an interesting combination

Over the weekend, I painted my bedroom. It was a long, three day weekend -- three glorious days in a row that I didn't have to work, plus the usual Friday afternoon I have off to almost make up for my usual 6-day workweek. I used every spare moment last week to prep the room, moving furniture away from walls, moving furniture out of the room, taping cracks, filling holes. Friday into the evening I sanded. The ladder and I circled the perimeter, getting intimately close with the walls that hold stories of all kinds. I love prepping a room for painting. I was already sore when the boys and I sat down to relax a bit at dinner time. Reaching and the consistent gentle pressure for sanding affecting my shoulders, my upper back, my hands. And I was delighted.

Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.

While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.

Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.

Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.

My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.

even for me

On our last day with Iyad, we traveled the Via Dolorosa -- the Way of the Cross. We followed each of the traditional fourteen stations on a road that was nothing like what I had ever pictured. In our Faith Matters class, we had seen the Via Dolorosa in video, in modern times. I had gone to see the IMAX film, Jerusalem 3D, and still, I was not prepared. The streets were narrower than I expected, and although they were not as crowded the day we were there as in the videos I'd seen, it amazed me just how close the quarters were. I found myself wondering from time to time how the crowds I'd seen on the screen could even fit in the space, and where those who live there go at those times. It's difficult for me to explain how that walk felt to me. I took very few pictures -- partly because I wanted to immerse myself in the walking, in being a part of His carrying the Cross, and partly because (well, mostly because) I did not want this day to be a tourist day. I wanted to observe through the eyes of my heart, not through a camera lens.

And yet, at the end of the day, when asked about my impressions, I realized that it was not my day to be moved. That sounds horrible, I suppose, but what I mean is, that day was about the part of Jesus' life that I'd known all my life; the story I'd heard again and again. The spots that moved me were the stations with the women -- Mary, Veronica, the women and children of Jerusalem. Three of the fourteen. Despite my best intentions, I did feel like a tourist most of the rest of the time. Throughout, I prayed, asking God what I was missing, and being continually reassured that I was where I needed to be. I was, indeed, moved by the tomb in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre: the silence inside was overwhelming, especially after the hubbub of the building itself.

But this piece of artwork stopped me in my tracks.

Just to the side of the tomb was the chapel where we had Mass that day. Another island of silence in an otherwise crazy atmosphere. This ironwork depiction of the stations of the cross hung directly across from the door. I gazed at it, transfixed, unable to cross the threshold. The simplicity, the stark contrast in color to the stone walls, the small scale of the figures relative to the room, the fact that it was painstakingly wrought from the same type of material that fastened Jesus to the cross.....but what strikes me most, even now, is the single line connecting each station. An underline for emphasis. A single line from the ancient to now; from the past to the present. From me to Jesus himself. And a line that underscores the fifteenth station added here -- the Resurrection. As I stood in the doorway, I could, for maybe the first time ever, see that all of it was for me. Me as one, individual child of God.

And that, I think, is why the rest of the day didn't touch me the way I'd anticipated. All my life I'd been taught that Jesus died for us all, for everyone, to save the world. Which is very true. But in those moments in the doorway, for the first time, I realized and understood a subtle difference: Jesus died for each of us. Semantics? Perhaps. But the thing is, for the past few years (most of my life?) I've been struggling with the idea that I matter in the eyes of God. I've been coming to terms with the idea that I am not invisible to Him, that I cannot hide, no matter how much I want to, or try to. I am His, regardless of what I think about that. More and more I have accepted and embraced that truth. This piece of artwork is a spear that drove that truth into my heart.

At Mass, I sat beneath Mary, greeting her Son, knowing she had raised him for this day, this mission. Knowing that she had raised him that I might know him. It was all I could do to pay attention at Mass that day -- the only day I was not completely engrossed in the ritual, the readings, the responses, so moved to gaze at this iron above me, and thinking I needed to resist that urge. Today is Good Friday, and my mind keeps wandering back to the Holy Land, to the sights and sounds, the air and the water, the people, and the way of the cross. All of it.

And I cannot stop the flow of tears.

Nor do I want to.

All I do, Lord, I do for you. Because of what you did for me.

hold my hand

Lately, I've been thinking about hands. On Father's Day, as I held hands with my husband and one of our sons, I realized how different those hands felt. And I also remembered how Dad's hand felt when he held mine.

Ever since, hands have become a part of many of my days. Most of all, I have become more acutely aware of the hand on my shoulder. When I feel it, I picture Dad, or my Uncle, but I know that is only because I loved their hands.

Dad's hands were slightly calloused, warm, and always very clean. He would hold my hand often, even when I'd grown, and always there was a stronger squeeze before he let go. I learned from him the importance of that particular physical connection to another person. I'm a hugger, but I also deeply appreciate the simple helpfulness of a hand to hold.

