UNMET

: my expectations for Lent

In almost every way, this Lent has not been what I expected.  That began early, when the timing of Lent snuck up on me and I didn't feel led towards a specific, easily enforceable discipline.  Instead of something straightforward like, "Give up caffeine," or "Walk every day," or even "Pray the hours," I felt a need to open myself and be receptive to the idea of being led daily to the well I needed to drink from.  This idea was a little scary to me, but I wanted to be responsive and receptive, even in my fear.  So I was blindsided, hurt and left reeling when I posted about Lent and received a snarky comment about Lent being a time for penitence.  The implication was that my discipline of seeking creative and restorative outlets was selfish and inappropriate.  That, combined with a reticence on God's part to direct me, left me stumbling through Lent rather than following along, walking near Jesus' side.

Perhaps the stumbling along can be traced back to the first whisper I heard to write during Lent.  Because I have done many things over the last forty days, but very little writing.  Taking a step away from writing has been somewhat unintentional,  yet I've been aware of the slippage and allowed it to happen.  Like a workout routine left undone for too long, it became easier and easier to not write.  I certainly had plenty of other things to fill my time and my soul gradually quieted and stopped asking questions that needed to be processed in writing.

But even as that form of communication quieted, longer form writing ideas pursued me - everything from an idea for a novel to an idea for a children's book series.  I have not written one word towards giving birth to either of these ideas, yet they circle in my mind and leave me fearful and frozen.  That's what fear does to me - it freezes me.  My mental and physical muscles clench and I feel unable to fight or flee, regardless of what they tell you adrenaline is for.  So the blog sits for days, then weeks and my writing muscles atrophy, then stop even asking for the release of exercise.  Thankfully, it was in just such a moment of fear induced frostbite that I went on silent retreat.

The Ghosts of Leah and Rachel

As my retreat began, Leah kept circling in my mind.  Maybe you've heard of her?  She's the one who married Jacob, when he intended to marry her sister, Rachel.  Her father tricked Jacob into marrying her, probably because he thought this was the only way he could marry her off.  Jacob never really loved Leah and I've always thought her story was a sad one.  She was on my mind because I had read about her in the Jesus Storybook Bible to my daughters.  Here's how her story ends in Sally Lloyd-Jones' rendition:

One of Leah's children's children's children would be a prince - the Prince of Heaven - God's Son.

This Prince would love God's people.  They wouldn't need to be beautiful for him to love them.  He would love them with all of his heart.  And they would be beautiful because he loved them.

Like Leah.

Leah wasn't loved because she was beautiful, she was beautiful because she was loved.  God blessed Leah in a way the world saw as blessing - he gave her children.  And not just children, but sons.  There was no greater gift, no more sought-after role than to give birth to sons.  But at first, Leah misinterprets God's blessings.  Each time she gives birth to a son, Leah thinks this will make Jacob love her.  She says, "God has seen my misery, now Jacob will love me (Reuben).  God has heard my cry, now Jacob will hear me (Simeon).  God has given me three sons, now Jacob will connect with me (Levi)."  And that does not happen. 

Jacob does not love her.

Not ever. 

But finally, Leah sees that someone does love her: God.  So when she gives birth to a fourth son, she says, "I will praise God (Judah)."

Judah is the line of Jacob's family that Jesus will be born into.  It's to a town of Judah that Mary will travel to give birth.  And Mary, like Leah is blessed by God.  But she's blessed in a way that the world would never, ever expect.  She's blessed with an out of wedlock baby, a son who leaves her to fulfill his ministry and who she ultimately watches die on the cross.  While Leah may have been blessed in a way the world acknowledged and valued, Mary's blessing from God was not what she - or anyone else - was expecting.

But both were blessed.  God loved Leah and Mary, even if the outward signs of his love were vastly different.

My expectations for Lent have gone mostly unmet this year.  I haven't felt closer daily to Jesus.  I haven't had an outpouring of creativity or seen with clarity a habit I need to break.  But even if my expectations have gone unmet, I have been met.  I've been met by the Holy Spirit, who hovers in and amidst my pain and confusion.  I've been met by Jesus when I've had the space and grace to invite him in.

I have been met with Leah and Mary and how their stories help me see my own story more clearly and more compassionately.

Whatever expectations, hopes and dreams you have that are unmet, may you meet Jesus, especially on this cold, dreary Easter weekend when we are reminded of how much we all need Him.  And may meeting Him propel you to action and move you out of the place of fear, than can keep us locked in and frozen.

