where a soul can breathe

I am weary and want to collapse in defeat, of lost sleep and timing beyond my control, and the responsibilities that come with these gifts I’ve been given.  Wanderlust and my restless self are met by the last weeks of pregnancy and the blazing inferno of a southern summer.  It’s a combination big enough to make me tremble, but I try to solider on, until the dark hours when I toss and turn, wanting to scream for relief to fall upon my aching body. 

Tired.

Of waiting.

Of losing sleep before I will lose more in the months to come.

Of carrying these dreams that roar into spaces too small.

Of not knowing the why and how of today.

Of waiting.

So, I pour all these words into the pages of my journal, where thoughts are prayers, most earnest prayers.

The wanderlust begs for going and doing and seeing. Life requires that for today, we stay and be and wait.  My every part aches with the promise of new life.  I must wait in expectation for the day, beyond all my control, beyond all my ways.  It will come, yes, and all the speakers of clichés will throw their words around and they do nothing for me, but stir the fight inside. 

And after a tragic night of sleep lost, I want to weep under the weight of it all and I do, then a few hours of respite come and two gracious children allow me to ease into mothering on this Monday.  I see no other option, but gather supplies and paint.  If I will not stand before the crashing waves, if I cannot bring my restless before the restless of the sea and there be still, I must. I must meet him today. I cannot do this day without, because my soul longs to breathe, and it needs a space to roar and be held by the one who knows. 

Before the canvas, I watch the paint run in thick, watery streams, falling down, down, collecting on the drop cloth.  I sweep in passionate strokes, honest of prayers and in doing so, the heaviness is lifting. Restless finds shelter in the words of the song I hear, as the colors grow.

My life is yours/ My hope is in you only/ My heart you hold/ For you made this sinner holy/ Your glory is so beautiful/ I fall onto my knees in awe/ And the heartbeat of my life is to worship in your light/ Your glory is so beautiful. (Your Glory- All Sons & Daughters)

He says, come who are weary, so I splash my weary on the canvas and watch the greens, yellows, and blues come alive.  And I remember that these restless ways have been entrusted to me, by him alone.  I remember that the roaring dreams and wild questions, the insatiable search to look deeper, to know, to seek—this is who I am.  And who I am… is weary.  Weary of the responsibility of these gifts. Weary of the waiting.  Weary of the way they don’t always mesh with the routines and rhythms of each day, of each season… this one, especially. 

These most beautiful lives, full of potential, requiring such attention to growth, encouragement, and understanding. Daily, we pour into who they are and who they will be, vessels waiting to be filled with whatever we offer.  And I long for them to know a world, so rich in meaning, beauty, and truth.  I roar my prayers for them, for all of us, into the silent spaces of dinners, play, discipline, and time.  How do I show them, that life is beyond a simple existence, bigger and more beautiful than gathering and striving on this covered earth, things and status and security.   And how I long to collect my little tribe and say, darlings, let’s away, the big world awaits and we must tell our story.  But, sometimes, my soul doesn’t find space to breathe in the now and the waiting and I feel heavy under its weight. 

Today, I cannot carry it.  Come all who are weary,  and I do.  Covered in paint, shifting in discomfort in the hard chair, I continue. And from the kitchen, I hear my children happily play together in imaginary lands, a gift, indeed.  I am weary, meet me here, I say.  My soul longs for space to breathe, I can not carry the roaring inside, I say.

Come all who are weary, he says.

The painting evolves. I am emptied out and held by the one who knows.  In a moment, I attempt to paint in a style I don’t do well.  Realism is not my strength, I know. I admire the skills of those who can, but I know my strength lies in a representation, an impression of what is.  And I fear that all my hard work has been lost to a rather awful looking mountain, an actual mountain in the way of what was a beautiful color-washed sky. 

But, in the nature of watercolors and I’m sure the nature of God, I take a cloth, dabbed in water and begin to wipe away the strokes. This could be another mistake, but little by little, the mistake disappears and what remains is something I never set out to create.   I continue to smear and wipe away so many of my deliberate strokes, finding that under the layers of all my hours and intentions, is a work of art that tells our story.

I am humbled and breathless.

I know it’s done, because the artist knows.

And he says, oh my darling restless one, look, there’s room to breathe here.

