Ugly Art?

Art and dreams are full of symbolism. Some language is
 deeper than words; imagines can help us express what we 
know.

                           







  I made the following collage for three reasons.....

One, to express the depths of my sorrow over world events. Two, to express the rawness that I feel knowing of my sister-in-law's sudden diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. And, three, to express lament over this winter that never ends, the frozen pipes, poorly insulated 164 yr old farmhouse that can't keep out the bone chilling temps, endless other farm hassles, the budget in the red, and my all round crappy day filled with puppy digging in my potted fig tree (3x!) and grandson's naughtiness. Including pushing down the puppy gate that guards the fig tree. Meltdowns. One because the bright colored plastic tape strips he's trying to stick on the floor get wrinkles in them!  

 

Actually, I had four reasons. Number four- I've been waiting for time and inspiration to make a prayer mandala for the online retreat I'm participating in, called Sacred Seasons: A Yearlong Journey through the Celtic Wheel of the Year, offered through Abbey of the Arts. 

I had some time on Ash Wednesday, so I made the collage, and posted it to Facebook, writing, "so appropriate as I feel like a pile of ashes. So many discouragements. Instead of groaning and ranting and smacking....well okay I did rant to the farmer and I might have smacked a toe when I kicked a chunk of ice embedded in a snow drift on our morning walk......but instead of dwelling in that misery, I sent cards to my brother and sister in law, misted my gorgeous better-late-then-never blooming Christmas cactus. Now, I'm going to sit on my sunny window sill and make some ugly art. Some very ugly, messy, ashy art. Maybe when I'm done, I'll be able to rise from the ashes and continue to wait for spring.

This is my Imbolic - Candlemas Prayer Collage. It's not what I expected but what I accept.

Shockingly, as I uploaded this on my computer and brought the collage up on my screen, giant water drops like tears seemed to fall out of that eye image to roll down the screen. I freaked out a little -it seemed like God was crying too. Then I saw the pot I had just put on the kitchen pot rack above me was dripping water - not completely dry out of the dishwasher. What a powerful 'image' though, of  Universal lament. 

The suggestion after creating the collage was to write what our soul is experiencing - to deeply engage each image in the collage.  So I wrote this: 

"I am blue. Heart blue of pain and violence, tears blue as my sister-in-law is facing stage 4 pancreatic cancer. I am the moans of my brother watching his wife suffer. I am the scream thundering from my belly, raw and angry, sick of cold and winter. I am my grandson throwing a tantrum. I am spikes of exhaustion. I am silver lashes viewing life, seeing with the eyes of my heart. I am orange fire and presence. I am silver ash, chaff burning away. I am yoga, bending and breathing and not ripping. I am red shards my grandson cuts into my life: heights of love and depths of frustration. I am an exclamation point. I am crazy tangles of joy and grief and anger. I am a snowflake's spectacular beauty. I am pink sunrises and glimmers of red, like cardinals, like hope, hiding between branches. And I am fine, a human being fully alive."

After my Facebook posting a friend wondered why I called it ugly art? I originally called it bad art, but changed to ugly. The question made me realize both of those words are not descriptive of my intention to make something opposite from soft, flowing or pretty. Or nice, or positive or unbeat and victoriously Christian. Right then, I needed to make something s-h-a-r-d-y, with edges and closer to a  S C R E A M  than sweetness and joy. 

Screams too, belong......


                          ...... laments have their place.  Just ask my brother, or any kid. While I love some parts of winter.....this winter I may just want to scream until spring!!!!   

                       

CROWNS AND POPSICLES DO NOT PREVENT TEARS

Yesterday, our place was full of happy chaos! Mostly happy, anyway.   

A puppy pounced on a squeaky toy pulled by three laughing, calling kids. Spilled milk from a toddler’s cup puddled on the counter then followed the slight incline of old farmhouse from counter top to floor as Papaw ran for a towel. Nana followed giggly voices attached to skittering feet, closely observing the erratic race through the house.  She watched for signs of puppy bites to little ankles or children jostling too much.

In the midst of all the happy cavorting of said children and puppy, suddenly, one grandchild, a girl with sunshine for hair stopped running, fell to her knees beside one fire engine riding toy, and peered under the seat. Gleefully, she began scooping up handfuls of brilliantly colored, white-numbered dice and plunked them into a nearby red bucket.  All action halted instantly at the sound of dice hitting tin.