BEAUTY

1 : the quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit : loveliness

Last Wednesday evening I was on my way to a gathering of moms.  We meet twice monthly to pray, share some silence and encourage one another.  This particular evening was a lovely one.  The weather was nice.  I was driving J's car, so I had the sun roof open and the windows rolled down.  Even though I knew it would make me a few minutes late, I couldn't bring myself to get on the interstate.  Instead, I took the slower, but more enjoyable, ride.  When I explained my late arrival to my friends, one of them said, "You are so aware of aesthetics - even on something like a car ride!"  I had never thought of it that way, but she's right.  I appreciate beauty, in all its various forms.

This weekend, we traveled to East Tennessee for some time away from home.  It was good for my soul, not the least because of the beautiful surroundings.  I marveled at the lush greens,

the budding pine cones,

the side-of-the-road wildflowers,

the soaring mountains,

the roaring rivers.

As we were sitting riverside having a picnic, B pondered aloud, "I wonder what Nashville would look like without roads, without people, without buildings.  I wonder what it looked like before all of that." 

That's worth thinking about, isn't it?  What would this world look like without all of our roads, buildings, businesses, power lines and on and on?  Because I can tell you that I think left unchecked, nature tends towards beauty.

God's world, His creation - all of that rushes headlong towards loveliness.  The stuff of man?  Not so much.  In sharp contrast to the natural world, our efforts to make our lives easier with paved roads, running water and constantly available electricity and technology often serve to rob our lives of beauty instead of adding it.

I'm not a Luddite.  In fact, today I read an article about the low ownership of dishwashers amongst the English and thought, "Well, that's one strike against living in England."  I am fond of creature comforts, but surrounded by evidence that mankind knows little self-restraint.  We keep building and buying when we should stop, look and breathe deeply.

I'm not saying we should all move to shacks in the woods.  I am saying we should make more of an effort to find and embrace beauty in our everyday lives.  Because our souls long for it, whether we hear them or not.

PERSPECTIVE

2 a : the interrelation in which a subject or its parts are mentally viewed; also : point of view

It's so nice to have an in-house art teacher.  I was trying to draw cowboy boots today and couldn't figure out how to draw the feet.  The body was full frontal, so should the boots be to the side?  To the same or different sides?  I called B over and she quickly showed me how to do it.  When I asked whether to point the toes of the other foot in the same direction, she said, "If you want to look Egyptian!"  She then posed for me, demonstrating how awkward it is to stand with your body forward and your feet going the same way.  I got her point.  It's really all about perspective, isn't it?

A friend was recently talking about a mutual acquaintance.  She was sharing how this person's family is so authentic, so genuine, so real.  She talked about how they show their faith through their lives and how they've been such a blessing to her during her time in Nashville.  My perspective is entirely different.  The mom and dad in this family have both been judgmental, artificial and critical of my family.  From my perspective, they aren't any of the things my friend said.  So who's right?  I think we both are.

I have many mutual friends who find this family completely delightful and servant-hearted.  But I am not going to deny my own experiences and invalidate them.  This family makes me feel judged and hurt.  I don't admire them, respect them or even like them.  Is that wrong?  Or is it just the result of trying to hold in tension my own truth and the truth of others' experiences?

Someone might meet me and later describe me as a great listener, as someone who didn't say the right thing, but just listened and made them feel really heard.  Another friend of yours might tell you I'm standoffish, that I don't go out of my way to speak to them and sometimes even intentionally don't come over to chat when I could.  Who's right?  Both would be.  Depending on the day, my mood, how I feel and how well I know you, I might not initiate conversation.  This doesn't mean I don't like you.  It doesn't even mean I don't want to talk to you.  The vast majority of the time, my perspective is that if you want to talk to me, you'll start talking to me.  I start from the baseline assumption that people have better things to do than talk to me.

I have a deep desire to give people, including my children, the opportunity to have a different perspective than my own.  I think we each bring a unique viewpoint to every person, situation and circumstance we encounter.  Given this, clearly we all have different perspectives.  And I think these different views and ways of approaching life reflect God beautifully.  I think he's far more diverse than any one individual, so the myriad perspectives we bring collectively reflect him far better than any one of us does.  The challenge is how to honor our own perspective and the perspectives of others.  This is easier for me with some people than others.  I think overall I'm a very accepting person,but there have been a handful of people that I've encountered in my life who have taken a nearly instant dislike to me.  Without exception, I've always been hurt by this.  For some bizarre reason, I expect people to, if not like me, then not react with such strong dislike.  I'll be honest and say that my hurt in these instances has kept me from even attempting to see, much less value, their perspectives.  I'm not saying this is right or good of me.  It's just the truth of who I am.