 

On those who never forget the way

From The Story Girl, L.M. Montgomery,

 

“I wish there was such a place as fairyland—and a way to get to it,” said Cecily.

“I think there is such a place—in spite of Uncle Edward,” said the Story Girl dreamily, “ and I think there is a way of getting there too, if we could only find it.”

Well, the Story Girl was right. There is such a place as fairyland—but only children can find the way to it.  And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way.  One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life.  One day the gates to Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. 

Henceforth, they must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they among mortals.  They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles.  The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland.

Can I tell you a secret?

So, now what?

for the dreamers: a declaration

The dreams lap the shore of our hearts.

They are gifts of great power and responsibility, to borrow the words.

They beckon us to a deeper, beautiful story in which we are living a life set on fire,

in meaning and intention and love.

 

And we stand before the water, as we face this new year and

we dare to believe that they are good and true and

above all, possible.

 

We dare to acknowledge that if we work hard, love well, and pursue

that which shakes the inside of our souls,

the right doors will open.

The right people will walk beside us and disrupt our steady stride.

 

We know the road will be full of obstacles and struggles,

we must collect our daily strength, faith, and bread.

And we can be sure that we will be required

to walk bravely into the darkness and

remember that the light glowing inside, although at times dim,

cannot be quenched.

 

And if we are faithful stewards of these dreams,

these gifts, these creative urges,

the calling that echoes in our rising and slumbering,

we will look back and know,

we will raise our eyes to the heavens and breathe in

the breath, ever sustaining and always beckoning.

 

The dreams lap the shore of our hearts,

whispering with all the power of the wind and the moon,

with all the intention of the great Creator,

a fresh new page awaits, shall we?

 

 

My friends, Create boldly.

-Olivia

On the new and ending the old

Yesterday, I stumbled upon a document on my computer titled, Morning Pages.  For the past five years I’ve kept up with the practice on and off, ever since completing The Artists Way, (highly recommended).  It’s the practice of free writing three pages each morning, to spill your every thought and question, thus creating home for them, so that the open spaces of your brain can be filled with creative energy.  It’s never meant for anyone else to read, so there’s no pressure to spin words perfectly and it does wonders for a head that feels blurry and full—you know, when you’re grasping for thoughts, but they flutter just out of your reach like colorful butterflies in hyper drive when you are stuck in slow motion.

When I opened this document, I expected to see the last date of 12.26.12, instead, it was 12.28.11.  Apparently there are a few of these floating around the corners of my computer memory, but a funny thing happened, as I glanced over the words I had written a year ago, they carried the same questions, truths, and dreams that were on my heart a year later.  Almost identical. And that’s not to say that there hasn’t been growth in this year of 2012, but in the area of creativity and business, I know the journey is so young.  This blog is nothing if not a testament to the various creative enterprises that I’ve tested out and all of them had lead me one step closer to here or there, whatever “that” place is.  I don’t consider them failures, because with each one I learned, expanded my skills, and perhaps, found the courage to try something new. 

When I read the words I wrote from last December, it was just the push I needed to take yet another step.  For a while now, months, even longer, I’ve been weary of selling my art online.  As an artist, a piece of my heart goes into everything I make and then to slap a price on it and say, “hey hey, pick me, pretty please”  is the opposite of inspiring, it’s almost soul-quenching.  It interferes with my creative process as occasionally the thought will swirl around, could I sell this?  And that’s the killer right there.  I will never stop making art, ever, not even if my hands fall off, but I’m tired of the selling lingering in the back of my mind.

And while I have some ideas that I will be pursuing during this next part of the adventure, I have come to a great understanding, or rather have come to the same understanding in a greater way,

I want to write.

I want to write.

I want to write.

Sure, I could do both, but I found myself in a fearful place, when this truest words resounded from my most honest soul, but if I don’t sell my art online, will I still be “considered” an artist?  How will people find my work?  Can you even stand the putrid nonsense of that? I can’t.  Of course, I’m an artist, of course.  Shut up.  And I suppose that when it comes down to it, the right people will always find you, if you are following your heart. If you are taking brave steps that lead you to doors waiting to be opened.   If you roar your dreams into the night sky, they will not go unheard.  The internet is just a tool, a silly/useful tool.

