Month: September 2020

Okay. Let’s start with the fact that I did not, in fact, watch the debate last night. Stephen Colbert and Sen. Cory Booker were as much as I could manage.

There was absolutely no possibility that anything said or done in the debate was going to change my mind about whose name to mark on my mail-in ballot. And, my blood pressure tends to run a bit higher than my doc would choose for it to, even on a normal day, whatever that might be in this world.

I went to bed with the music of Jon Batiste swirling in my head and dreamed of the days in the early ’90’s when I was serving a tiny church in Tennessee. One of the things I learned as a new seminary graduate was that Sunday comes, and there has to be something to say.

Or, in my world, these days, Wednesday and Sunday 😉

Two specific times stood out in my dreams. The first was the Sunday before the vote to begin the 1991 Gulf war. The congregation was divided as to party and opinions on military action.

They were also, at that point, still somewhat divided about having a woman for a pastor.

I don’t remember what the lectionary readings were for that Sunday. I’m pretty sure I was preaching from the prophets. I know I was terrified.

Somehow, we made it to the benediction. My version goes like this:

The grace of God Almighty, the love of Christ the Son, and the power and fellowship of God the Holy Spirit be and abide with you and with all those you love, this day and every day, forever.

On that particular day, a few more words snuck in just before the amen:

And may God have mercy on us all.

The second memory swirling through my dreams was of another Sunday in Tennessee. I had spent all of Saturday, and most of Saturday night, at the hospital with a church member. For this moment, let’s just go with she needed me.

And let’s admit that my sermon was not ready Sunday morning.

Some holy inspiration led me to toss the bulletins I’d prepared for the day (which my 11 year old son had carefully folded!) into the recycling and make a fast list of some comforting verses of scripture and some familiar hymns.

Tagging a few members to read, and assuring the piano player that the simple versions would work, we were ready.

Think Lessons and Carols.

Somehow, we survived. And the congregation thought it was great fun.

I suppose that’s kind of where I wound up this morning. A few old stories and a bit of music.

The first piece from Jon Batiste…

And the second, complete with images, an old favorite I just can’t get out of my head. Feel free to sing along!

Grace and Peace be with you and yours according to your understanding.

This isn’t the blog post I was going to write. I was going to share some encouraging news about how I understand my art and my work as a teacher and coach, imagining going forward. And I was excited to share some news about new things in my Etsy shop.

Instead, here’s where I started, last night:

Those stories, though, are going to need to wait until a different day for there is another tale insisting on being told. Now. With the full range of who I am. If you’d prefer the art and camp stories, I totally understand. I would, too. And, while I can’t, you can. Just wander back to the first paragraph, click on Etsy shop and have a ball, knowing that you, too, are doing a great deal of good.

Break for something pretty close to sleeping and some starting over…

It’s been, if you’ll excuse the expression, a bit of a bitch of a weekend. Not so much in a world-shattering kind of way but in a bunch of smaller stuff in the context of the larger lunacy.

Saturday, a disagreement with Facebook over something I wanted to share that they, apparently, had a problem with. Fortunately resolved… eventually. If you’re curious, there’s a video on my personal page. It’s worth all 8 minutes. (You’ll need to scroll down a bit.)

Plus, I hurt. Specifically, my left hip is not behaving at all well. It also means that I need help for lots of things which means lots of explaining.

I wrote last night. In the get it all out sense. It had a lot to do with US politics and how I feel about much of it.

My words were articulate and passionate and spelled correctly. I did the requisite fact checking and determined that they were also true, in so far as I could tell, and given the fact that there are way too many talking heads seemingly not concerned enough with truth just now.

I went to bed with the Iron Chef America tournament of champions rolling around in my head. (It’s what I do when I need a break!)

Oddly, my buddies from Kitchen Stadium ran, somewhere in my consciousness, into yet another tournament of sorts.

You see, on Friday night, while I was matting art prints, I was also watching Shrek. The first one. And I woke up this morning remembering that fairy tales, throughout history, have often served as excellent ways for telling truth, especially to grandchildren, while also keeping one’s head.

