Sorry I have been absent the last few weeks. Life may imitate art or art may imitate life but sometimes life just gets me down. Then I get into a funk and stop doing much of anything creatively. I have to dig myself out of the pit, again. I’m getting better at not beating myself up when I’m down but I really want to figure out how to let the rhythm of my ups and downs continue yet not have the downs be such a disruption to my art.
I’m several classes into a writing certificate from the Mid-Continent Public Library (mymcpl.org) which is the library for almost the entire metropolitan Kansas City area on the Missouri side. They have funding from the Kaufman Foundation and offer some excellent classes, many on zoom. Last night the class was Resources for Storytellers and mentioned several books to help with storytelling, particularly oral storytelling. This got me searching for books on storytelling, first from the class list at the public library, then a more general search on Amazon which led me to Audible which led me to a bunch of podcasts; which led to “Writing Excuses” by Dan and Amal Howard and Mary Robinette. I listened to the episode called “A Time to Rhyme” (episode 16.17). They mentioned a poem by Wendy Cope called “The Orange” that I highly recommend and the limericks of Edward Lear, the most famous of which is about an old man with a beard; from this inspiration blended with my life I wrote these two limericks. Hope you like them.
A limerick has the form of 5 anapestic lines. Lines 1,2,5 have seven to 10 syllables and rhyme with one another. Lines 3 and 4 have five to seven syllables and also rhyme with each other.
Most of us know the story of Jonah from our childhood. Jonah did not do what God wanted so God sent a whale to swallow Jonah and teach him a lesson. Jonah did what God wanted and the Ninevites were saved and everyone lived happily ever after. Good story, let’s all go back to our cozy homes with our homogenized friends and live our safe little lives.
Pieter Lastman – Jonah and the Whale – Google Art Project
But wait, there’s more. God wanted more for Jonah than his safe little world. But Jonah could not see beyond the world he knew. Jonah never learned to love the Ninevites, to love his enemies. He knew Israel was God’s people. He knew he was God’s prophet. He did not know this want of God to include the other. He could not understand why God would want to save the whole world when Jonah thought God had all he needed in Jonah and the Israelites.
I see myself in Jonah; in the busyness of my life and the comfort of my friends. In my faith that I am safe in my salvation with my God. But sometimes I feel a longing for something more. What am I longing for? What more is there?
Maybe I’m longing for a world where we all love our enemies just a little more. Maybe I’m longing for a world where beauty shines a little more and death and destruction a little less. Maybe I’m longing for a world where children laugh and play in safety without worrying about the bombs falling from the sky or where their next meal is coming from. Maybe I’m longing for a world where I smile at the stranger on my street instead of being afraid because of the color of his skin or that he will take what is rightfully mine. Maybe I am longing for a world where we all follow God’s example.
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. – John 3:16-17
For me the answer to this longing lies in the story we will hear again tomorrow on Easter Sunday; in the resurrected Jesus and the promise of the new creation that is coming.
Until he returns let me move steadfastly towards the perfection that he is and love my enemies a little more and create beauty a little more and protect the children a little more. Until every tear is dried let my tears connect me to all my brothers and sisters and to the piercing beauty amid the chaos and brokenness of this fallen world.
Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. – Revelation 21:3-4
I started going to therapy again recently. I’m still not coping with my difficult memories from childhood. One of the things I am afraid of is that my memories will overwhelm me and leave me broken. My last session we did an exercise called the memory container to help me overcome that fear.
A memory container can be something as simple as a Tupperware container. Just so it has a lid and can be opened and closed. The idea is for the container to hold difficult memories until they can be processed and to control the flow of the memories. This has given me freedom. For the first time I feel like I can remember without being overwhelmed.
As I began to work on the concept of a container to hold my memories it was like I walked into a meadow of butterflies. My passing stirred the memories and they filled the air. All kinds of memories floated around me; happy, sad, angry, terrifying. At first, I thought the difficult memories would be ugly, some dark warped thing but all my memories are beautiful, some are broken, some wounded but the memory is beautiful, not the thing that happened, that was bad, but my memory is beautiful . It makes me who I am. God’s grace redeems my memories and helps me see their beauty.
A Tupperware container is a fine functional container but I wanted a different kind of a container. I wanted a container that would hold my memories even after I have remembered and changed the emotional context of the memory. I want a place where my memories can be safe and free, not to organize and catalog my memories but to treasure them and allow them to stay and be remembered or to fade into the fabric of my soul and become a part of who I am.
