Rebel Words

I live in a world full of words that tumble over themselves in their haste to be meaningful.
Quiet aligns them gently and, with a firm hand, schools them.
But the rebel delinquents somehow manage to climb out the window.
It may be that they were most worth saying.
Or perhaps they are simply claiming this is so.
When the principal suspends them, they will have to dangle from their substance.
I see them tremble for the harsher challenge they must face.
But any sympathy I feel is curbed by faith in truth.

A Ramble on Meaning and Reason

There is no beginning or end to the part of me given by God, of use to the world, to be poured out and shared like a chef's concoction, meant to be consumed to have meaning.

And if I were to say, "I am artist," or  "I am mother," or "I am friend," and neglect the whole,  then it could break into the nothing that each element would be if it hadn't been put together by a masterful hand.

The meaning of my existence is Christ.

The reason of my existence is service.

The use of my service is relationship.

The meaning in relationship is Christ.

And it's good not to know how it will all play out ahead of time, or I would only do what I can see possible, and that would just be me. But I am Christ's artist, the friend he shapes of me, the servant he guides me to be, there to glorify him in the midst of the many, a portion of the feast of life.

(Maybe dessert, since I'm insubstantial ... but hopefully the healthy sort.)

My Way

My way
doesn't mean anything exactly,
changeable as a mood,
affected by event
and circumstance.

No.

My way 
doesn't mean anything,
exactly. 

That is why God's way
is the way I follow
and the guideline I seek,
unchanging and unaffected
by whim or trouble.

Yes.

His way
means everything
exactly.

So I don't need to write this after all...

It's good to know others deal with the same concepts I do.
It's even better when they present the nebulous ideas I'm tangled with in a solid and cohesive form.
It's best when they glorify Christ while they do it.

Visit Heather Goodman over at The Master's Artist to consider where an artist should find identity in Feast or Fallow.

Original Words

There is an echo in the waiting
again
again
and always another wave of belonging
here
there
holding to the source of the call
to bounce back against the stony sides
of this gash we call World
and feel the jagged edges tear at the likeness;
but the voice is clearer still
and carries constant tones
outside of time,
so when I reach the end
I will exit-enter,
and, with no lack, exist from
the Word of words,
whole and complete,
as spoken
in the beginning.

Imprinted Heart

Imprinted impressions on formation, 
Wrought beneath the fingerprint of God,
Marked by the touch of many lives.
As time passes, we open our eyes
And see how the woven intricacy
Is patterned by grace that sets hearts free.

---

"Imprinted Heart" was completed last week after months of processing, frustration, avoidance, and finally an entrustment of the concept to God for the completion of the work.

Home Again With Photos

 My son fishing while the morning mist rises.

Moon through a spider's web.

 Catching the reflection of the Word on the water.

 Reflecting on reflections.

 Ripples and light.

Propulsion.

 Finding color.

 White bark in contrast.

 Suspicious cats.

 Mysterious structures hidden within the greenery.

 Creatures that pose for photographs.

Watching the sunset on the highway.

Gifts of love.

Gifts of peace.

Gifts of beauty.

God is good.

An Unexpected Vacation

What can I say? Suddenly the children and I are off on vacation... well, vacation for me anyway; they still have to do homeschooling with their grandmother every morning. We're just off a gorgeous lake, staying with my aunt. There's no internet, and it's incredibly refreshing.

You'll hear more from me when I return home.

The Art of Being Broken -or- Why I Art

We've all been broken somehow. If nothing else, we begin life with a broken link to God and that separation permeates our existence, though we often blame other circumstances or people as the cause. Every event, whether our own choice or the effects of decisions made near us leaves a permanent mark or impression in the whole of our life, some faint and hard to see, and others massive and impossible to ignore.

It is from this place that my art begins its life. Every mark of the pen, every dot, every band or splash of black must become a part of what it is. There is no erasure in ink, no second layer that will replace the errors as paint might. This is one of the reasons I appreciate ink; it takes courage to face it and there is no "if only."