To be even more vulnerable, in the early fall, when I was considering this, I dared to suggest to God, that if I closed my shop, how would extra money even come?  Ha, as if the great creator of the universe was limited to supplying our needs via my tiny little website. And, as it happened, I haven’t sold a piece of art online since August, not a single one.   I know, what a ridiculous thing to say.  I don’t recommend it.

And then the inevitable question that we all come to when we are going forward in any part of life, will you surrender the good for something better?  Your hands will be empty for a while, but only then can they be filled again.  Sometimes, the “good” isn’t really much of anything is, we’re just afraid to let go and hold on to that which we can’t see, because, then what? 

Well.. then anything, really.

And I like possibilities, you know.

All of this to say, I’m closing the shop for an indefinite amount of time on Monday, the 31st.   So if there is anything you’d like to order, do so this weekend.  If there are any original paintings that you have been wanting, send me a message about any offers (I’m open).  

As to whatever happens next, I will be writing it here.

With 2013 just around the next Monday, I am filled with excitement for the new days and opportunities, for the friends that will be made, for the places we will go, for the creativity that will fuel and connect us, for the encouragement and signs that will carry us forward to what awaits.

 

Molly: You remember when I was a little girl and I could play Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto and everyone was talking about my potential?

Mr. Magorium:  Mhhm.

Molly: Well, I am 23 now and everyone's still talking about my potential but if you ask ‘em to play the song I know best... I'll still play Rachmaninov's Second.

Mr. Magorium: May I suggest you stun the world with Molly Mahoney's First?

The jar of wild collected beautiful and jumping frogs

The steam is rising from the first mug of Christmas blend 2012. The sunlight catches the rim and in the middle of the enlightened area one tiny sparkle dances into my eye. The light stretches diagonally across my old wooden desk highlighting the layers of peeling and scratched wood. My beloved ten dollar garage sale find of a desk, so loved and well altered in the name of many an art project.

A jar holds treasures in a bouquet of random that are not at all random to me. Dried flowers and peacock feathers, found shells from the lake, vintage buttons, spools of thread, knobby sticks, and well loved paint brushes donned in layers of paint. The brushes no longer paint pictures, but their matted bristles carry the stories of my days, days of favorite paintings and struggles and countless times of art as worship, art that compels us to the light, art that brings to the surface that which was previously unseen.

The jar of wild, collected beautiful rests in the path of the morning light casting brave shadows upon the standard white wall. I watch the etchings transform as the sun rises in the sky and something comes alive in my soul on this Friday in November.

My coffee mug is illuminated now, the painted shadows from the jar more or less are faint patches of dark of the wall. I turn and see the sun peeking in from the top corner of the living room window. It is 8:44 am. That fleeting moment is passed, but not forgotten. In the pausing and seeing, we allow these small gifts to become the exposition for the chapter of our days.

On Sunday, we found these hardcover books, dressed in the most decadent vintage patterns. In each book, collections of old stories have lived since 1954. They sat on bookshelves until they were tossed into the donation bin, where they were placed on institutional shelving in the thrift store that smelled bad. Jane Eyre and Les Misérables sparked my interest, but the real appeal was in the the magic of the binding, the painted pages, the golden adornments, the pages rich in old book smell. To our delight, these books were marked at $2.49, as if the employees had no idea of their real value.

I devoured Les Misérables in four days, a story that I thought I knew, but had never read.

If ever there was a story of grace and redemption, it lives here. It says that in a world oozing with broken wretchedness, grace transforms and frees and births new possibilities, unimaginable possibilities. And it speaks of love, the passionate, young, blind version and the kind that grips our beings and changes who we are, beckoning us to compassion and sacrifice and dedication.

In the words of Kathleen Kelly, “read it, I know you'll love it.”

But that isn't even what I wanted to tell you about today. I turned the page and discovered, The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, by Mark Twain. A title like that could not be refused. I read the introduction pages and learned that this was the story that launched the career of Mr. Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain). As a young journalist, he would sit for hours in bars and listen to drunkards tell their stories to willing ears. I can only imagine the rubbish that he heard, but I think he knew that treasure could be found in most peculiar places. He listened and gathered. And one day, he wrote down this tale about a gambler, a stranger, and a bet on a jumping frog, a bit of regional folklore and submitted it for publishing. It was rejected again and again, until a couple years later, someone said yes. It was rather successful and printed in its own copy. This ridiculous tale is how the world came to know the creator of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. This short story is pure nonsense, nothing but the sheer enjoyment of a good tale that may or may not be true.