Which I really rather hope is the reason the station my TV knows as 54FREE has been running an awful lot of Shrek these days. Check it out, if you’re in the mood. Fair warning… you have to watch clear to the end, including the credits.

The other cool thing about fairy tales is that they give the reader space to make meaning. So, I’m going back to art for today. My first act was to choose art for this post. You’ve probably met her before. Or, rather, them.

Tomorrow, Willow and the Bear are going to their forever home.

It was a journey which surprised me in many ways. What you’re seeing is the first four months or so of work on a painting called Codex that was supposed to be a 13-moon project.

A friend and I worked long hours one evening, each on our own Codex canvas. Eventually, I went to bed with all kinds of magical prompts for calling up deep knowing dancing in my head.

The next morning I woke up and, when I walked past my studio door and glanced at my canvas turned just so on its easel, I saw her.

Willow. An image which looked startlingly like a dear friend’s dog who had just made her trip across the Rainbow Bridge. (Left of center, near the top, if you’re curious.)

I knew, in that moment, that I couldn’t loose her in more layers of unknown. Instead, I started a new Codex journey which involved some scrambling to catch up.

It wasn’t until I looked at a photograph of Willow’s canvas that I saw the bear. About centered, blues and blacks. A Koala.

I adore this painting which surprised me so much! And I’m thrilled that she’s headed for a home where she is already loved and understood. And, somehow, with help from a flock of Iron Chefs, the Shrek crowd, and Willow and the Bear, I woke this morning, ready to go on.

It’s not that I didn’t mean all the ranting from last night. I did, with every fiber of my being. It’s just that I meant it so much I concluded that my job was to give you a chance to find your own truth, just as I did.

And, by truth, I mean not political views I happen to hold (Which would, in fact, be okay!) but the truth of your journey and your voice and your art, whatever it might be.

Before I go, I have a favor to ask. Please consider making hearts. Kind of like prayer dots. If you agree, and if you happen to be a subscriber to this blog (which means you got this via email) and you happen to make those hearts in my Etsy shop, “favoriting” one or some of my works, a magical being I don’t quite understand will email you 10% off coupons for items you marked in the shop. (The coupons may take until tomorrow morning to arrive 😉 )

If, however, you’re not yet a subscriber to my blog, you could sign up in the annoying pop-up box, get on the list for some cool welcome emails (which are about to become collectors’ items in their own right) and go do the fav thing on Etsy. The magical being will be delighted to send you coupons, as well.

ps… there is at least one print of Willow and the Bear available now. And, since you know the artist, more could magically be made!

pps… My vote-by-mail ballot arrived Saturday!

Context is, as they say, everything.

A year or so ago, when I shared the following passage in these pages, the magnificent Julie Steelman was teaching some of us about financial sovereignty for women.

In this moment, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who has taught, and fought for, so many of us through the years has passed on.

Here is some of what she was fighting against…

A man and wife are one person in law; the wife loses all her rights as a single woman, and her existence is entirely absorbed in that of her husband. He is civilly responsible for her acts, she lives under his protection or cover, and her condition is called coverture.

A woman’s body belongs to her husband; she is in his custody, and he can enforce his right by a writ of habeas corpus.

What was her personal property before marriage, such as money in hand, money at the bank, jewels, household goods, clothes, etc., becomes absolutely her husband’s, and he may assign or dispose of them at his pleasure whether he and his wife live together or not.

A wife’s chattels real (i.e., estates) become her husband’s.

Neither the Courts of Common law nor Equity have any direct power to oblige a man to support his wife…

The legal custody of children belongs to the father. During the life-time of a sane father, the mother has no rights over her children, except limited power over infants, and the father may take them from her and dispose of them as he sees fit.

A married woman cannot sue or be sued for contracts — nor can she enter into contracts except as an agent of her husband; that is to say, her word alone is not binding in law…

A husband and wife cannot be found guilty of conspiracy, as that offense cannot be committed unless there are two persons.

Now, a couple of questions.

What did you notice as you read? What did you wonder?

I’m betting that one of the things you’re wondering about is the source of this quote. I learned it from Carolyn Heilbrun’s magnificent book, Writing A Woman’s Life. The quote itself is from a pamphlet, Married Women and the Law by Barbara Leigh Smith Bodichon in the USA, 1854.