Ink is like life. I have to go on with the beginning that cannot be ignored, and every new element that comes along is a redirection that will become an integral part of the completed image.

You see, just like my art, I'm a mess, a mass of dark lines smeared across the page, an impossible beginning without even a recognizable object to explain why it is. I'm a messy page of permanent marks handed into the hands of a Redeeming Creator. Without him, a mess is all I could ever be.

But with his hands composing, there is no doubt that the end result will be beautiful, no matter the difficulty faced. Deep gouges of pain become the source point to delicate lines of fragile grace. While I could never truly imitate what he does for his people, I can keep working on the pages beneath my fingers as I see him work within this seemingly out of control world.

Every messy line can be smoothed and reshaped, new patterns or borders will spill out from the bumps and corners, filling the spaces between with texture and meaning that wouldn't have existed otherwise. In the end, it still isn't a recognizable object, but the shapes have meaning and purpose, and when you look at them you see the heart of this artist; you see how I look at the world.

It is joy in redemption, in correcting and reshaping and redefining; permanent marks, some or many mistakes--all are drawn together into a glimpse of the beauty I am privileged to notice.

And when you look, I hope you see the same in my life--redemption and the character of the Artist who shapes me.

Why I Art - Part 2 (The Business of Worship)

I'm neither the echo nor the source of the call, but the empty chasm where wanderers and purposeful travelers may pause for a moment to listen before searching out the source of the call singing through the air.

I hope to echo constantly, but this dithering over price and profit, congealing in my veins, shuts me down into myself until I'm merely a crumbling rock within the cliff, precariously suspended by the erosion of the world.

It is too easy to think of art as a way to gain, an indirect and sometimes treacherous route to fame or cash, a quiet subversion or redirection toward my vision, my thoughts, my interests. And, while I'm secretly whispering, "Follow, honor, respect, watch ... me!" into the wind, I will not be empty enough for truth to echo clearly within my life.

Enough with that! I choose not to focus in the direction of profit or gaining a market any longer. Please note, I could scarcely draw or write at all when I was thinking that way ... a sure indication, to my mind, that art and writing are a gift directly under the influence of the Spirit, and as such should be used with generosity and for God's glory.

My provider is God, and the talents he has given me are not monetary in nature. I am designed as an artist, a thinker, a writer, an encourager. I do not control the returns, but can only choose where to spend my efforts, emotions, and will. It is God who is in charge of shaping the results, and he can be trusted with them far more than any other to whom I might entrust them.

My next post will be my new "marketing and sales policy" the philosophy of which is guaranteed to cause any salesman or business-person to become mildly insane, if I understand my husband's feedback properly. However, he concluded that he's never thought of my art as a way to make a profit, so he winced, shrugged, and told me to try it ... probably because I'm all starry-eyed at the shape of this idea.

(I'll probably post the business plan/policy/sales strategy later today.)

Soaring

Upon the wind of grace I fly
with wings of faith
flung open wide.

---

Not a haiku, though I almost thought it could become one... This will have to do.

Burnt Blood and Feathers

Dream softly, there, nestled close to heart and breath
and rhythm of blood pulsing through close-bonded nest
of anchored expectation and hope bound to aspiration
where ruffling wind blows through
in sighs that lift feathers nestled close beneath limitations.

Pulse of my blood, wings of my heart, do not lift nor fly
when held so close where none might injure or despise.
Frail dream too weak to lift its head,
yet treasured still.
May as well be dead.

Give, give your heart in sacrifice to the Shaper of all
at such a price, this loss of claim feels like a fall
and tearing dreams to death, to give,
cut off from weakened will
release this mangled emptiness ... to live?

Feathers drift in wind, impressive promise from bloodstained quills
in mockery of hope, it seems. For what can fill
this death of form and shape and art
this gaping hole, here, beneath my weeping.
This bleeding hole into my heart.

And all around, flying high as if to mock this choice,
swoop and soar sweet dreams (not mine) singing such joyous noise.
Here darkness falls in grip of death.
Where is the light
or source of breath?