My memory chest is a small chest I can carry in front of me with no difficulty. It is wrapped in sky and edged with ebony wood. The top is domed and the wood wraps around the edges and across the opening between the lid and the bottom. The sky part of the chest is as changeable as the Kansas sky, sometimes brilliant blue like a summer’s day, sometimes grey with thunderheads and slashing rain, sometimes clear and dark with a million stars.
The chest opens only to my hand and when opened it unfolds into a doorway bordered by ebony wood. Step through the doorway into the mansion where my memories live. Not organized, not catalogued, but free to stay or float away. There are many rooms but the two that help me remember and reclaim my memories are the warehouse and the sorting room. The warehouse has infinite shelves that reach into the dimness of distance. Memories wait on the shelves to be brought into the sorting room. Some wait patiently or are silent and others clamor, wanting to be remembered.
For now, I am slow remembering. I have taken the first difficult memory and am remembering. It came with two happier memories so I am remembering the three of them together. I think the happier memories help give the difficult memory context. Another difficult memory is trying to surface but the memory container has allowed me to tell it to wait. It is almost like the memories are alive and the memory is impatient but it waits its turn in the queue until I claim the memory I am working on.
I am not rushing this process. I have denied my memories for many years which has given the fear power. It will take time. My goal is to walk peacefully, gracefully among my memories, difficult or pleasant, and see the world as it is in all its beauty and ugliness. To be able to express the greater truth of God’s love for all his creation. For the first time I feel this goal is reachable.
Heal me O Lord, and I shall be healed;
Save me, and I shall be saved,
For you are my praise.
Jeremiah 17:14
I have had my two little pups for a few weeks now and I love them both but I feel a special affinity with little Tippy. She is afraid of everything and yet works so hard to be happy and brave. The slightest noise will send her scurrying into her kennel where she crouches and stares out with her big eyes. She has the whole world in front of her (metaphorically speaking) and yet spends a lot of her time in the corner of her kennel. Sometimes if she cannot get to her kennel she will jump up on the couch and squeeze into the corner. If I touch her, she is a tight little ball of tension and when she sees the opportunity, she explodes off the couch and into her pen.
I have an advantage over Tippy. I know there is a big beautiful world out there. A big beautiful, scary and dangerous world that makes me want to live safe in my own cage. It’s too hard to process my painful memories and I push them away. I live inside my little box of a world and let my actions sabotage my chance at a full and beautiful life. Why choose to feel when I am safe inside my little cage?
Fear keeps me hunkered down in the cage that I have built for myself. I refuse to feel the pain that comes with the memories. But this makes me numb and now I cannot feel the joy that is waiting in the world for me because I refuse the pain that comes with being a human being. And I am fragmented into dark corners and eddies of memories that wait to ensnare me and feed my fear. I have chosen numbness and a kind of death instead of aliveness and presence to be awake to what life has given me; both the pain and the joy.
The Scream by Evard Munch
So now I choose again, I choose to step through my fear and feel the pain and the sorrow so I can feel the joy and the happiness. I will honor my body and remember the distressing experiences. I will have faith that I can survive the difficult feelings. I know that the pain will move, once I release it. It will pass through and recede and on the other side of the pain, I will be whole and alive to be who God meant me to be. I will be able to fully connect to that spirit within me that calls me to create. I will welcome the difficult and the delightful and fully feel all that makes me who I am meant to be. To become fully human and lettered in the language of the heart and strong in the face of the pain that life sends my way.
If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! If I take the wings of morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me and your right hand shall hold me. – Psalm 139:8-10
I know I cannot do this by myself but I am blessed; with friends who love me with all my humanness and frailties; with God who promises and indeed is with me even through the darkest times; and with my pups who love me in spite of the fear they have learned in this world. And I will honor my painful memories because they are a part of what makes me who I am, they make me afraid sometimes but they also make me human and remind me that we all carry our humanness with us and all God’s creatures need understanding, empathy, and compassion.
I love early spring flowers. The daffodils in my yard were here when we bought the house over 30 years ago and come up faithfully every spring. The crocus are fairly recent and are even earlier than the daffodils, sometimes even through the snow. They are a reminder to me that there is beauty in the world even through the tough spots.