It’s true that many of us are in a different place, today.

But, just in case you think we haven’t quite made it to the world we’d like our granddaughters to grow up in… or our grandsons, for that matter… what, then, do we do?

I can only speak for myself.

Prayer dots and tears, for a start.

Petitions to the Senate. Several of them, already. Insisting that a nominee for Ginsburg’s Supreme Court seat not be considered or confirmed until the national election is complete.

Working harder even than before for the candidates I trust.

It’s a challenge. I’m having a bit of an orthopedic adventure at the moment and delivering yard signs or knocking on doors or learning to be a poll worker aren’t really viable options for me. And we’re not exactly overflowing with spare cash in the moment.

But I have words. And a way to share the words of others. Kind of my own microscopic news organization. One that I, unlike some of the big kids, freely admit is biased. It’s biased toward the future we are creating in this moment. It’s biased toward upholding laws and norms my girls don’t even know once needed fighting for.

And I have fierce compassion. I’m giving it away. All you need or want, to put to work in your world.

Oh, and I have a painting I’m working on. Collaging names of my grandmothers. And a new grandmother. Ruth Bader Ginsburg. May her hopes and dreams for us and for all the generations to come be so.

Amen. Amen. Selah.

If you’ve been hanging around for a while, or know practically anybody in my family, you’ve probably realized that I didn’t get the Hallmark genes in the crowd. (Though I have been better at cards since I started making my own!)

I’ve been pondering that this weekend. Between the 9/11 anniversary on Friday and Grandparents’ Day, today, it’s felt really hard to find words that will fit on a card. Which might explain all the tears. Tears for big, complex feelings that don’t always have words.

There are times when I envy Phoebe, who has taken to muttering in her sleep, leaving the interpretation to the two footed folks nearby.

And then one of my paintings started asking for things. She’s been sitting on an easel since May or June, dropping hints and waiting for me to catch on.

I think our communication challenge started from the very beginning. Officially, her name in the land of Intentional Creativity® is Hydra’s Flare.

Astrology and Greek Mythology. Not my areas of expertise! Yes, I looked it up when we began but there were lots of other things going on about then and it somehow just didn’t stick for me. Especially the part about cutting off her heads and more growing back.

I painted the constellation. A great excuse for prayer dots. Dots for peace and for learning.

Then, a book I was reading, starting leaving little hints around about symbolism and names.

Then I got engaged in a major genealogy expedition.

Oh, and a friend looked at an online photo of my Work-in-Progress and asked who that was beside her.

You know how, once you see something, it’s really hard to un-see it? Well, that’s how I’ve been feeling about the presence beside the “main” figure in my painting. Once I saw her, I couldn’t un-see her. And I still didn’t know who or what she was.

A week or so ago, I realized that the mystery figure represented the ancestors. My ancestors. Specifically, my grandmothers.

Yesterday, I figured out how to pull it off!

So, digging through the family tree stuff, I began writing names. In longhand. Lots and lots of names. Then I printed them on recycled paper and began to tear the pages into pieces.

Tearing is important, at least for me. It leaves softer edges for collaging than cut edges.

I wondered a bit, as I tore up the names of the grandmothers, about this rather non-typical way of honoring them for Grandparents’ Day.

As I wondered some more, the tears began to fall again. You see, I know enough of the stories of these particular women to realize that many of them lived through days which must have felt a lot like these days feel to me.

Immigrants on well known boats. Wives of Revolutionary War soldiers. Mothers who knew what it was to wake up in the morning and wonder who was going to be in charge. And where the food was going to come from.

They don’t seem to have many answers, these scraps of paper with names of those who came before me. And yet, as they start to come together, I find comfort in giving form to their courage.

And in hoping it lives inside me, still.

I see it even now in my girls. Wise women already, I’m grateful for their inspiration in learning new things. I just wish they were old enough to vote!

For today, blessings. And hugs for some dear friends in Tennessee who have newborn twin grandsons! I’ll report back when my art adventure is closer to satisfied with me.