Wings flame upon the altar in rising density of smoke stench!
Recoiling fear. I clench this unused stick of sacrifice, this match.
How came this flame?
Destruction swallows my dreams
and blackens the blood's stain.

In sweeping surge of flaming wings raised high
a rush of embers soar into the sky.
Oh, sacrifice, what now remains?
I look for light,
search through the night, the pain.

And wings of flame surround me, now,
blocking out the darkness. I weep for how
they sear my face
till tears and blood
are both erased.

Losing regret within the crumbling shell of self, no longer care,
accepting loss amid the scent of burning hair.
But what is this within the fire?
A true life source
burns ready to inspire!

And as the sun eclipses rushing flames
the same light here is healing where it came
and wings rise free upon the winds of love
unbound, responsive ligament and muscle
I soar above ...

Impossibly remade, this dream is life; and I now live
upon a flowing current I could never give
and if the flames consume me still,
I know that where they burn--conformed, reformed--
I thrive within God's will.

---

Some lessons come with stories anchored in the revelations of the past. Myths and fables can carry truth deeper, beyond the blindness we nurture as a shield from change. The continuing story of a phoenix and a dream is one God often uses to reach through my heart.

This poem is one of many others contributed by various bloggers to One Shot Wednesday. Follow the link to find stories and moments and moods, images of word and phrase that inspire hope or reflection or both. And, if you are willing, feel free to submit your own linked poem to the mix.

Image - Phoenix, digitally painted in 2009

Speaking Into Silence

Some days I'm in it for me. Or perhaps it's every day that I struggle within the confinement of myself, knowing there is more but so chronically self-focused that I cannot break away even toward the joy I know selflessness can be. I check for messages, again and again, hoping God will reaffirm that he is using me, that someone has been encouraged, that ... oh, yes, that it's worth it again, today ... to give.

What is this? Why do I need proof again? Why do I tell him, "I'll only share if you give me some return on investment!"

And thus I fall silent, waiting for the again proof of something I already know, that my transparency within this place is called by him; it is a gift to some individual who may not encounter it for days, or months, or years ... and while it is available to anyone, I am not reaching out to anyone, but to the ones he had chosen to reach with these feeble words.

I am helping no one. And when I think I am, I grab glory from God's hands and ask him to pay me for what he does.

Oh, what a foolish heart struggles here. And yet, somehow, God still exhibits his creative grace by working in and through this self who he recalls again and again to release, to submit, to trust. Never once has he failed to pull me away from the grasping for gratification, sometimes by holding the world silent while I remember that he already knows what good work he has done and doesn't need my eyes to confirm it.

Finding Beauty in Beauty

An creative perspective finds elements within beauty that others may pass by, and draws them out so everyone may see. And every heart will focus on a different element that together make a landscape.

Join me along the paths of recent rambles. (I tried calling it hiking, but the term just doesn't fit brief, slow, and easy walks.) 

 A city, I'm sure. Though who lives there must be left to the imagination...

 Faces. Such expressions! One must consider their stories.

 A Tale of the Tails of Two Fishies

 "Greetings, human."

 Mystery: a church and a steeple, but what tiny, invisible people!

 The angels trumpet joy nearby.

 Replacement leaves adorn dead branches, a gift of the vine.

 Sometimes we need a window to the light.

 Death can expose beauty within the patterns of the Creator.

 Sometimes it's fun to play with colors, definition and shadows to bring out elements of the light.

Onward

Beauty is better when it is surprising and inspiring. It is only when it is compressed by the boundaries of expectation or depression that it becomes less than it should be.

I am dreaming today, and the sketch of what these dream seeds will grow overwhelms me. I cry before God as I look at them, at the impossibility of towering life sourced in something so small. I cannot hold the possibilities, cannot envision the promise of a such a future begun in death, buried beneath the soil and waiting for nutrients, water, and light.

Part of the planting is going to be sharing, and setting myself up for scorn and mockery, as well as the support I hope to find.