My uncle drew a pair of folded hands. He talked about the effort he put in, the frustration he felt trying to make them look right. Soon after, in an art class, the teacher said that hands are only perfectly formed by God. Recreating them is especially difficult for any artist and takes extra effort. I remember picturing his drawing, and hearing his very similar sentiments. 

I'm comforted and comfortable with the hand on my shoulder,  the hands in my mind's eye. They are so real, so tangible. Clearly not something I've tried to create myself.

For years, as Christmas presents, we would paint the boys' hands and craft something for Mom and Dad and the boys' godparents: an angel, a Christmas tree, Rudolph. The hand prints were intended to help chronicle their growth to loved ones who didn't get to see them often enough. Hands to hold from far away.

I'm looking forward to where these hands will lead me. I'm open to the possibilities they offer. And I'm enjoying the memories they are stirring.  

paint chips and possibilities

I sat down to write this morning, and the words that came I deleted. Three times. Then I wrote about nothing. The first three times, I felt reactionary and defensive, confused and, I'll admit, curious. But everything I started to write sounded like bait to me, and that is not healthy. It's been a rougher couple of days than I would have liked, but at the same time, wonderfully enlightening and laden with growth and progress. Discovering that a confidante was not as supportive as originally thought was difficult enough; but then to discover that someone who never had any interest in me suddenly wants to know what I have to say on a daily basis is much more disconcerting. (Just ask, I say.)

What I really want to write about is paint chips. I'm considering them today, and getting excited about the new possibilities they represent for me. Having a project is a great way to make it to tomorrow. Especially since tomorrow is always uncertain. A friend (not the aforementioned) just fixed the railing on our balcony, and suddenly there is so much I want to do! The balcony was once my favorite "room" in the house. I remember spending hours there each evening in the summer while my husband took our oldest son to the pool: a welcome break for a stay-at-home mom, pregnant with #2. Once the baby was born, I would spend many mornings out there, nursing him and reading in the morning sunshine.

I'm not sure what brought me in from out there....probably a busy toddler the following summer.....but sometime after that, the railing was damaged in a storm, and going out there with children was just too risky. And like so many things in life, "priorities" got in the way of repairing it.

Which leads me to today. Steve fixed the railing over the weekend, and ever since he came over to measure, I've been picturing the new space. Knowing that the railing needs to be painted, I have been considering colors for the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the doors, and looking through my old scrapbooks of ideas for making it special. Pinterest will be my next stop, along with a visit to a dear friend who has sold her house and is selling much of their stuff in preparation for a move. I'm picturing the floor, and wondering what furniture to put on it; a rug for the spring and fall? Who can I call for electricity? And what will I hang on the walls? And I'm running through my favorite inspirational quotes, and wondering how they would look on the railings, or along the ceiling.

New beginnings like this one are joyful, abounding in anticipation; much like my life right now. I have been through the wringer, but, like the laundry referenced in the expression, I have come out cleansed and refreshed; ready for another challenge. For a short time, I considered the benefits of starting over in another place and time. In reality, however, that just amounts to running and hiding; to not facing what brought me here to this place and time. Making the decision to stand my ground has turned out to be far more fulfilling, productive and mature. Instead, I will make this space better, along with myself and my (important) relationships.

Not every project turns out as expected or anticipated; and not every relationship turns out to be the friendship we hoped for. Both are frustrating. The good news is, we can always start again--another new beginning, filled with joy and anticipation. And a little bit of anxiety. Okay, more than just a little bit sometimes, but I refuse to be paralyzed by it. I'm learning to take more risks when they benefit the ones I love, including that bit of me that needs my nurturing. Before snow falls, I hope to have a new spot to write, to contemplate, to meditate, to pray. Not just on my balcony, either, but also in myself.

I am my favorite current project.

when I grow up

Last night, as I watched a portion of the London Olympic Opening Ceremonies, I cried. I missed the beginning, and only came in at the dream sequence. At work, we had been talking about the Beijing ceremonies, and we agreed that nothing could top them. (I remember I cried then, too.) London's, in my humble opinion, were pretty darn cool. They were not China, but I don't think they were trying to be--they were trying to be London.

What impressed me, what moved me to tears--as always--was the heart, soul and skill displayed. Each of the children played their role, nurses were recruited to show their pride in who they are through dance and pantomime. The villains came! And Mary Poppins saved the day. Through it all, there were dance steps, formations, facial expressions, costume and set changes coordinated with hundreds of thousands of individuals, all working toward a common goal. And a goal that not everyone understands the importance of--a performance.