 

Puppy was curious, the small boy horrified.  His trunk was being looted right before his eyes, and his hidden treasures pirated.  Loud, mournful wails replaced the tinkling-on- tin as his small arm heaved backward readying for delivery of a sound thrashing to the golden head in front of him.

Nana intervened, swooping the indignant one up in her arms. Tears gushed down small cheeks as stammered words proclaimed ownership of all colored dice. The golden girl stood, then, offering her own condolences.  Nana, looked into the eyes of her youngest grandchild.

“I understand how hard this is for you,” she said.  “You may say you don’t like this.” (Nana loves how the small boy’s mommy tells him this when he is asked to do something he won’t appreciate, so she copies her style style.)

“I don’t yike this!” Boy quickly exclaims.  Nana gently continues.

“These toys are not really yours; they belong to Nana and Papaw. They seem like yours because you play with them more than your cousins do. Since you weren’t playing with the dice at the moment, it’s okay for her to play with them.  Sometimes, it’s best to share and other times it’s best to put our favorite toys away and not share. Tonight is the night for sharing though. Okay?”  

He meant to say, okay, but the o got stuck in his in his mouth as a fresh round of sorrow overtook him: Oooooooooooooo.  And then, he quieted, and spoke clearly.

“I need a pophickle.” The popsicle thought reminded his heart of the hurt so the wailing began again.  Since the conversation seemed more interesting than dice, the golden girl remained by our side.  

And this is where "I" -Nana - have this moment of the day in a freeze frame.  You know how clarity hits you smack in the heart sometimes?  Time seems to stand still?  It happened to me, right  here in this moment.

“Why do you need a popsicle, dear?” I ask. 

“Becuz, I’m sad.”  He draws out the word sad, drops his head and his eyes, tears hesitating on his lashes. When I’m silent, he looks up at me, his mouth crumbled, cheeks wet, brown eyes round and wide. 

Oh, he is good, this darling child who has observed human behavior for three long years. He is completely genuine too. There is absolutely no guile, no conniving in this child. His emotion is pure, raw, and yet, studied. Everything he’s learned up to this very moment is coming into play. Everything, we adults have taught him, by our actions, the TV shows we set before him, the subtle and obvious ways we tease, coerce or gently manipulate others.  He is simply mirroring it all back to us, with perfection. Why should he not be rewarded? 

The combination of angst, imitating, and 3 year old logic is deadly effective.  Many a weary adult has succumbed, myself included.  I confess my mind would love to stop it all here and be able to analyze into a sort of play by play. I wish I had years of study in psychology and human behavior to eloquently express all that I know and feel about this simple moment.  

Will I give him a popsicle?  Will I allow food - sugar and fat - to comfort him in his hour of need?  Will I choose food over honest human connection?  Will I slap a treat in his hands instead of walking deeper into this moment of discomfort with him?  

Frankly, I am tired. It’s been a long day of sopping wet snow suits, muddy boots, of lifting heavy snow balls to build a snowperson, of getting out snack after snack and cleaning up spills, of scolding the girls for getting homemade Gunk on their good shirts, of separating puppy teeth from pink mittens, of stopping the boy from jumping on girls and knocking their heads into giant sized goose eggs.

My lesser self want to give the popsicle.  After all, from his crawling about until now, every scrape he’s had involving the mouth or head involved something cold and icy to stop swelling and comfort the bruise. Why not continue the trend? It’s quite logical on his part to receive a popsicle also for his bruised heart. It would instantly turn tears to smiles, and buy me some time while I manage the puppy and the other two kids.  Besides, comfort food is what our whole culture pushes, right?  It’s what I grew up on.  Food = love and love = food.  Doesn't more connection happen around a table or a fire pit, then from silently sharing some space or from talking heart to heart?

I decide I’m wearier of my own food obsessions and conditionings, so I kiss his wet cheeks, hug him tight and set the timer.  His little face shows intrigue.

“When this timer goes off, we’ll decide if we are hungry. Until then, let’s read a book and snuggle on the sofa!” 

Time moved on then, the moment passed. Nana read the picture book, “The Crown on Your Head”

to the brown eyed boy and blonde headed girl, while the puppy chewed contentedly on a cow hoof she purposely dropped on the way to the book shelf, and the older child contented herself with a book of her own choosing.

After the book, the children felt and looked for their crowns. Nana told them how sparkly and special were their crowns.