I’m still mulling over all the memories of my childhood that the wash day story dug up from the dusty corners of my mind. My memories range from happy and innocent to dark and terrifying. Mostly I shy away from the more painful memories and pull up the pleasant, like my version of wash day I posted last week. Painful memories have a place and next week I will post about that but for this week another poem; one about some of my happier memories.
This poem was first published in the 2013 Mind’s Eye; the student literary magazine of Johnson County Community College.
When I was Young
When I was young, I had to choose, dress up and stay in the house or
run barefoot through the fields, wild and free as rain,
through field after field -- barking dogs to bouncing rabbits
to wild wind and clouds -- through tall grass and weeds
cows startled and stared at our passing, sometimes
deer, dogs jumping and tumbling, trailing after, following then leading
falling into a heap under a tree, bodies flopping, tongues lolling,
tails wagging in rhythm, opened book in hand, one page
or ten read, words blurred by lacy patterns of leaves,
of shade and sun instead, then off again to nowhere in particular.
Or somewhere, hunting treasure beyond the next meadow
and finding it in the sun and wind and the sheer joy of life.
I tried to dress and act like a lady but dishes and dolls and conversation
cannot compare to wind and rain
and the joy of a pack of dogs and a half wild girl running,
released into the long days of summer, blowing with the wind,
following the sun across the sky, almost catching it. Sometimes
I'd stop and stare at the house, thinking of my sister
seeing a shadow as she walked across a room, wondering
at a different world sheltered within the walls, but never
voluntarily returning to the captivity of the house, rather
dreaming of forever, free and wild. But now, I find somehow
I have become the one in the house, locked away from the wind
and the rain and the sheer joy of being alive, old,
yet still the half wild girl whispers to me and I remember.
I wish I had photos of my fur babies when I was a kid but unfortunately I do not so these are stock photos of how I remember my pups. I had a difficult childhood in some aspects but there is nothing like the love of a dog to soothe the wounds of life.
We always had several dogs that would find their way to us and join our pack. They were a motley crew, each a distinct personality, mostly strays and throw-aways, each with a special place in my heart. I don’t remember most of their names but I do remember what a gift they were to a lonely girl.
I attended an oral story swap the other night where a woman about my age told a story of wash day when she was a child. The story made me think of memories I have that are so different from the life I live today.
Have you ever hung clean, wet clothes outside to dry? Felt the sun on your shoulders and the movement of your back muscles as you bend and straighten. Pulled another item from the basket at your feet. Fumbled in the clothes pin bag that is looped over the line and grabbed another pin. Carefully arranged the item and pressed the pin down catching the corner with the corner of the item next to it. I always liked to hang similar items together. Shirts and tee shirts hung upside down, each side seam clipped together with the last or next shirt. Pants hung from the waist with the clothes pin clipped at the seam on the side, and towels, the easiest of all, each side clipped with the towels on either side of it.
Then the sun would do its work and finally the best part. As you remove the clean, dry clothes to fold and return to the basket at your feet; you pull them close and breathe in deeply. You smell the freshness, that unique fragrance of clean clothes dried in the sun. Mmmm….
I don’t hang my clothes out any more, like most everyone else in America, I use a dryer. But I have never smelled anything like the fragrance of sun-dried clothes in any fabric softener and somedays when I am folding clothes from the dryer, I pull the fresh dry item close and sniff and remember the fragrance of the sun.
My friend quoted JM Barrie to me the other day when we are talking about something or other that happened in the past, “God gave us memory so we could have roses in December.” Not all my memories are roses or sun-dried clothes but enough are that I remember life is a mixture of good and bad. The bad memories warn us and the good memories sustain us through the bad. Memories are the framework that we use to make sense of and take action in the present. Remember the good; the bad will stick with you and be there when you need it.
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think aboutthese things. – Eph 4:8
Potion in a mason jar, crouched patient,
poised ready to explode, silent prophet
of frozen time and slow forgetfulness.
Fluid crystal shadowed with bluish tint
formed and distilled into being in some
secret green leaf tinged hollow protected by
bewhiskered men with shotguns cradled close,
clad in overalls. What wickedness or
goodness prescribed? What mad pursuit? What great
struggle to escape? What forbidden ecstasy?
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That hide the still
and keep the revenuers blind and lost
in the shades and shadows of the green hills.
Witch man! beneath the trees, you cannot leave
your post until the mason jars are filled.
Distiller! never, never can you partake
before the deed is done. Mad sorcerer,
forever brewing bliss surrounded by
copper tubing and metal tubs. Hard work
helps the heart grow steady and strong. Do not
despair bliss waits wrapped in a Mason jar.