I'll keep working on developing a willingness to let others see the world their way.  And in the meantime, I'll direct any technical perspective questions to my astute 10 year old.

TIRED

1: drained of strength and energy : fatigued often to the point of exhaustion

I'm tired.  Exhausted.  Completely lacking energy.  The good news?  I felt this way this time last year, too. 

Why is that good news?  Because this year, I know it will pass. 

Last year, I feared that homeschooling would suck every ounce of energy and leave me totally depleted.  This year, I know that this tiredness, this fatigue will pass.  It's partly a function of adjusting our sleep patterns, our eating patterns and even our daily expectations.  Some things are easier during the school year and its scheduled days:  laundry gets done more regularly and with greater ease, grocery shopping slips into its slot on the schedule, dishes slide into the emptied dishwasher instead of being piled in the sink as we head out the door for the lake or the pool.  Other things are harder to release: slow mornings, lazy afternoons, time to just relax and be together with no agenda whatsoever.

I will adjust.  We all will.  As Julian of Norwich reminded us, "All shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

As if to prove Julian's words, as I settled down to write this post, I realized that despite my Friday fatigue, this has been a lovely week.  Three successes:

1) For literature this year, we are doing genre studies.  I've selected three books that I think typify several genres of literature.  A and B will each choose one book from the three classics to read.  After reading a classic, they'll read a contemporary book from the same genre and see if they can spot similarities, references, homages.  We're starting with the mystery genre.  A and B both selected an Agatha Christie book.  A finished it in two days.  And promptly asked to please read another book by Mrs. Christie.  As she said today in the car, "I just never would have thought I'd find a writer I really liked by reading a book for school."  Score one for me.

2) B is doing a composer study on Johann Sebastian Bach.  (She chose him, in part, so that she can learn to play Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.)  I requested several books from the library for her to read about Bach's life.  This evening, K sat on the sofa reading about John Sebastian, as she calls him.  She then asked me to read her another of the library books about Bach at bedtime.  It makes my heart happy to have any of my daughters read books that are hanging out on the library bookshelf - especially when "school books" become "pleasure books."  That's a line I want blurry and easily crossed.

3) B taught her first art lesson today.  Twin kindergarten friends AW and CW came over.  B shared a poster book and showed the girls a self-portrait poster with words that describe art incorporated into the portrait.  We each drew a (somewhat abstract) self portrait, then came up with a list of words to describe ourselves.  Not surprisingly, B's portrait was the best one.  She's a natural artist and a natural teacher.  I love seeing her use her gifts.

The Fred Babb Inspiration

B's Self-Portrait

My Self-Portrait

I'm still tired after recalling these successes, but recounting them helps me recast my weariness.  Instead of the tiredness that accompanies an illness and leaves you depleted, perhaps the way I feel now is more the post-workout kind.  Yes, you're tired, but because you've given it your all.  And while I don't have the post-workout rush yet, it will come.  There will other small successes to lay alongside these, as stones of memory to remind me that the journey is worth it.  All will be well, even when I am tired.

REUSE

: to use again especially in a different way or after reclaiming or reprocessing

After K's soccer game today, B and I went to art and craft heaven.  We pulled into the parking lot of a warehouse, walked inside and were encouraged to take anything and everything we wanted.  At no cost.  This ZeroLandfill event had carpet samples, unwanted binders, tiles, wallpaper and fabric.  It was wonderful.  B and I took turns filling our bags and finally grabbed an empty box to fill with carpet tiles for covering our basement floor in a quilt of carpeted colors.


J found out about this event a few weeks ago and sent me info on it via e-mail.  He thought it would be a great source for collage materials - and he was right.  I'm especially excited to use a set of sheer fabrics that I found.  I can already imagine using them to hide and reveal certain portions of the image underneath.  B was the perfect child to take with me to this event because she is creative to the core.  While looking through upholstery fabrics, I found a book of tassels and fringe.  She was (as expected) excited and said right away, "I can just picture these as part of a carousel."  We brought home every stitch of tassel we came across and I found myself wishing I had told friends who sew about this event.  It was a quilter's dream: tiny pre-cut squares of every shade, color and texture imaginable.  (Let me know if you live in Nashville and want information on this event.  It continues next Saturday.)