 And later, when they decided they were hungry, Nana and Papaw pulled out a box of tiny cones and filled them with vanilla and chocolate ice cream!  

Small Boy and Dog: Magic Moment!

Yesterday, small boy was sleepy while watching Curious George on TV, so he climbed onto the sofa and curled up where squatty dog usually rests. 












When something exciting happened to George,

small boy sat up. Squatty dog saw his chance and jumped onto his favorite spot, edging boy over.  Small boy responded by carefully resting his body on top of squatty dog’s flank.

Nana hovered in the distance, watching, ready to protect small boy and dog. Nana expected dog to move away. Dog has never allowed boy to lay on him for long. Squatty dog acts like the other dog is stoo-pid for allowing small boy to hug and suffocate her.

Now, with his body perfectly molding the stout curve of squatty dog’s hip, small boy was perfectly still. His brown eyes wide with wonder, boy instinctively honored this magical moment with dog.  Dog moved his big head from the arm rest toward boy’s face. Nana moved to intervene, but stopped when dog simply looked at boy; boy looked back, brown eyes on brown eyes. Nana’s heart melted.

Dog broke the spell with an awkward lunge forward. Nana rushed toward them ready to separate the two.  She is the bite police, vividly remembering the horrible dog attack on small boy’s face just over a year ago.  She stopped again, as squatty dog heaved his cumbersome body up and dropped it solidly over small boy’s legs. Dog, now splayed across boy’s lap, belly up, sighed deeply.

Boy’s grin split his face; the faint scar above his lip smiling too as if in acknowledgement of this unique offer. Chubby fingers started scratching squatty dog’s belly, chest, hip as dog responded in little pig noises: contented grunting, blissful snorts, eyes closing. Boy locked eyes with Nana; adoring green eyes on big, round, brown eyes, silently sharing this enchanted moment. Nana hardly breathes, knowing how boy always wanted to love on THIS dog.

Then, as all moments do, this moment ended. Small boy’s chubby hand froze in mid-air over dog as his eyes turned from wonder to panic.

“Help, Nana,” he cried.  “Turnip is gwishing me!”  Nana laughed, spoke gently to wake dog from the trance, while lifting dog’s JackRussellBasset log-of-a-body up, so small boy could pull his legs out from under.

Dog jumped off sofa; boy curled up and returned to Curious George.  And, as is the norm with precious moments, hints of love and trust lingered in the room. 

Small boy and dog wish you all a Blessed Thanksgiving!!! 

In Celebration of Duds!

I survived our first major book signing! 

Fears were present but not overpowering- fears of introvert burnout over the endless socializing often required of an author, and of course, fears of vulnerability always part of a writer's life.  

But, last Saturday,  at the Jesuit Center in Wernersville,

I greeted people with my brother and co-author, Don. I had deep conversations, signed books, laughed, made connections and oozed extroverted energy.

When I could have holed up my room, I still felt energetic. So I took a walk 

with a good friend, soaking in the gorgeous surroundings...

front yard, Jesuit Center in Wernersville, PA

.....and was powerfully present to color, breeze, birds, our deep conversation. 

portico in late afternoon, Jesuit Center

I only needed a tiny bit of solitude

      and recharging 

               that afternoon. 

                       It felt good, flying high....

...felt smug even!  I'm beating the dud introvert label!  So this is how one rolls with the extroverted majority, the actively happy, school-desks-in-pods and office-teams-not-cubicles, American culture. Woot woot! 

Night ushered in more fun! In celebration of the book release, a few close friends gathered around me to release bright colored Chinese lanterns and light candles that shoot sprays of sparkles.

 Each friend clutched their favorite 'releasing' poem to read before lighting a lantern.  

But, the weather was a dud. WINDY.  Kicking up leaves and unwinding scarves from our necks, the wind gusts made the night dangerous for sending fire-powered lanterns into the sky.  

Disappointed, but determined to light something on fire, we huddled

labyrinth, Jesuit Center 

in the center of an outdoor labyrinth, blocking the wind with our bodies, hands, and books, and we tried to light a firecracker candle stuck in the center of a muffin.   

We tried over and over exhausting our trigger fingers. The lighter gasped, coughed and stuck. The wind quickly snuffed out each tiny spurt of flame. Laughing, we gathered round that lighter coaching it into flame like midwives telling an exhausted laborer to carry on, carry on for surely a burst of life is coming! But, alas, my lighter was a dud. 