Who are these coming to the revelry?
To what secret spot, jester, do you lead
these innocents clad in boots and blue jeans
impatient for a night of magic bliss?
A coon dog baying at the moon is sweet,
but a fiddle touched by madness is more;
Fiddler! Drink up! Taste the mystic potion
that fogs the brain and wets the parching tongue
and cools the fiery forehead. Bewitch the
ear loud and long with spirit tinged ditties
until bodies sway and feet stomp in time.
What little town by river or sea shore,
or peaceful village nestled in the dark
is emptied of its folk come Saturday
night by the siren call of flickering
forbidden dreams trapped in a mason jar?
Little town, where are your proud pickup trucks
with gun racks in the dusty back windows?
Only the lightening bugs and whip-poor-wills
are witness to your empty streets and roads
that lie quiet under the summer stars.
Mason jar, humble attitude! with clear
and simple form, beneath the forest sky
and down the hidden path; You wait silent
and ready with patient piety, for the
sweet nectar of forgetfulness: Cold Fire!
When old age bends the bones and shivers the
hand and a rocking chair on the front porch
is all that remains of life you will bring
solace and remind us that all will turn
to dust and beauty is truth, truth beauty.
October 2016
I wrote this poem when I was taking a creative writing workshop at Johnson County Community college. The assignment was to write a parody of something. Parodies are supposed to be comedic or even mocking but It was not my intention here to be either although going from a high brow Grecian urn to a very down to earth mason jar full of moonshine might be funny or even mocking.
I just loved the layers of description in the original poem and tried to keep that cadence and beat and of course the ending; “beauty is truth, truth beauty.”
You can decide if it is funny or mocking to you. In any case I hope you enjoy the poem. It was fun to write; to find the words and word images that paint a very different picture from Keats original yet keep the magic of the poem.
This winter I lost my dogs in a span of a few weeks; Van Gogh, a black Lab mix, and Kisa a Chow mix. They were both over 12 years old. Van Gogh had arthritis so bad he could not get up or walk, he was 90 pounds and it finally got too much for me. It is a terrible thing when you decide to kill something you love. I miss him every day. Kisa died of a stroke just a few weeks after Gogh leaving our house strangely empty.
Van Gogh lovingly known as Goby and Kisa also known as Dingly
We started talking about getting another dog in January and were thinking of buying a puppy maybe in the summer. My friend heard I was talking about getting a puppy and invited me over to meet the dog she was fostering but who was not yet ready for adoption. It was love at first sight on my part although Tippy was not so sure. Tippy is a puppy mill rescue and very anxious. My friend had already calmed her sufficiently that Tippy might take a treat if you would sit really quietly and not look at her, but she wouldn’t come in from outside and she wouldn’t tolerate a leash. Even with all the problems I felt Tippy was the dog meant for us.
Her anxiety and her fear resonated with me. I also have trouble trusting and want friends yet am reluctant to take a risk. I understand how difficult it is to let someone get close. Trauma leaves deep wounds and Tippy’s wounds called to mine. As Tippy learns to trust so I am learning a lesson in trusting. Sometimes it is worth the risk. Sometimes we need a friend, like Tippy needed Maya.
Tippy met Maya, another puppy mill mamma, when they were paired at the shelter so Maya could help Tippy with her anxiety. Finally, I was able to foster Tippy and Maya together. They became a bonded pair and so I adopted them both!
Tippy (in front) and Maya
It’s been almost 2 months since Tippy and Maya joined our family and we still have some rough spots to work out. Tippy is 5 years and Maya is 4 years and they have never been potty trained. We’re making progress but we have to watch them closely and take them outside frequently. They can be overwhelmed with too much stimulation and don’t have many life experiences having spent their lives in a cage but they are getting better every day. Maya is not as skittish as Tippy and will come when called (mostly) and loves to be petted. This helps Tippy accept touching, which she loves but is afraid.
The situation they came out of was terrible. Over 500 dogs were rescued at the same time as Tippy and Maya. Wayside Waifs took over 100 of the dogs. I have added the people who work at Wayside Waifs to my regular prayer list, whether staff or volunteers, because they do a hard thing.
A burnt umber sky drips rust
as desert winds swirl clouds of dust
and snap a shredded plastic bag
clenched in the hands of a ragged
tree skeleton imitating live,
where once true life grew green.