My personal dream is easier. Already it has begun to sprout, and I have seen God's faithfulness to grow it in spite of how limited I am. Already I can see God's greatness. So I will share it, soon, the possibilities I turn over to his hands, the hopes I submit to his will, the overwhelming awe of him that forces me to admit that small dreams are merely the limits I impose on his grace so as not to be overwhelmed by his presence. I cannot dream small in the face of a God so great. But my leaves will turn to the sun, and I will be directed and grown by his glory, no matter the characteristics of the plant or the type of fruit I will bear.

Watch with me to see what he will do.

But there is another dream, a dream that I have tried to kill again and again with the words "impossible" "too much" "extreme" "insane" "difficult" "overwhelming" "nobody will accept this" but over the last years (I would have to read my journals to find how far back.) it has refused to die. It is a dream too large for me, and one that will need a large group of people with abilities I do not have, but I've finally given in to that burning prompt and begun to write it down.

I'm still not sure if I will share it yet. Those pages and pages of thoughts, and lists of the beginnings of the shape of a pattern I can't even begin to outline. Even saying it exists is terrifying ...  I think it's because this isn't a small thing to trust for. Personal friends and family will be the first to see it, and perhaps the test for whether it will ever be exposed to the sight of others.

I'm confident it will be exposed as false if that is what it is, but only by beginning to admit its existence could it ever become what I see. And the fear ... the fear is that it isn't real, and that I will be mocked for thinking so far beyond myself.

But if it is real,... oh how beautiful it will be to see the impossible happen!

And finally the hope is winning out over fear. Because if it is real, God will provide the people to dream with me and the means to grow it into real from the seed of possibility.

Onward for God's glory, shaken and awed.

The Things that Hold Me Back

This is the awareness post that comes before the next goal and the next dream. It is the balance for my desires; the reality of my sinful self that somehow loses form in the face of Christ. Consider this a confession, an exhibit of all God is overcoming in me. When you see me beyond the limits I outline here, you will know it is Christ.

And, yes, I blatantly stole the title from Kelly.

Because I'm stepping out, off a cliff onto a support I know is there, without definition or explanation. I do not know what route will lead me to the final goal because the path cannot be seen, it can only be walked when we stop looking at our feet and gaze upward ... and oh how I long to see what beauty lies beyond my sight and explore the mystery of grace.

I desire admiration, long for support, crave love. Without Christ I am incapable of generosity, unable to offer love without reward, unwilling to serve or sacrifice. I know the depths I could reach, how far down I could descend in my desire to protect myself, to have all I desire ... shallow, empty dreams.

I could create traps and lure eyes to corruption. I could offer empty promises and try to claim secret knowledge to win a following and security of place. Oh, how I might betray and lie and steal to grasp for enough to fill me and preserve myself against blame. All this might be my life while I dreamed myself as better than some and more than most.

Fabricating false premises could shape my world, I could draw others to enter a binding path and blind them to truth. Oh, I could twist my life into knots until even I would find difficult to untangle truth from lies. Without Christ I would, because emptiness would tear me into fear and all would seem meaningless without the desperate efforts. And fear could consume me even to hatred or murder.

There is no limit to what evil I could be, no definition to how corrupt I might become. Because these are the paths so easy to walk in the midst of self-deceit. And I could walk these paths thinking myself without option or, worse, right.

I have tricked myself with evil thoughts in the night until I leaped into sins I'd considered impossible for me. And when the light shone into those acts and the blaze of truth flared through them, I followed the stain of their source back through years of secretly indulged desires, locked within the realm of daydreams which I'd considered safe.

I see these capacities in myself even now, exposed in my selfish inclinations and in the lies I whisper to myself in the dark when light seems far away.

Even as I write these things, a tangle of pride whispers, "Oh, won't some of them admire you for your honesty! This is humility!" And I must cry out to the God who saves me from this, worst of all, my self in all its deceptive pride, taking credit for a work only Christ can shape.

And now I trust, as this path appears beneath my feet, that God anticipates these thoughts and corrects my direction with exposure or consequence because I am his and it is his glory that will be raised high in the end.