  

We moved to the portico. One friend ran inside for a big box of matches. 

  Huddled even closer, and with hands and palms spread all around to protect the candle from gusts, we tried again. I loved the antics of my friends, the collective groaning and hoping for flames and fireworks. We threw away that candle, got another. We moved fast and worked hard like boys striking matches quickly before mom takes away our fun. But, both candles were duds.

Giving up on the candles, I pulled out my box of celebration crackers, wrapped in gold polka dots, tied with gilded ribbon. Yes, we would still celebrate with snaps and bangs!  We held our crackers, took turns reading our poems. One poem, one cracker. A dud.  Next one did not pop or snap either.

More moaning and disbelief. The next crackers were pulled apart faster. We so wanted to outsmart those inhibited crackers. How dare they be so unwilling to part with their party favors inside! (sounds like a bad metaphor for extroverts insisting introverts are holding back). Only one cracker cracked.    

Yet, I've never had more fun laughing with friends over duds. Their precious poetry made me teary, their enthusiasm for celebrating with me (and playing with fire) was delightful!  

And, we celebrated anyway…maybe even more so than seeing flame-lit lanterns floating into a starry sky, or candles exploding with sparkles.... 

in my dreams

                                        
                              ...NAH!    That part was still disappointing.

After continuing the party indoors with two friends, champagne and soul talk, I fell asleep that night, smiling and content. Another extroverted day followed, and the weekend ended by sharing dinner with friends. 

Got a massage the following Monday morning, went to my spiritual director afterward. After 30 minutes of talking with her about life, excitement, changes, unexpected losses, autumn beauty,

near fish pond at the Jesuit Center

exhaustion, decisions, poignant weekend moments…

photo by Mim Hurst 

                    suddenly, just like that…. 

the extroverted ride was over. I completely ran out of juice. Couldn't bear one more word, facial expression, scent of candle or color outside the window.

                                            

                       Full sensory overload! All circuits shutting down!

I fell silent.  

In her gracious, quiet presence, I cried. She smiled her beautiful Italian expressive extroverted smile, sat with me in silence and tears, then handed me materials on introversion. Introverts crashing. Germanic, stoic, smug introverts crashing.

We ended our session laughing.   

Sometimes life moves really fast. My sensitive soul has trouble keeping pace. It’s not about energy levels or out-goingness, it’s about giving myself quiet space to catch up. Introversion isn't the dud I sometimes make it out be.  

Even if that were true…..

                                       duds can be celebrated! 

~ ~ ~

more photos of Jesuit Center - ENJOY!        - http://jesuitcenter.org/

Helpful links:

Article - The Physical Behavior of Introverts

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/11/07/physical-behavior-of-introverts_n_6069438.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000063

Book - Quiet 

http://www.amazon.com/Quiet-Power-Introverts-World-Talking/dp/0307352153/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1415448785&sr=1-1&keywords=quiet

Sidetracked!

 
This one of my Small Boy and Dog stories about my grandson and our dog, Turnip. I often put these very short stories on Facebook as my status update. This one is longer and fits the theme of celebrating and savoring life, so I'm posting here  ....

SIDETRACKED

Small boy is completely fascinated with all things on our farm. Especially Aunt Kim's new dump wagon. According to him, he 'must use it for his werk' before she starts using it to cart horse manure. So, yesterday, I helped him into the wagon, tied our dogs,Turnip and Burren, to the wagon's side, and I pulled all toward the corn dryer. Because he wanted answers to his constantly asked questions:  what's that sound, (the corn dryer) what is a corn dryer, why does it make so much noise? Once at the dryer he heard and saw the fan, looked at the huge round bin all closed up and got upset that he couldn't see the corn inside. Luckily.......

...he got side tracked by this.  

Small boy is not allowed to touch this particular piece of equipment when it is connected to the farm auger. He says it's because his 'fingers will get stuck.'  Worse than that of course, but this description works without giving him nightmares. Anyway, this was sitting out near the shed unattached to any auger or tractor. The lure was too great. (He loves running his fingers through what he calls:  "corn, corn, corn, so much corn to feed Aunt Kim's a-ma-mels.")   So he asked if he could play with this corn. I said yes but only if he first told me why he isn't allowed to touch this bin chute when it's hooked to an auger or a tractor. 

     "Because my fingers will get stuck and it will hurt and I will cry and cry." 