It used to be a sweet warm breeze
blew in from the rolling blue sea
bringing rain to bless the ground
blooms and bees and beauty all around.
But now some obscene Frankenstein
created from carelessly discarded crap
bags, balloons, buoys, bottles,
ropes, cups, straws, plates,
six pack rings, polystyrene, food wrappers
sweeps in and out with the sluggish tides
choking life on both land and sea
and leaving only a faint memory of
fish and plants and birds and bees.
The only things living here are the cockroaches.
tons of trash
What a wasteful destructive group we humans are. Every day we use something once and throw it away, mostly because it is inconvenient to wash or reuse. It is estimated that every year we throw another 8 million or so tons of plastic into the ocean. There is currently an island in the pacific twice the size of Texas that is made almost entirely of plastic. It is estimated that there is 276,000 tons of plastic floating in the sea with more either sunk or washed ashore. If we don’t figure out a way to stop this eventually plastic trash will cover the oceans from shore to shore and suffocate all life on this earth. And this is only one of the terrible acts of abuse we pile on our long suffering planet.
A million seabirds and a hundred thousand marine mammals are killed by ocean plastic every year and 700 species of marine animals are in danger of extinction due to plastic. No one is sure of the impact of humans eating seafood polluted with plastic.
According to NOAA it takes 450 years for a plastic water bottle to decompose and 10 to 20 years for a plastic bag. Some sources say it doesn’t decompose it just breaks down into micro plastics.
I’m a bad listener. Sometimes I don’t want people to get too close to me. Sometimes I don’t feel empathy or compassion or even interest. Sometimes I’m thinking about myself instead of listening to whoever is speaking. Sometimes I let my mind wander and think about other things instead of actively listening.
Each of us bring our own being and creativity to our interactions with those around us. People’s stories impact us all differently and we hear them differently. Each of us layer our own experiences over the stories being told. Body language and other unspoken signals also impact our listening. Listening, good listening, requires focus and a blending of the story being told with our own experiences to gain understanding. These things, focus, blending of our experiences with the story, the need for interpretation of the intent of the words and the unspoken signals are many of the same skills I bring to my art (stitching, writing, multimedia art projects).
Different circumstances surrounding listening also require our interpretation. Each type of listening requires a variation of listening. Yet another thing about listening that requires our interpretation. Here is my list of various types of listening.
Listening to myself
Listening to God
Listening to a speaker in a large group
Listening to a friend over coffee
Listening to a casual acquaintance
Listening to a friend at a party or family celebration.
Listening to a friend in trauma
Listening to a friend on a joyous occasion.
And here is my list of things not to do or say when listening.
Don’t think about how to respond while the other person is talking.
Don’t be distracted by technology and/or daydreaming.
Don’t respond with a platitude.
Don’t make it all about self by telling a story that minimizes the other person’s story.
Don’t let eyes wander instead of focusing on the other person’s face.
Don’t listen passively instead of actively engaging with what the other person is saying.
Don’t try to change the subject because its uncomfortable.
Don’t be afraid of silence.
If one gives an answer before he hears, it is his folly and shame. Prov. 18:13 NIV
Is there any time we shouldn’t listen? I had to think about this. When I started writing this post I thought that we should always listen but as I deliberated on the topic I realized there are times when we shouldn’t listen.
When the story is gossip.
When the story is offensive to others, whether political, ethnic or personal.
When the story is overwhelming.
When the story is not uplifting or helpful.
When the story indicates the person telling it needs more help than you can give.
A perverse person stirs up conflict, and a gossip separates close friends. Prov. 16:28 NIV
Listening when the topic is hurtful is destructive to everyone involved. Again we must interpret the words and decide what to do. Sometimes we can just walk away. Sometimes we need to tell the person speaking that the story they are telling is inappropriate. Sometimes we need to find help for the person telling the story when we are overwhelmed or cannot give the help they need. Deciding what to do is difficult and requires discernment of the person, the situation, and our own weaknesses. There may be offense at first but the goal is for everyone to realize the need to guard our words and speak things that are helpful and not hurtful.
My goal is to get better at listening; to focus on the person and the story being told and to put distractions (including how I should answer) aside and to really hear what is being said. I’m working on recognizing and replacing bad habits like those on the not to do list with better listening skills.
Van Gogh lovingly known as Goby and Kisa also known as Dingly
Blue Connotations 