As we sorted through our treasure trove of wallpapers, sheers and fringe this afternoon, I thought about how much I enjoy repurposing items.  I think one reason I've been drawn to collage as a medium is the way it allows you to take one thing and turn it into something entirely new and different.  At its best, it turns something useless into something useful, something unwanted into something desirable, something discarded into something beautiful.

I remember walking through an art gallery with an aunt one time and talking with her about Marcel Duchamp and why his art was important.  If you're not familiar with his work, he was an expert at pushing boundaries and was the first artist to take found materials and dub them art.  He called them ready-mades and while I wouldn't want his infamous Fountain hanging in my living room - or anywhere in my house for that matter - he paved the way for artists today who paint on old window frames, salvage tin for sculptures or turn bicycle chains into jewelry.  Much of my favorite contemporary art involves reclamation items that have been transformed into something new.


I partly like art that takes old things and turns them into something else because it is, to me, the essence of creativity.  To take something mundane and see the beauty in it is not only art, it's an act of faith.  Because seeing the beauty in the everyday makes us see the fingerprints of our creator all around.  It makes us take notice of the deep purple in a bowl of black beans drying in the colander or the glimmering white cloud juxtaposed with a sky of muted gray ones.  Choosing to go through life looking for things to reuse is, at least for me, a spiritual practice.  And it's one way we can all choose to be artists.


I think I'm drawn to this practice because I love it as a metaphor for my life.  I like the idea of God reclaiming me to be used in a different way.  Taking the pieces of my life or myself that could have easily been consigned to the landfill and making them not only tolerable, but put to good use.  I like the idea that just like the discarded materials B and I collected today, I can be made into something different, something beautiful.  I don't think God's going to make a carousel out of me, but I look forward to seeing him take my tattered and torn self and turn it into something useful, beautiful and maybe even fun.

B's carousel (with tasseled entryway)

PERSPECTIVE

:a way of regarding situations, facts, etc, and judging their relative importance

B is in a photography club at school this year.  She is thrilled to have the excuse to take photos of anything and everything and I love the way they are using photography to help students articulate their thoughts not just in images but words.

As a treat today, I thought I would share some of B's photographs and give you a glimpse of her world and her way of seeing her world.

A Bird's Nest?

B's Serious Sister

B's Silly Sister

B's Art

The View from B's Window

Self Portrait of B

A Notebook

Our Front Window

B's Friend

B's Art Room

B's Art Club Friend

It's amazing to see the world through my daughter's eyes and realize what a good eye she has.  I especially love her photo of the front window and the translucence of the curtains.  I'm sure we would all be well served to try to see the world through someone else's eyes, if only for a few moments.  Whose perspective do you need to see through?

COUTURE

1: the business of designing, making, and selling fashionable custom-made women's clothing

Last week, A and I went to the Frist Center to see their Couture exhibit before it left. We had seen it this summer, but A enjoyed it so much that she wanted to go again, just the two of us. I hadn’t enjoyed the exhibit all that much the first time around, but I attributed that partly to my distraction at the time: I had not only my own children, but three others along with me. This meant I was looking for a child at nearly all times as we walked through the crowded exhibit. After our initial visit, both A and an adult friend commented on how much they enjoyed this particular exhibit. I had hoped my second trip would yield a different impression. Alas, it didn’t.

A and I had read up on Renaissance fashion the day before our trip so that we could compare and contrast the trends from centuries ago with those documented in this post-WWII fashion exploration. We also read the preview materials on the Frist website, where I found it interesting to learn that post war fashion (which emphasized the feminine) was a clear departure from wartime garb (which was utilitarian). I entered with an open mind, ready to see the displays with fresh eyes, but by the third room, I simply could not find anything I liked about this exhibit. And the more I looked, the more I asked myself, “Is this even art?”

I didn’t keep this question to myself. I asked A, who was thoroughly enjoying herself (picking a favorite dress in each room, selecting a wedding dress from the formal attire, imagining dressing her own doll in the miniature nylons and sandals on display) whether she thought this stuff was art. She did (she justifies her position on this below). I listened to her side of the story, but could not adjust my viewpoint of art to include clothing, especially this clothing.

My reaction to the side gallery, which housed the work of contemporary photographer Tokihiro Sato, was striking. Here my pulse quickened, my pace slowed. This was art. I was fascinated by his images and the technique he used to create them. I lingered with these works before finishing the couture exhibit. As we looked at the Chihuly exhibit in the upstairs gallery, A asked me if I thought this exhibit was art. It was a fair question: while painting and sculpture have long been accepted as fine art, glass, ceramics and textiles were relegated to craft status for years. Yet I have no problem seeing these media as art.

