The sun had shifted and it wasn't anymore the white light of early afternoon that has no trace of melancholy, the short shadows of noon skies, the blared-out blues, the flaccid clouds, the time of day that doesn't ask to be remembered. Now oranges were emerging and the thistles could be distinguished among the taller grasses as the shadows lengthened.~Amy Seek (From God And Jetfire)
You never know what you'll find at the Dollar Tree. I'm partial to the package of ten 32-count diamond "strike on box matches" for the candles I like to burn. I also like the "Little Trees" black ice-scented air fresheners that I hang in my car, package of three. Flashlights and gorilla glue, lip gloss and Sour Patch Kids. What really amazes me though, are the books I find--hardbacks with paper covers, published by Alfred A. Knopf with a retail value of $25 US and $34 Canada. And there they are in the very back of the Dollar Tree buried on an obscure shelf next to the children's coloring books and neon-pink jump ropes. I sometimes wonder what the author with a PhD in Social Anthropology from University College London, and an honorary fellow of the London School of Economics and St. Antony's College, Oxford, would think if she knew her words landed in the back of a Dollar Tree in South Carolina. Would she feel humiliated? Or would she be pleased that such a gorgeous treasure is available to a Dollar Tree customer such as myself?
My Dollar Tree book find got me to thinking about other enigmas and mysteries that often take me aback--the vibrancy of a freshly cut peach resting on a cutting board, sunlight pouring through a window on an unmade bed in the early morning; a neighbor's wave and smile of recognition on a cloudy, rain-pocked day; a Ukranian man playing his cello amdist his bombed out city; an old Christmas card found in the drawer with a friend's familiar handwriting that says, "I believe 2022 will be a gift to us."
Perhaps these are the paradoxical ways of God. It seems He enjoys inserting beauty and elegance, life and significance, in the shrouded spots--where we get surprised, then overjoyed. Things like a manger birth and the cross. Resurrection after the unspeakable. May we keep looking for Him in all the days that don't ask to be remembered.
For a long while, she sat in vibrant paralysis, her purse in her lap.~Yoon Choi (From Skinship)
"It's sort of an emotional inflammation," said Dr. Mark Batterson, lead pastor of National Community Church in Washington, DC. Dr. Batterson was describing our society now. Having walked two years on the road of the COVID crisis, the world now finds itself moving through a doorway to war. We are "inflamed" as a culture--that location where we can feel helpless, powerless, angry, sad, depressed. In pain. Not knowing what we can do to move forward. Paralyzed.
Over the last two weeks, I've had a sore, tender back. Inflammation. I've hated it, honestly. I've fought the pain by attempting to keep going at my usual pace, but it's only made the discomfort worse. I finally gave in and listened to my body. I slowed my pace. Rested. Allowed myself space. Breathed deeply. Prayed.
Perhaps that's what we do now to decrease the emotional swelling.
Sometimes I feel like that woman holding her purse. Numb. Dissociated. So stuck I can't move in any direction. The loosening is activated by a deep breath, allowing the brain to get an air supply so clarity returns. It's drinking a cool glass of water, transcending dehydration. It can be returning to music that soothes, or holding a drowsing cat. Is there anything more calming than a cat's low, rumbling purr? Opening the Bible to the Psalms. Come with your might and strength, for we need you, Lord. (Psalm 108:6, TPT). A gentle walk, stopping to admire the turtles lined up on the banks of the pond. "Oh, to be like those beautiful creatures, bright green reptilian heads released from their shells, absorbing the sun's warmth," I whisper. Receiving, resting. When I'm still, I can heal more quickly, the soreness has a chance to diminish. Lucidity comes. I am not helpless. I am not powerless. I spend time with my loved ones. We pray for Ukraine, for world leaders. We appeal to God for discernment. He so loves to hear our voices, so desires to impart wisdom. We are not vibrantly paralyzed, nor emotionally inflamed. With God's help we prevail with might and power.
It is remarkable how the ordinary and the existential are always stuck together, like the pages in a book so timeworn that the print has transferred from one to the other.~Kathryn Schulz (From Lost & Found)
I have a great love for and dependence on the concept of finding increments in one's life. I was introduced to the idea by Julia Cameron, the beloved author of The Artist's Way. I consider her a virtual mentor. I've mentioned her countless times over the years of writing these blog posts. She often reminds me that it is the small steps that add up, the increments over time that create something new--a book, a home, a relationship, a play, a painting, a song. A poem. There is always a choice when the day unfolds to choose an increment. There is nothing too ordinary. It is often in the mundane task that we find the most relief for our anxiety or melancholy. That scrubbing motion on the hood of a car or on a window pane that leaves us just a bit more hopeful when we view the shine, feel the slight pang from using our arm muscles. Often one microscopic action leads to another. "While I washed the car, I got an idea for my song. Think I'll go write down the lyrics, pluck it out on my guitar."
