Category: Art Journey

For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought in terms of metaphorical boxes in my brain.

Kind of like myths of Granny’s attic, filled with dusty boxes and trunks full of old photos and yearbooks and clothes waiting for the day when someone would come and clean them out, dividing things with love amongst the family.

Only one of my grandmothers really had an attic and she was fond of shiny new things so she gave most of the things that would have been in the attic to generations of church rummage sales through the years.

And yet, in my head, the image persists.

As many of you know, I went to Hungary in the winter of 1989 with a group of seminary classmates. You’ve heard the stories… cold feet and homemade hootch for breakfast and Russian tanks “exercising” in the fields beside the roads.

One of the things that happened on that trip, which is a little harder to write about, is that all the boxes in my brain fell apart.

By the time I returned to Atlanta (and thawed out) it was no longer possible for me to live in a world with separate boxes for theology and economics and politics and health care and education, Christian or otherwise.

It all ran together and talking about one became talking about all.

This did not necessarily simplify life at that point in my journey.

I sure doesn’t simplify it these days!

There are a couple of boxes left in my mental attic though.

One of them, that seems to grow when I’m not looking, is labeled Loss in bold magic marker.

It’s an odd sort of box.

Every time I have an experience of loss and try to sneak unnoticed into the attic to slip the new bit tidily inside, all the other losses in there get riled up. They start trying to climb out of the box and run around the attic, demanding to be noticed all over again.

Which kind of means that all those I’ve lost are still with me, helping to make me who I am.

This week has been such a time.

It’s a complicated story, and not entirely mine to tell, so let me just say that an old friend was killed in a tragic accident.

The previous losses in my box are in full on riot mode, like tired toddlers wanting all the attention.

Loss, it seems, is loss. And it’s all hard.

Last night the attic dreams ran me out of bed and I spent some time with tea and my journal. Then I went back to making prayer dots.

Just in case you’re wondering what prayer dots are, they’re a tradition in the Intentional Creativity community with whom I am learning painting and a world full of transformative other things.

A bit like rosary beads, they’re a whole body-mind-spirit way of participating with prayers, which helps lots of us.

They also, as Shiloh Sophia would say, keep us facing the loss, the suffering, the love.

Ten lives lost in a Texas school shooting. A dot for each soul. Seventeen in Florida. And on and on.

If you wander back to the homepage here and click on the drop down menu for Artist, you’ll find a gallery of my quilts and discover that I’ve been hooked on polka dots for years.

Prayer dots are like polka dots, only better.

I make mine with the end of an old paint brush. Dip. Random-ish dots, each with a name or petition or simply attention. About four or five dots of varying sizes before it’s time to dip again.

Dip. Dots. Prayers. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Go back later and repeat some more.

Rage, if you need to. Cry. Give thanks.

Dip. Dots. Prayers.

I started with my very first painting, while a friend was critically ill in the midst of Hurricane Irma and I couldn’t get there.

The rhythm is somehow soothing for me.

My second painting is full of dots, too. Mostly for a friend going through treatment for breast cancer.

Those dots kindly made room for more last night and today. My friend. His family. Dip. Dots. Prayers.

Now, I was educated in what theological folks call the Reformed Tradition. As a flock, we’re not much for prayer rituals. Or at least we believe we’re not. And we’re pretty convinced that no number of polka dots in the world is going to change much. Which, in and of themselves, they’re not.

It’s the attention and intention that change things. Being conscious. Intending good. Reminding God, as the prophet Jeremiah said so long ago, of who God is.

Or, if you prefer, sending positive energy into the Cosmos.

Like getting thousands of people together to meditate for peace.

Dip. Dots. Prayers.

One day, I walk by one of my paintings and notice that what I feel is grateful. Grateful for all those I love, in this world or the next. Grateful for others making dots. Literally changing the world.

And I know that, one day, I’ll need more dots. Kind of like needing a bigger box in the attic.

And love will meet me there.

I watch a fair amount of HGTV.

I like the fix up a house for a family kind of shows rather than the flip options or the chain sawing through Alaska sagas.

We’ve been, as you may have suspected, playing HGTV at our house lately.

We’re making progress. Quite a bit, actually.

There’s room to paint and quilt and write.

A big chunk of our kitchen is rearranged according to the way we actually eat these days.

There’s even a table for gathering our beloveds around art and food, games and stories.

Somebody asked me, the other day, how I would know when we were done.

There are two answers to that.

The first is that we probably won’t be done. It really isn’t in me. Life keeps changing.

The second is that when I can sit in my fabulous new red chair with my feet up and a cup of tea, not feeling like I need to leap up and fix something, we’ll be pretty close for now.

