnation. The force can only be one thing. This energy pulses with life. This is divine undulation. Divine love. God's love. Love never fails. Certain victory. Eternal.