As I pondered my reaction to the couture exhibit in the days after our visit, I found two interesting points of comparison and contrast: 1) the media historically classified as craft were denigrated partly because the practitioners were mostly female and 2) part of my objection to couture was its sharp contract to sculpture, which celebrates the female form while couture celebrates its own construct of the female form. This is an important distinction for me. I gladly and proudly see glass as every bit a fine art medium as paint. I love the way many crafts marry utility with beauty. These increase, instead of decrease, their value in my eyes.

But couture? The exhibit that we saw featured only male designers and the clothing was clearly about making the female form fit the clothing, not the other way around. How else do you explain the armor worn underneath the dress to make the woman possess the desired silhouette? I think my reaction was a subconscious one – I don’t want to be told that I should look like those mannequins. So I rejected the very idea of these items being art. Does that rationally follow? Perhaps not. This may be a case where my emotional reaction to the exhibit overshadows my rational assessment of whether the content is art.

In my contemplation of all of this, I did realize that A and my friend share an important trait that I think makes them experience this exhibit differently than I do: they each have a very positive body image. I suspect that they are able to view these dresses without internalizing a pressure to be someone or look a way that they don’t. I admire that, but I’m not there yet.

I told A that I was planning to write a blog post about our visit to the museum. As a part of her weekly writing, I asked her to write a bit about our trip last week. Here are her thoughts:

Couture IS an art for all you out there. Now down to business. My mom and I went to see the Couture exhibit at the Frist again. I wanted to see it one more time before it left. My mom and I had an interesting conversation about whether clothing was an art. I felt like it was, because the clothing is beautiful and I think that anything that is made is art. She thought it wasn’t an art, because it was cloth. We saw a doll who had her own wardrobe! (“Cool!” “Wait until you hear what’s next!”) Then I saw a video that had a dress in it that looked like bubble wrap (“Wow!” “Shh!’) Then we saw the Chihuly. I think both of these are art. Mom only thought Chihuly was, but we had a good time.

ENCOURAGER

1 a : to inspire with courage, spirit, or hope : hearten
2 : to spur on : stimulate


This weekend was our school art show. It was the result of the efforts of many people over a lot of time. It showcased work by more than 300 students and 16 guest artists. It brought together the families from our school. It was held at local businesses. And it was the vision of one great encourager: Miss Camilla inspires, heartens and stimulates all those around her, including her students.

Maybe as you read "school art show" above, you have an image of flimsy sheets of paper with lots of glitter and glue affixed to cinder block walls. You'd be wrong (well, OK, glitter and glue do abound). Picture instead portraits inspired by Picasso, hearts crafted by crayon artists under the guidance of an artist who looks at a box of crayons and sees a multimedia palette, kimonos crafted from paper, silk screened medallions and more. This is not a student art show. It's an art show. Each parent is given the opportunity to buy their child's art work and I found myself hoping that some parents missed out on their chance because I'd love to have some of this adorn my walls.

But even more than seeing the art, I loved seeing the artists themselves and imagining what they were thinking as they walked through the displays. Each student was given the opportunity to write an artist's statement describing their work and inspiration along with a short bio. I loved seeing what inspired them (everything from their friends to famous artists to comic books) and I loved seeing how many of them described themselves as artists. Because how can you see your work displayed in such a professional manner and NOT think you're an artist?

This art show is so much more than a way to raise money for an art department. It's a way to empower children to see themselves as both who they are right now and who they can become. And frankly, it's the kind of thing that makes me wonder how this homeschooling experiment next year will go. Because I'm pretty sure I won't be installing a one-woman show as the result of our year at home together. I worry less about whether my daughter will be appropriately challenged than whether she'll get enough time with other adults to help her see herself as she is. Because one reason these students believe Miss Camilla when she tells them they are artists is because she is not their mother. She brings to the table a perfect combo of knowing these children, loving these children, but having enough distance for them to trust her wisdom and expertise.

It's hard for a child to do that with her own parent. K and I were talking about homeschooling yesterday:

K: When you homeschool A will teachers come to our house?
Me: No, I will be the teacher.
K: You?! You aren't a teacher.
Me: But I will be A's teacher next year.
K: Well, you're going to have to teach her a lot of things.
Me: I know, honey. I can do it.