We can always ask, "What's next for today?"
Often I need props to keep moving--the smell of citrus in my diffuser, a hot cup of green tea, playing Yiruma (one of my favorite artists) on YouTube, or out-and-out bribery. "Okay, after you take your walk, you can sit down at the table and place a few pieces in your jigsaw puzzle." I think that's one reason I enjoy working puzzles. Each segment I fit together is a metaphor for the notion of increments. Piece by piece a picture emerges. Eventually all the action steps create a finished product.
But do we ever stop finding increments? It seems they are infinite, and perhaps this is a blessed truth, as then we always have the choice to keep growing. And there's no pressure. There is always a next increment from which to choose. And the action is so close we can reach out and touch it. Doable.
Write the next sentence.
Wash the next dish.
Pay the next bill.
Attend the next ZOOM meeting.
Say the next prayer.
Buy the next blank canvas for the image residing in your imagination.
Practice the next song in your car while you drive to work.
Text your husband (or your wife or your partner or your friend) and tell him that you love him.
And when the next thing is really difficult, we can break the increment into another increment.
Steady on. You're okay.
How close people could be to us when they had gone as far away as possible, to the edges of the map. How unforgettable.~Paula McLain (From Circling The Sun)
The little boots on the porch took me back--back to southern California when my children were small and we lived on a green rectangle of space nestled on the outskirts of San Diego.
While walking in my neighborhood, I'd spied the boots--could see orange and blue butterflies between the splatters of mud. I stopped and remembered those days on the west coast. My two girls and I would take a blanket to our backyard and spread it with our lunch and a few books to read. A bougainvillea vine grew against a wall, the purple-pink blooms vivid in the sun. A rabbit hutch sat in the corner with our pet bunny. When I saw those boots, I could still feel my children's closeness, hear their laughter.
It can be the tiniest slivers of memory that bring people near. My husband's robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, thinking of him bundled in it after a shower, his hair wet, the scent of shampoo still lingering in the air. A book facedown on the chair, the title on the spine reminding me of the beauty of story. Birdsong through the window, a nearness too.
Recently I attended an artist's workshop, the presenter a graphic artist for the Bethel Church ministry in Redding, California. He said he was tasked to develop the art for a conference. As he prayed about what image to design, he kept hearing the phrase, "He is near." With some ambivalence, he moved forward with the idea. Could he actually have a design with a page filled only with three words? In his workshop powerpoint presentation, he showed us the final rendition of the conference program. On one side of the booklet was a gorgeous abstract design, and on the opposite side a white page with nothing other than the words, "He is near." The speaker went on to say that he usually doesn't get feedback about his designs, but one of his colleagues happened to be in charge of directing participants to various meetings during the conference. A woman arrived late, stating she had difficulty getting to the conference and wondered if she should even attend. When the woman was handed the program, she opened it and began to weep. The speaker's colleague said she looked up at him, tears streaming down her face, and said, "This is all I needed to know. That He is near."
God delights in drawing near to us--in a memory, through a book, a soft robe on the back of a door. Birdsong. Speaking to an artist for the one.
It may be that we have lost our ability to hold a blazing coal, to move unfettered through time, to walk on water, because we have been taught such things have to be learned; we should deserve them; we must be qualified. We are suspicious of grace. We are afraid of the very lavishness of the gift.~Madeleine L'Engle (From Walking on Water--Reflections in Faith and Art)
This week I heard a story about a surgeon who transplanted a heart to a woman. The new heart did not immediately begin to beat. The physician then proceeded to do something unorthodox in the operating suite. He kneeled down and whispered to the woman, "I've removed your unhealthy heart and replaced it with a brand new one. It's all in place. Now you tell your heart to beat again." Almost at once, the woman's heart began to pulse with life.
Like physical hearts, sometimes our spiritual hearts can become hardened or wounded or broken. I believe that Jesus bends down and whispers in our ears, "Tell your heart to beat again. I've provided the mercy for that to happen. Don't be suspicious of the lavishness of my grace. Willingly receive my goodness, my Kingdom pulse."
Sometimes it's difficult to lean into the life force of Jesus. The abundance can seem out of our reach. To receive His grace is an act of surrender on our part akin to dawn breaking into the early morning darkness. Remarkable colors emerge and saturate the sky like an old-fashinoned Polaroid snapshot coming into focus . The sunrise is nothing we control, but rather something we can only choose to absorb. Awe-inspiring, life-giving. As simple and dramatic as a beating heart.