As I finished reading, I laughed out loud twice, once for the silliness of it all, and again at the realization this was his first big break. Something so incredibly random and inconsequential. And I thought about how most of us are searching for that “big break,” in whatever it is that we do, the ladder to success and affirmation that we are talented and appreciated for what we love to do. But how much effort do we place on predetermining the value of something, by what it means to us. Oh this isn't any good, it can't be worth finishing or submitting or sharing. Oh, this is just a bit of nonsense, no one will read it. Oh this painting is just average, but not nearly as good as that one over here. And so we go about the limiting the value of our creations, causing them to wither before they even bloom. But, honestly, great creators don't just give away the answers and meaning of things. No they do not, do they?

It's like a mother bird who has nurtured her young and when the time comes, she must allow them to leave the nest. She must accept the chance that their little wings might struggle before they can really fly. And she must be brave enough to send them into the world, because they can not remain in the nest, for if they do, they will never reach their full potential. It would be a tragic waste of wings.

I wonder how much bravery and beauty is being held hostage by us? The ones who aspire to greatness, but fear the journey, criticism, and rejection. How many of us will ignore the jumping frog tales and fleeting shadows on a wall and in doing sacrifice the Huck Finns? What are we suffocating because we simple do not understand what it means and we are not sure what will happen?

On the process and who we are

Today, I started with grey and blue heavily mixed with water,  they dashed and dripped downward, making their own way with happy freedom. Colors washed over each other, changing, becoming, never staying the same.  The thick paper became heavy with layers and depth, wrinkled and full of details and secrets. 

For a brief time there was an arrow and a bird, but they didn't stay, they were only temporary, leading me forward.  As I swept the brush over them, they did not cease, but became part of the canvas, giving way to new possibilities.

And then scraps from torn pages, seemingly insignificant pieces became the focal point. Sometimes, the very smallest things are crucial to the forming process.  So many colors and drips and smears in the painting. 
Mixing and dipping the brush and meeting the page, over and over and over.

Layers were peeled off and sections were wiped clean. 

Until it was done.  In the way that God created the world and when he was done, he stopped and saw that it was good.  It’s like that and so cliche, but you just know.

I thought about the process, how so many times I was unsure of the outcome and I wasn't exactly sure what I was creating, but I knew I must continue, I knew it would come and make all kinds of sense at just the right time.   I wondered if people would see it and be overwhelmed by the uncertainty, when all I saw was this great sense of peace in this act of surrender.  The surrender of letting the paint fall and the colors mix, allowing the layers to build a foundation.  Being open to the uncertainty, and hopeful of the results.

This story of the creative process, it’s the story of us, isn't it.

Are we the paint, the brush or the artist?

And won’t it be so much easier if the brush stopped trying to be the artist, so that together they could create something beautiful?

The Golden Life

It’s the best kind of fall day, warm in the sun, cool in the shade.  Shadows of leaves dance on the couch.  You could drink this stuff up and never tire.  New music from Bob Dylan and The Avett brothers.  Afternoons with my boy are calm and sweet.  Curious George and cars for him, art projects for me.  I sat in the yellow chair and he immediately joined me.  Take a picture of mama and Hudson, he asked, so we did.  He kept putting his little hand up to make our faces into squished up little duo.  He sighed and said, I love you mama.

This morning my baby girl got in trouble and she was so very sad, she asked to go night night at 10am.  She collected her favorite blanket and that smelly grey shirt and burrowed deep into my arms.  I stroked her hair. What a thing this is, motherhood, we must discipline to teach right and wrong and then cuddle to fill them up again.

These days, so full of sweet and struggle, it’s the ever-changing blend of parenthood.  Full. Tough. Wonderful.

At the bottom of a box of fabric, I found a can of gold spray paint.  It was the perfect inspiration for today. Something magical about this Thursday.  Yesterday was cool and rainy, full of conversations over coffee and tea. It left my tank full from the power of real conversation and quality time and now it’s overflowing onto canvases and through cans of spray paint.