K ended the conversation a bit dubious that I'm up to the task. I think I can handle some fifth grade grammar, math and history. But can I help my ten year old see her own potential? Can I convince her that I'm not just a student of art history and literature, but a student of her? Or is a mother simply too close to hold up the mirror for her daughter to see herself?


I'm left admiring Camilla for the way she pours herself into her students, the way she encourages their efforts, stimulates their creativity and heartens their self-confidence. I'm left pondering how I can do this for my own daughters - and how I can do it in the lives of others. Because I want to be an encourager. I want to help others see the gifts they have and encourage them to use those gifts. I want people to spend time with me and leave feeling as hopeful as I did at the end of that art show on Saturday.

Photos are of student art from the Art Show.

ISH

3 a: having a touch or trace of : somewhat b: having the approximate age of (fortyish)
ALSO: a fabulous children's book by Peter Reynolds

If you've not read Peter Reynolds' wonderful book, Ish, here's a brief summary:

A young boy Ramon loves to draw. Anytime, anything, anywhere.

Until one day, his older brother sees him drawing and says scathingly, "What's THAT supposed to be?"

Ramon crumples up the paper and for a long time thereafter, nothing he draws satisfies him. He sits at a table, surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper.

Then one day, his younger sister is standing by as he crumples and throws a piece of paper. She grabs it and dashes off. Ramon chases her to her room, where he finds a gallery of crumpled masterpieces. He stops dead in his tracks and the little sister points out her favorite.

"Yeah," Ramon say, "that was supposed to be a vase, but it doesn't look like one," "Well... it looks vase-ish," she replies. Ramon pauses, sees it through her eyes and agrees that it does look ish.

After that Ramon's passion for drawing returns and he approaches all of life in an ish fashion. He writes ish poems, draws ish draws and lives ishfully ever after.

It's one of my favorite children's books for several reasons:
1) Ramon's passion for drawing at the beginning is cheerfully innocent
2) We see how our words can rob other's joy when Ramon loses his enjoyment in drawing after his brother's comment
3) His sister is the one who restores his vision for art and life, so that
4) We get to see how our words can build up and encourage one another

Not long after I started sharing this blog address with others, a friend told me it was unlike any other blog she'd ever read. So, I've decided my blog is blog-ish because it "has a touch or trace of" what other blogs contain. Initially, I was hesitant about sharing Word Girl with others, but I've decided I'm not writing for others, I'm writing for me. I want to live an ish life and not worry about whether my blog posts are funny enough, deep enough or relevant enough. They are "enough" because they are enough for me. I know not every post is as good as the previous - or the next - but it's important to me, like Ramon's drawings are to him.

Ramon saw the world in drawings and I see it in words. I don't want someone to laugh at my writing, but even if they do (when they do), I won't crumple it up and throw it away because it's mine and my words don't have to be validated by anyone else to be valuable.

Are you living an ish life? Do you cook soup-ish meal or bake casserole-ish dishes? How are you seeking and using outlets for your creativity, no matter how big or small? Are you living like Ramon's sister and validating other's efforts? I want to live like Ramon and talk like his sister...

Re-posted from the archives

ORNAMENT

2 a : something that lends grace or beauty

In February, an exhibit opened at the Frist Center that I've been wanting to see called Heroes: Mortals & Myths in Ancient Greece. The timing couldn't have been better for our family. B's third grade class was in the process of completing a unit on Greek mythology and staging a play that acted out several key myths. At the same time, A & B were already captivated by Greek mythology from having recently read the Percy Jackson series. On one of our many snow days during the month of February, a kind friend offered to take our girls to see the exhibit. The timing didn't work out and I had been holding out hope that I would be well enough to go with them myself to see the exhibit. So I'm grateful that I was able to join them today - and I didn't even need a wheelchair to do it.

Art museums are some of my favorite places in the world. They quiet my soul and I never leave that I don't find myself thinking, "Why don't I do that more often?" Today was no exception, although I was reminded of how differently children (at least my children) experience art. K was most fascinated by how old these objects were - all were at least two thousand years old. So every time she brought me over to an object, she would ask me to tell her about it and she would remind me, "Say how old it is!" A and B went through the galleries even faster than their younger sister, trying to pick out scenes on amphoras that they'd heard about in The Iliad or The Odyssey and/or read about in a Percy Jackson book.