He said he would live in me.
So I ask you to look for him.
Oh, how I want to know when you see him,
but I know he hides it from me sometimes
to keep me from pride.

This life is his,
along with the many more who
live loud
or quiet
or beautiful
or painful
across the world.
And I officially declare
that I'm opening toward
the impossible path ahead.
It may be secret
or public, large
or small, but
any good you find
...
that is Christ.

Isn't he amazing?
I see him in so many people.
I've already been informed he's been seen in me!
And that is a mystery I will explore for the rest of my life.

You know, there is, perhaps, a tad ... a smidge ... a distinct indication of ... a minute tendency toward drama in me.... Just in case you haven't noticed. I think of it rather scornfully, even as I enjoy it.

Hrm...

I confuse myself.

Guess I'll have to leave making sense of this to God.

Playing Pretend

She plays pretend in the halls of home
being princess or mommy or both
in the sparkle of dreams within tangled waves
because imperfect is full of laughter
and love wraps her as she is.

She plays pretend on the streets
performing the lover princess
amid shells of dreams tried and discarded
because imperfect isn't enough
to fill the gaping need for love.

She plays pretend for magazines
a false-front princess for selfish eyes
skinned with dreams and disguised by art
hiding imperfection behind laughter and desire
because flaws mean love will not find her.

She discards pretense into holy hands
which raise her as princess of the kingdom
and exchanges her dreams for the treasure keys
because imperfect is simply the reason to trust
and true love heals the exposed and broken.

Gifts

Encouragement comes in the mail. And as it rests upon these unfinished lines, I remember again how inspiring it is to have friends.

Such a delicate collection of tags and sweet little envelope; they rest here beside my computer and every time I look, I find a smile.

A Dream and the Exposed Turmoil of the Heart

The Artist's Dream -

I don't remember what came before,
what mockery or scorn was poured
in scalding torment to my soul.
But this I do recall in whole,
my anger and frustration burn
in echo memory to that turn
as I then faced them down.
What tears were in the sound.

"I do not shape my art for pay!...
Nor cater to the common way!
I would rather give to all
a memory or a brand new call,
and share most freely to the hands
who pay no price, make no demands,
but only find a value in
the form of art that wears their skin.

"To claim it worthy, by my right,
I'll place a price before your sight,
and one that none would ever pay!
So every gift will go its way
to hearts that see the worth in spite
of all your mockery tonight.

"Thirty-three thousand, from today,
is all I'll ever ask for pay.
For I know that only one
who sees the treasure pays this sum.
And from now on, what gifts I'll share,
which carry such a price, marked rare.
And through your scorn you'll never see
that art is generosity."

 ---
If you're from One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday, then feel free to stop reading here. Because the rest is oh-so-prose. And if you enjoy poetry, follow the link to read the writings of many who wrap life in the beauty of words and phrase!
---

The Exposed Turmoil-

And then I woke up. And I wondered why I felt so tense until fragments of this dream returned to mind. That's pretty much the closest thing to a nightmare I've had in a long time, though it wasn't fear I felt, but anguish. I suppose there must have been an accusation that I was only randomly putting lines on a page to try to con someone into paying me. Heh!

$33,000? Why in all creation would I use that number?

*Warning! Thinking-too-much ensues after this point. Reader beware!*

Actually, that dream pretty much sums up what froze my art this month. I tried to think of it as a business, and it turns out I can't. Creativity won't flow when it's marked with a cost, and quite frankly, the heart-value I invest into the lines has no correlation with the inference of the price I can legitimately claim as a new artist.

Ink - $5
Pen - $10
Paper - $2
Art? - Priceless!

How can one put a price on a dream?
Or place a cost on a gift that's given?
Or charge for the right to think and share?

By definition, a low price isn't a gift. In modern eyes, it's a loss-leader--a lure to catch a greater prize. (I've been learning too much from my marketer/salesman husband, perhaps?) Only the prize I'm looking for isn't in the art sale, but in the depth of meaning given to the viewer of my art. But how can I hope to pour so much meaning into ink and paper that the viewer feels its worth is beyond price? The only way that could happen is within the hand of God, who has a habit of shaping more than could be expected from nothing.