     "You are absolutely right! Okay, since this is not hooked to a tractor or auger, you can play in the corn." 

The dogs sat by the wagon and watched as the small boy used the back of his chubby-but-not-quite-a-toddler-anymore hand to slowly brush all the corn to the left side.  

The dogs watched patiently as he slowly brushed all the corn to the right side.

They watched as he stood up, bent over at the waist and reverently brushed all the corn to the front. 

Then they got antsy. I did too. The sun was low in the sky and I hadn't taken the dogs to the pasture yet for their evening run. 

I started the normal phrases an adult uses to help a child transition, "In a few minutes it will be time to stop playing in the corn. Why don't you put some corn in the wagon to feed the goats?" 

    

 "NO!"  

Burren started whining. 

Small boy began slowly sweeping all the corn to the back. I got sidetracked myself, mesmerized by the way he used the back of his tiny hand to sweep. Who is he imitating with this motion? Does Papaw do this and I never noticed? Does my son, his daddy do this? Or is this the small one's own way to savor the sensation of golden kernels flowing over his skin? The dimples that kiss each tiny knuckle of his hand are hidden in the corn and suddenly, my mind flashed to the future, seeing him as a man brushing something away with the back of his hand. My heart caught. Turnip broke the spell when he suddenly jumped trying to pull the wagon. I yelled.

     "Turnip, stop it!"  

In reply, the hound dog's body language said:  Com'on, there are bunnies to sniff and pigeon poops to gobble. 

Without missing a slow sweep of hand, small boy called out.

    "Turnip, 'top it! You have to be quiet because Imma farmer and I have to do my werk." 

More talk of feeding corn to goats finally convinced the boy to leave the bin. He insisted on pulling the wagon to the barn. Because he is a farmer, Because he has to work. I loved how often he used his favorite word - because. The dogs loved to be moving.   

Unfortunately, the small one kept getting sidetracked. "I have to move all dis corn into the bin. Because I have to. Because I'm a farmer. Because I have werk to do."  

And then there was Honey the cat....

And a woolly caterpillar...

  

On his way to the goat barn, and much to the dogs' frustration, the boy found scattered corn stalks wilting on the lane. The small farmer had to pick up each stalk and throw it into the wagon to feed the goats. We rolled painstakingly slow to the barn, the small boy concentrating on his work, the dogs going half nutty and smelling CHICKENS in the barn. (dogs' work leans dangerously toward killing chickens)  

By the goat feeding trough, small boy methodically placed one wilted corn stalk at a time in the feeder, turning to the wagon to get another.  As he faced the wagon, I removed each stalk and hid it behind a stack of hay bales. While keeping an eye on the dogs. Do wilted corn stalks make goats sick? I wasn't taking any chances. The goats were all lined up for their unexpected smorgasbord and maa-ed their regrets as the stalks disappeared. The little farmer mumbled something about the goats eating  'real-dee, real-dee fast.' 

 I'm relieved. 

             Fooling him so easily proves he is still a small boy. 

                              For this moment, I savor his smallness, 

                                  

                                               grateful to be side tracked from the thought of his growing up. 

One more photo of the little farmer (and his dad), just for fun. And because I have to.  :) 

A Sketch of Sweet Old Dog

photo by Stephanie Landis
My daughter, Stephanie's Kelpie, "Sketch", and her toy fox terrier buddy, Teo

A Sketch of Sweet 
          Old Dog

She looks up with grizzled

muzzle, old face, big feet,

gnarly body; she has the sweetest

expressions.

Scrabbling for footing as her

world tilts, dizzily. Who turned the sky

grassy green? The horizon is over there,  
no over here. Vestibular Disease…

       
or brain tumor. Hard words for humans,

but not in dog vocabulary. Old dogs

know truth is found in smell alone.

Food, favorite bed, the scent of loved

ones.

Soft growls at the vet, indignant

grunts when picked up like a lopsided

sack of lumpy potatoes,

held in position for relieving the belly

of the undigested and unneeded.

“Have a tablespoon of mash. Have a lick

of ice.”  Old one says, don’t put your offerings

under my nose; give me the dignity to

choose my own bowl. Of limping, staggering,

even falling.  Life is risk.

Don’t make my world risk proof; not

yet.  Life is feeling floor boards under

your toes, sensing the scrab, scrab

of old claws on wood. 

I say, who suffers more: old dogs

or their people?