When Luther gets up the nerve to hang out in the new family room, we’ll be right on target.

For the moment, Container Store loves me. Amazon is enthusiastic as well.

Shelves. Little plastic drawers in every size and shape. Rug pads. A shower curtain, even.

Better yet, though, is Kudzu.

Our local vintage and collectible place. Two book cases and an awesome library cart have followed me home recently, all from the budget department.

There’s even room around here in case a miracle happens and I buy another book or two.

It being Mothers’ Day, I can’t help but wonder what my mom would think.

Horrified comes to mind.

We don’t have “living room” furniture. Or “dining room” furniture, the way I grew up.

Nothing matches.

We have drapes but I’m going to have them cut off to the same length as the bottom of the windows.

The rugs, and pads, are to make the dogs comfy. (It takes up less room than a zillion dog beds!)

Vacuuming is a whole other issue!

And yet, with a lot of help, we are getting closer and closer to what we need.

The sheets are clean.

The towels are folded into the linen closet. (Which way needs a paint job!)

Tomorrow I’ll start paint-sketching the Talisman canvas.

There’s really good left-over soup in the fridge.

And parsley to plant in the morning.

Lots of this would seem weird to Mom.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, I think she might get it.

I hope so.

For now, though, a new pair of walking shoes. It’s a paint thing!

Blessings for moms of all sorts who remember and are remembered on this day, and Happy Birthday, dear Kelly!

Well, it’s one of those days.

Bill is running late.

Dinner is still cooking.

Sarah has a hotspot.

(Let’s don’t mention the do-nut thing!)

The “Do Not Disturb” signs on the doors have, shall we say, not worked too well today.

The paintings have been more than a bit chatty.

And the portions of my person that my beloved physical therapist refers to as quads are not in a good mood.

If you were to call me up and tell me your version of this story, I’d gently suggest that you take a deep breath or two, fix a cup of tea, and let it go.

Tomorrow will come.

It will still be Spring…at least where most of you are.

We won’t have starved.

Well, if you’re reading this, probably not. We’ll keep working on the rest tomorrow.

I’m squirting the dog with the colloidal silver stuff.

The bones from tonight’s chicken will turn into more food for tomorrow.

I’m making bigger signs for the doors.

And sleeping.

I hope.

Some days all we can do is practice what we preach.

This has been one of those.

There are, in all of our lives, days when those little Monopoly cards come in handy. This is one.

At the moment I’m just crossing my fingers that the whole chicken in the Instant Pot thing works!

I’ll keep you posted.

You know how most families have an eccentric aunt or uncle who is the keeper of the oral traditions?

Even the ones that everyone else would argue never happened?

In my family, it was my Aunt Em. She was my Gramma Elsie’s older sister.

(How much older is a matter of considerable debate!)

Aunt Em was full of stories. Many of them Elsie wished she wouldn’t tell, though we heard them pretty often growing up.

Today, though, I want to tell you about Great, great, great, great…Uncle Epictetus, even though you may have heard about him before.

He’s one of those uncles that you adopted because your family needed him, even though nobody you know ever met him.

Uncle Epictetus lived a long time ago. In fact, he passed on in about 135 C.E.

Born a slave, he grew up to become a Greek philosopher.

(As I mentioned recently, in my opinion Philosophy is a pretty hard thing to wrap your head around!)

If you look him up on-line, you’ll find that there are stone carvings of him, complete with curly hair and a beard.

I’d be kind of surprised if Hallmark has an Epictetus holiday, but if they did, in our house it would be this weekend.

You see, we’ve been pretty caught up in the, “do what you have to do” part of Uncle Epictetus’ saying, which was, ironically, one of my first painting projects, quite a while ago.

More stuff to sort and furniture to move and wires to hook up, all so I can come closer to being the artist and teacher I long to be.

I’ve dreamed and sketched and pondered but, in my world, I have to feel these things, so Bill and I have to shove this here and pull that there and wait until the sun goes down to figure out where I’m going to need more lights.

We’re making progress.

The dogs are having panic attacks.

I keep trying to explain that furniture moves but dogs stay. Treats help.

It’s all going to be ok.

Right now, most of my house looks like a combination of an antique store and a library that exploded.

And, in the midst of the sorting and toting, I keep stopping to check on a couple of friends who are having weekends no mammas/grammas should have.

Then I sit and feel the space and check the reach to my journals and the recycling basket.

We’re making progress.

I haven’t had a nap today.

Or painted even a drop. (Except in my head.)

There are lots of things that would be easier than this.

But I have said to myself what I would be and it’s time to do what I have to do.

I wish Uncle Epictetus were here to tell my girls that story.

I guess it’s my job now.

It might be your job, too.