My dearest friends and I play this game, What color are you feeling today? 

My answer can be found below.

 

 

Your turn….

Introducing: Words in Color

I promise that this post is about art, but first it’s about money, because we don’t live in imaginary land and we can’t ignore it.  Unfortunately.

A few years ago, in our second year of marriage, we went through a course called Financial Peace University.  We learned some great wisdom and practices to implement into our lives to live within our means and succeed with money. We both had seen first hand from our parents massive mistakes regarding finances and we wanted to be smarter, to build a strong foundation.  Within the first month of the program, Matt lost his job, when his employer went out of business.  Thankfully, our needs were meant, side jobs, unemployment, provisions, we did not lack, but we couldn’t really begin our attack plan to destroy the debt we did have.  We were in survival mode, and we were not alone, as the country entered the mess of a situation we still face.

It often feels like we are still in that place, where we always have enough, but not extra to chisel away the bills that do not shrink so easily.  And you know, it’s life, this season of being a young family, living within our means, making it work.  The process is a slow one and we know that if we are faithful to this lifestyle, we will see the benefits. 

When we talk about dreams for our future, we speak of travel, art, missions, empowering others, and being supporters of dreams.  But, every month that feels so far away, when I send off the payments to student loans and pesky credit card bills.  Sometimes, we hope that those mountains will just dissolve, you know, who wouldn’t, but the truth is, we swiped the card, we signed the loan papers and there are great lessons to learn as we accept the results of those decisions.

Not too long ago, I prayed that God would show me ways that my creativity could be used to address this responsibility. Here’s a shocker, student loans don’t really care if you decided to become a stay-at-home mother and artist.  And not for one second do I regret that experience or the amount I must repay, it was so defining to who I am, the people I know, and the places I’ve gone.  Not for one second. Yet, my greatest endearments towards it all seem to have no erasing effect on the balance.  So, I said that most earnest prayer and within 48 hours, I received a serious monsoon of inspiration.

A brand new collection came alive.  Every free waking moment and some from my dreams have been dedicated to this production and I’m so eager to share it with you.  It’s special to me, because I believe it was an answer to prayer and because it mixes my love of writing and art.  Words and colors, the way I see the world; the way I share it. The idea was that each painting could be a page torn from a book, able to stand alone as a complete thought, but fit right into its place in a bigger story. Just like you and me.

Words in Color is a series of 15 small mixed media pieces. The originals will be available for purchase at a very affordable price, because I think art is meant to be shared rather than sitting in stacks in my home wearing a costly price tag.  Prints will also be in stock. All the profits will go towards paying off chunks of the debts quicker, allowing us to have more freedom to give, and go, and empower.

What excites me the most about this collection is how as a whole it speaks of hope, beauty, dreams, adventure, love, and encouragement— the things that move us and connect us and challenge us.

You can find the entire collection here in my shop.

the mistake.

I covered the paper in paint, with a color called fawn.  It was still wet and reflecting light.  From the book that I have destroyed in the name of art, I grabbed a oddly shaped strip without thinking.  My intention was to create a base rich in texture and layers.  The paper bonded with the wet paint and when I looked down,  it’s possible the world froze in time, at least in my living room, it did.  I shivered slightly at what I saw.

Art has a way of taking our randomness and our mistakes and making the best things happen. When we simply respond to the process and begin with the tools, it leads us down a foggy trail, where we see only one step at a time.  Every layer and color, shadow and edge, they come together creating something reflective of something bigger than us.  People  often fear the unknown, but I think the best outcomes are waiting for us there. Ones we couldn’t imagine; ones we risk never knowing.  In art and in life, of course,  because I find no distinction between the two. 

I looked down and I saw him instantly, roaring his dreams to the open night sky.  There is something huge in this torn-paper-bear, telling of life and the search that compels and sustains us.  We begin with the idea of the search leading us to where we will find Him, but really the search is where we find Him, in the middle of our doings, in the process of creating. The search is our life and in the responding and creating and applying paper to wet paint, He causes the best things to happen.

*This is the first from my new collection that I will be sharing soon and adding to the shop soon. 

Instagram to art: the first three

Every once in a while, while browsing my Instagram feed, I come across a photo that takes my breath away and says, paint me.