If it's merely pretty, I don't want to invest in creating art, for where is the value?

I know that if something were to happen to my husband I would hope for art to be my means of income.-- BUT--For that to happen I would need to do this well.--AND--How does one reconcile with claiming a value?--BECAUSE--The value I want to invest is something that can't be marked by dollar signs.---YET--The world infers value from price.--AND--I don't know whether I am blinded by pride.--BUT--I want to reach as far as I can.--AND--I want to pour out more love than I contain, more thoughts than I can define, more beauty than I can see.--AND--The only way any good will come of any of this is if God's hand shapes the motion and the result for his glory.

If my art is merely pretty, I would rather you looked at the changing sky or the branches of a tree, which at least maintain the ability to cry out the reality of their Creator and direct your eyes toward him. I cannot share what is not given nor pour out more than lies within, But I dream of reflecting heart to heart and sharing love by means of art.

Maybe I should just mark a high value on my originals. At least then, like in the dream, I would know that the new owner has found a treasure even if I cannot see the heart. Perhaps each drawing should come with a letter?...

*Sigh*

The easiest route would be to hide it away and avoid the scorn and the difficult decisions, but I already know that isn't the answer, for a talent that is not invested cannot gain value. (And, yes, I'm referring to the servant who buried that which his master had given him out of fear that he might lose it.) Parables kinda stick, don't they?


I'd rather give my art away to those I know find inspiration or encouragement in seeing it. But by limiting the choice to the parameters I perceive, I attempt to manage the invisible workings of a God beyond all understanding. I don't want to limit the possibilities with what I think I can do (which is more than I am doing, but still not very much) but when I look up there are no limits because God can do anything, and that confuses and confounds me. The future isn't something I can claim. I can only walk forward in absolute dependence and watch what happens.

And there I am, decisions still unmade, direction still vague, simply thinking and creating while hoping the rest will come together on its own.

If you have read this far, I'm amazed! Now give me some advice, please!

And thank you.

The Forgotten

Young vacant eyes upon
the war-torn emptiness
of broken walls, grey dust.
Withdrawn.
Passed by, the wounded child waits
still wearing tears from long-flown days.
Seconds tick as dripping damp etches stone.
Deep grooves of past
and sand-scoured now echo the vacancy.
Oh, how the child wanders
frightened, frozen in the chill,
awaiting touch and hoped-for life.
But, lost and hopeless, hollow
cries echo silent in the wind.
Time folds around the wisp of red; 
her fabric scarf hangs,
motionless in gusting breeze;
dead leaves drift sullen in the gloom
to pile against unmoving feet.
And memory forgets that she is there
when no eyes see those wisps of hair
caught in motion, incomplete.
This fallen city will not last.
But she continues still
amid destruction, drained of will.
Only an understanding gaze
could ever heal her from this place. 

---

This is a portion of a story that began as a mental image yesterday. This initial glimpse of idea unexpectedly became poetry. There is a second part, but it might need narrative to flow.

This is now a part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival - Healing. Follow the link to find many more poems, stories and articles on the theme of healing.

Why I Art - Part 1

My art is shaped amid long hours of focused, quiet attention and prayer. It illustrates the flow of present acceptance as it builds upon the past marks of the pen in constant motion toward the possibilities of the future. When my work is through, I expect the drawing to be more than I thought it was when I started or it cannot be considered complete.

The poetry, philosophy, and doctrine that are exposed in my heart through the process become the core of the conversation and relationship that are the true value beyond the ink and paper. Past art has its value in the thoughts and perspectives of the artists that created it. We admire technique and study the tools, but in the end it's world-view that gives art its value.

So art is also my pathway to conveying and discovering ideas. I learn about the viewer and how they think by the way they respond to my art. Words and ideas flow verbally when the image is near. The viewer is key to the final shaping of my work. And I learn more from the thoughts of others than I do my own.