I tried, at one point, to insert a bit of reflection. In the third gallery, there was a bench. I needed a quick rest at this point anyway, so I asked A, B, K and a few of their friends to sit with me for a moment. I said, "Sit here for just a minute and look - from here - at the art in this room. Without looking at the descriptions or the stories depicted on the vases, which is your favorite piece and why?" Only one child actually sat. Another asked, "Does it have to be a piece in this room?" A third child offered her favorite and then they were off - pointing out this or that piece that was their favorite based on size (the largest or the tiniest being favorites of several girls).

Meanwhile, my mind was stuck on a vase one room back. One that was a bit different from most we'd seen. It had three handles instead of two - two on opposite sides, with the third at a right angle between them. I assume the two handles were used for filling the vase and the third used for pouring out the water. For some reason, seeing these three handles and envisioning their functionality changed the exhibit for me. These vases that we see behind glass were made to be used. They were made by people - artists - who lived in a world so different from mine. They lived in a world where daily existence was hard - they didn't buy bread at the store, they baked it. They didn't turn on a faucet for a glass of water, they went to a well. Yet they took time to create objects that weren't just functional, but beautiful. They ornamented objects created for daily use.

I've always liked this about Greek art - that functionality and beauty are intricately and intrinsically linked. And it made me wonder whether I take the time to ornament my own daily life. Do I take a bit of time in each day for grace and beauty? We have art in our house - photography, pottery, paintings, even a textile or two. But do I stop to enjoy these or are they just a part of the background?

I think this blog is part of my attempt to make a space in my life for ornamentation. I don't need to scritch scratch out my little words, but they do, for me, ornament and delineate my life. The words I write give me a way to make sense of my life and to stop for a moment and ponder the gift that an unknown Greek artist gave me today - from long ago and far away, a gift of beauty in my day.

Greek Volute Krater, ca. 525-500 BC, from The Walters Art Museum collection

ARTIST

3 : a skilled performer

J and I went to an Eric Clapton concert last night with some friends. For a show at a large venue, it was not a typical concert. There was no banter between songs, no stories about when the song was written, why he liked to play it, etc. In fact, I think the only two words Mr. Clapton said to us were, "thank you," with the exception of his introduction of Vince Gill, who joined him for several songs. I found that I didn't mind this. In fact, as the night went on, I found it a refreshing contrast to attend a concert that was primarily about the art of his music, not entertaining the audience with anecdotes, light shows and pyrotechnics. Given the type of show this was, I found myself pondering the difference between an artist and an entertainer.

It was clear to me last night how unbelievably talented Eric Clapton is. As someone who is not a musician and not really a big fan of music (I see music as primarily a vehicle for good lyrics), it was a little amazing to actually enjoy Clapton's guitar solos. I even found myself listening very closely because there were times when I felt like his guitar was talking, speaking a language that I couldn't quite understand, but wanted to know. I think this is art, not entertainment.

For a while now, I've held a theory that art must be shared to be complete. A painting sitting in a closet won't be a masterpiece until it is viewed. A book sitting unread is incomplete. So I understand why Eric Clapton plays in front of thousands of people. How could he not, really? I just think he does it more to share his art than to entertain people (and perhaps to earn a tiny bit of money, which is also a nice byproduct of good art).

As I continued to think about an artist versus an entertainer, I thought of two of my daughters. A is a dancer, but she's also an introvert, so it's always intrigued me that she's willing to dance in front of crowds big and small, on a stage that barely holds her group or at TPAC's Jackson Hall. I could never have done that at her age (or any age!). I once asked her about this. I started by asking whether she likes to dance. That got an immediate "Yes!" When I asked whether she liked to dance in front of people, there was a slight pause as she thought about it, but it still got an affirmative response. She went on to say that she likes dancing in front of people to share what she's learned, that it doesn't matter to her whether a few people watch or a lot of people watch and that it wouldn't be as satisfying to always dance in the studio, she wants to perform. I think A approaches her dance like an artist.

K, on the other hand, is a born entertainer. When we have friends over, she'll tell a story, do a dance or put on an impromptu play - whatever it takes to capture and keep their attention. I don't even need to ask her whether she would be content to stay in the studio - for her, the whole point of dance is to get on that stage. When she had her first dress rehearsal before her recital last year, I asked her if she had liked being on the big stage. There was a long pause, she tilted her head and looked up at me, then said, "Of course, Mommy!" I'm sure she was thinking, "Me? The stage? People watching? What's not to like?!"