I respond, I will paint you.

Here are the ones I’ve done so far.

It’s fun to see the translation happen, taking the original and making it my own.  Taking what we’ve been given and creating something new. 

Thanks to these people for their lovely inspirations.  You can find me on IG at saturatedpalette.

Also, I recently did an interview for my friend Abi, you can find it here.

Happy weekend!

Destroyed book turned garland.

Along with all of you, we are roasting in the oven known as this summer heatwave. So we play in the morning under the trees and then retreat inside around 90°. 

And since we can't change the weather, we change what we can. Kind of like in life, make magic when possible and things beyond our control we leave alone. So today I found this well loved book torn from its binding.  Awesome. The artwork is some of my favorite,  I wasn't ready to part with it, so I cut triangles and sewed them into a garland.

I love creating personal touches for their room. I want it to be a delightful place where they play and sleep and grow.  Childhood is special and we get to be a part of that.

The brand new.

There was once a day of creative failure, a sewing project that would not fit any human and a painting that resulted in many grimacing, fist clenching moments.  The painting sat unfinished and taunting on the table. The artist walked away, but did not leave the emotions. They trailed along and took captive the rest of the evening.

The artist, being a feeler (INFJ) was as melancholy as one could be, not because everything was so terribly wrong, but because right now was.

Someone wonderful tried to cheer her up, she would have nothing to do with it.  A bath was taken and not enjoyed and she slumped into bed decidedly defeated.

But before she drifted off to sleep, the swarming thoughts cleared away and one promise remained.

Tomorrow is brand new.

And it was, and it is.

She looked out to see a wild tale of grey clouds resting above the trees and birds flew high, higher, and higher still past the clouds.  Clouds may be present, but they never inhibit our abilities to soar.

So, it was true. Tomorrow (Today) is brand new, she declared to herself in the stillness of the morning. She would soar.

And inspiration came in a stroke of random and a painting was born. Not the one from yesterday, but something new, that wasn’t possible without walking the road of struggle. Something better than it would have been the day before and something immediately cherished. In fact, its value was increased because of the struggle.

I suppose what we have here is another lesson about the journey and growth.  One of allowing right now to be rough, but knowing right now isn’t forever.  And a lesson of letting the process happen, so that the beautiful will come.

through pictures and prayers

 

Here’s something.  I like church.  I think it’s good and important, but mostly it’s distracting to me and I mean that in the most respectful way.  So many people to watch, so many reactions and emotions, structures and plans.  Most of the time, I walk away saying, that was nice.

However, give me a roaring ocean or a majestic thunderstorm and I can’t help but be completely moved and in awe of God.  Give me a paintbrush and a canvas and I’m totally connected to the master of the universe.  Just me and Him, communicating, it’s beautiful.

I remember one thing from last week.  The song lyrics were,

You can calm the oceans, speak peace into my soul. 

In my head, this image came alive, the juxtaposition of the storming seas and the calm serenity.  The constant comfort of His presence. The truth that no matter the circumstances, He is. As the song continued, the image came into focus like I was watching  someone paint it.  I knew I needed to come home and do the same. 

And I did. As brushstrokes became waves, I felt peace indescribable, in an overwhelming way. It was a prayer and a declaration, you are with me.

We all connect to God in different ways and understanding that is crucial.  And when we understand the ways we connect, we will thrive.  I don’t need to focus on how clapping is impossible for me, or how small talk is my LEAST  favorite, or how much “repeat after me,” drives me insane, because it’s not about me.  I am just one person and maybe others thrive in this setting of being led, prompted, and instructed.  But me, I’m searching for those messages that come alive and give breath. He supplies them and my part is to give them a home on a canvas or in a string of words.

I wonder, how do you connect to God?

We reach for God in many ways. Through our pictures and our prayers. Through our writing and our worship. And through them He reaches us.” –Ken Gire

 

{Painting is in the shop.}

art that comforts

I am your anchor in the wind & the rain.  I am your steadfast, don’t be afraid.

-Come to Me on  Loft Sessions

art as a prayer

Today, I’m not handling the great unknown as graciously as usual.  On Sunday, I prepared the last details and then we celebrated her first birthday and for two whole days I had absolutely zero projects in the works.  As ridiculous as it may sound, I might have temporarily gone crazy.  Like, 48 hours worth of feeling lost or confused.