Performance art is misunderstood. Some of it is really weird. But sometimes it can carry you away as much as a painting, a sculpture, a book. I'm a little biased, I know. I was a performer; I am still a performer at heart, although these days my performances tend to be a bit more personal and on a different scale. (And no one pays to see them, or I'd be rich!) A part of me wonders if some of the comments I've seen about the Ceremonies being "weird" were related to the earlier parts I didn't see, or to something else. The commentary was too much for me, but I didn't have program notes to read first, so I know it was necessary, and there were times when I would have been completely lost without those voices, but Bob Costas, with all due respect, is a sports guy. A dance or performance commentator may have sounded less, well, like Bob Costas. (I love his voice, don't get me wrong, but he really does remind me of The Wide World of Sports for reasons I cannot explain.) On the other hand, performance people can get a little more wrapped up in what they are seeing......

Which brings me back to my own tears, and the tugging at my heartstrings. I miss that atmosphere. I miss that anticipation of a cue, and the proximity of other bodies dancing the same dance. Once or twice I picked up a flubbed step, a missed turn (also amazing, considering how many people were performing!) and was so impressed that the person who made the mistake, as well as those around them, were smiling away. Clearly they acknowledged the mistake, but the show must go on, and it was FUN!! I miss being at performances, and watching them live, watching them come to life. I go to our school plays and concerts, but I miss the dream of seeing a performance every week, every month, of being part of the energy.

The goal, as I understand it, was for the London Ceremonies to reflect the personality of London, and of Great Britain. All I know of either is what I've heard in history class, so of course parts of it struck me as odd; just as a performance trying to depict my own personality and history would seem odd to anyone who doesn't know me. The key is acceptance with an open mind. Once you meet me and get to know me a little bit, you can make the choice whether I am 'weird' or not, but don't skip the 'get to know me' part. Anyone who has the guts to be completely themselves when first being introduced will probably seem pretty darn weird.

I admire that.

Fannie Tang returns :)

"Stephanie, right?" As I walked in the door, for the second time, I was once again struck by the feeling of complete 'homeness' of the studio, and immediately felt warmly welcomed. "I'm Shani. I feel like I've met you before..." Indeed, as I mentioned, this was my second visit, but only my second--and the first had been in the late winter/early spring. It is now mid-August.

Through a mutual friend, I had heard about Shani and her studio, Flow Together Yoga Center, and the wonderful space it was to practice, learn and refine. Months later, Guy got me a Groupon for my birthday. I've only been the one time so far, but on that one visit, I so enjoyed myself; I pushed myself through the class, which was twice as long as my usual practice, with the gentle, yet sure guidance of Shani. During the class, she encouraged me to tent my hands on the floor, using my fingertips for balance and strength, rather than my flat palms. What a difference it has made! After the class, she told me my practice was beautiful, and I truly felt as though my body had returned to a placement it had been lacking--even though I had been practicing frequently.

Today I visited for a very different reason. Earlier in the week, Shani had posted on Flow Together's Facebook page a call to artists. The studio will be celebrating its one year anniversary, and they would like to add a 'heartmade' element to the retail space on consignment. On a whim, because making stuff is my therapy, I responded and asked if my eclectic selection would fit in with what she's looking for. I've sold my work in the past, with varying results and reactions, but have never found just the right fit. I take pride in my work, and do see it as art, although that statement has garnered some strange looks at times. It seems some see "art" and "craft" as dichotomous, and never the twain shall meet. So be it. I put my heart into what I make, sometimes using patterns, sometimes not, but the hardest part comes when I have thought about selling in the past.

Simply put, I get bored easily. I don't want to make 425 purses. But I do love to make them! Sometimes I like to knit, or make French message boards, or paint some wooden thing and transform it into a showpiece. My current impetus is to use up the scraps and freebies I have accumulated for the past 10-15 years. That's a lot of stuff. And I live in a house with Guy and our four boys. There are only so many things I can make! I love that I have the supplies on hand to have made birthday presents for two dear friends lately (and that I had the time that week!) because I know just how genuinely they appreciated what I could do just for them. Using my recycled and repurposed fabrics and notions may seem more challenging for strangers, but I have another way of thinking about it entirely. And Shani spoke it aloud today without even realizing it. Each person has something that will touch them. It may sound a little "out there," but if I really focus and breathe life into what I make, I will know. Anything that doesn't sell just hasn't found the right place, the right 'finder.'

That mutual friend has been interviewing for jobs, and is understandably frustrated. So many of her friends have commented on her status updates reminding her that the right position just hasn't come forth. She will land on her feet; she will find what seeks her. Her yoga practice will help, especially since she has the support of a remarkable instructor and friend like Shani. I'm looking forward to working with her, and to attending more classes at the studio: a home if ever I felt one. Namaste.