Last night, I searched the nooks and crannies of television and social media and found nothing, but didn’t I already know that. Of course, I did.  After powering through yoga, even though I really didn’t want to and nearly stopped three times. I mean, I did stop three times. It was dreadfully silly.  I soaked in the tub and then climbed into bed to read Anne of Avonlea, where she talked about souls and poetry.  It helped some, almost.

The trouble is, I’m in this mix of distracted and excited, but the unknown is just so very unknown and distracting today.  More than usual. It’s like the Godfather of the unknown. But, probably, it’s just normal unknown, really.

And today it is foggy, like the Godfather of foggy.  A perfect day for thought and reflection and drinking in the sweet sounds of harmonicas and guitar strings.  It’s a good day to feel things, for reveling in the deep, beautiful melancholy of it all.

It’s an even better day to feel things with a paintbrush in my hand.  That is the place where sense comes, because there we meet the Creator and the brushstrokes come together like a prayer, like autumn leaves dance in the wind or like the waves crashing upon the shore. We call and He answers.  And we are left with peace and clarity.

Here we figure out what questions we are really asking and at the same time, the answers too.

In the morning, O Lord,you hear my voice; and in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.  -Psalms 5:3

She would have painted.

I was talking to my mom one Saturday as she played on the floor with my kids.  I told her of how I had learned so much this past year about making my own needs and interests a priority and how I’m certain that being an artist makes me a better mom.  I asked,

Is there something that you would have done more for yourself when you were raising us?

Her answer took me by surprise.

Painting. I would have painted more.

I remember three paintings that floated around our home, mainly one of the sea, driftwood scattered with gulls on the shore.    It’s a beautiful piece of art, the way she captured depth, dimension, and light. I want to be in that place every day of my life.  Her love of  driftwood was one we all knew, anytime we traveled to the beach, she would search for it, I remember her always trying to find a way to bring home these massively large pieces, we often suggested leaving one of our siblings behind to make space.

I thought about her answer  and  I only remember one time in the eighteen years of my childhood that I saw her sit down in front of a canvas and this latched tin of crinkled oils.  I was a senior in high school and she had set up the supplies for my little brother, she was painting next to him.  I remember a sky washed in the palest pink and the water was the softest blue, it was a foggy.

At first, my stance was disappointment in lost opportunities.  I wanted to feel sad for her, for not making time to paint, in the midst of raising five children and helping run a business.  I wanted to feel disappointment at the years that she missed out on doing one of the things she loved, while she was doing so much for the ones she loved. 

I gazed out upon the world of light and dark, the pure, white snow made radiant by the shadowy brown of the tree, where approximately ten regenerate leaves have not surrendered. Tiny branches shivered in the bitter cold wind.  Surfaces dusted with the latest snowflakes.  And that is what I was watching, when my whole tone changed.

Because on this particular day, the one time I saw my mother sit down to paint, I walked in the room and I looked at the table covered in crinkled tubes of burnt sienna and titanium white and wooden brushes. I looked at her and said, I want to paint. 

And friends, that was the day that I fell in love.

Without this day, would I be an artist now?  It’s impossible to say, but thankfully, this is not a story about missed opportunity, it is not a tragedy. 

And for all the days that she didn’t paint, she can do that now.  And because of the one day that she did, I will too.

 

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dear readers, tell me one of your stories.

From the pages || Art for all

{stunning print from lindsayart}

Art is not something done for another or to another.  Art is everybody participating, that is when ritual is real, when whole community participates.  No one can pray vicariously.  No one can sing or chant or dance in our place.  We are all meant to participate because each of us must find the “center,” the eye of God, wherein the true peace flows.  We are all meant to tap into the creative energy of the Holy One, the Artist of all Artists and the Source without a Source.

-Excerpt from Creativity, Matthew Fox.

January Shop Update- New Art

Just stopping in to share some new art in the shop.  Original paintings and some prints too.

Hope you’re having a creative week.

it’s art and

It’s a love song. A prayer. An act of worship. A place to meet God. The declaration of a dream. The whisper of my heart. An offering of gratitude. A tribute. An ode.

To the creator, with love.

Inspired by.