I've struggled a bit as a mom with having daughters who are so very different from me. In fact, sometimes it's hard not to judge them. I spent at least the first two decades of my life trying to avoid attention, so it's tough to understand that wanting people to watch you perform can come from a good and healthy place - not a place of "look at me! tell me how great I am!" But I do believe K's desire to entertain is part of the way she is made. It was interesting to look up the definition of entertainer and see that the primary definition relates to being a hostess or entertaining guests. K is great at this. Whenever we have people drop by, she offers them food. Last week, two guys were here framing a door and hanging drywall - K took them part of her afternoon snack. She's a natural entertainer in every sense of the word. And that's not something that I need to train out of her, even if it does strike a bit of fear in my heart, even if I do have a difficult time understanding this impulse.

I want to love each of my daughters the way they need to be loved. I don't want my bias towards art for art's sake to overshadow the sheer exuberance of an entertaining performance. I don't want one daughter to think her offering is less worthy than her sister's, in my eyes or those of God. So I'll continue to watch them do their thing - whether that means a classical ballet piece, a funky jazz number, a comic routine, a basketball drill or whatever else awaits us.

BOOKS

1 a: a set of written sheets of skin or paper or tablets of wood or ivory b: a set of written, printed, or blank sheets bound together into a volume c: a long written or printed literary composition

I've re-arranged my work schedule for the month of April to try to have more time for myself on Fridays, with no children around. I worked for a few hours yesterday and then went to the Frist to see their Medieval Treasures exhibit. I was really looking forward to this exhibit, especially the illuminated manuscripts. I love the way the illuminators interwove classical imagery, elements from nature and vivid colors to heighten the impact of the text itself. The word "book" just doesn't seem to fully capture these objects. They are so much more than "a set of written sheets of skin or paper."

One of my favorites from the exhibit was a Book of Hours that belonged to Queen Isabella of Spain. It was created in 1500 and I found it not only striking how beautiful this 500 year old book was, but that the Queen who financed Columbus' trip to the Americas once held it in her hands. What an amazing link to history, right there under the glass case. It's hard for me to decide where to start looking at an object as beautiful as this one. The flowers in the border, the illuminations or the ornate script. I can not fathom owning a book this gorgeous, but I do wonder how it would impact my experience of the text.

We own a lot of books. We don't keep an exact inventory, but an estimate would be that there are probably 1,000 books in our house right now. Some of them are lovely, especially the words in them, but they aren't hand-made, they aren't hand-illustrated, they aren't works of visual art. Does this make them any less valuable? Yes and no. Quite literally, they are far less expensive than Isabella's Hours. But they hold valuable knowledge, they offer countless inspirations and innumerable moments of pleasure.

I found myself thinking as I looked at medieval art about the trade-offs that progress brings. Isabella owned this book because she was a queen. She could read this book because she was a queen. Had one of her servants happened upon it, she might have paused to look at the glowing images, but the words would have been meaningless to her. Until books could be mass produced, everyday people like me couldn't read.

I'll be honest. As I looked at the illuminated books, I felt the weight of the shabbiness of the books we hold in our hands every day. They are dull, lifeless items compared to these gems. But I would gladly trade the ability to read, the ever-presence of words and accessibility of books for the beauty of those pages. What good would it do me to have a book this beautiful and not be able to read the words?

This is not a small trade off. I found myself longing to read Greek and Latin today so that I could not only ponder the images surrounding the text, but the text itself. It seems to me that it would have been such a rich experience to read calligraphic words surrounded by acanthus leaves, classical columns and budding flowers. I think the illustrations of the text would enhance my experience of the words.

But I may not ever get to have that experience. Instead, I'll pick up my simply bound book with more than 300 pages of fiction inside, and be thankful for the plentiful supply of books today.

NOURISHMENT

1 a: nutriment: something that nourishes or promotes growth, provides energy, repairs body tissues, and maintains life

Even more so than usual, it's been a week for thinking. This week has brought more than its share of heartache, sadness and questions for me. I noticed a few weeks ago how much I enjoy just sitting and thinking. While it might be seen as daydreaming, it feeds my soul to have quiet, contemplative time. The problem is that "quiet, contemplative time" can be hard to come by as a mom of three young girls who works part-time. But I have found this time is essential for me. It may be hard to come by, but it is worth the effort.

My lesson this week in Waking Up Grey is about self-care and our assignment is to create a collage that shows the things that nourish us. Part of the reason we do this is "If you want to do good for others, you must not be a stranger to what good feels like." I believe women have an especially difficult time nourishing our souls. This is ironic, since many of us spend countless hours nourishing the bodies and souls of our families. How can I offer my children what they need if I don't take time to satiate my own needs? How can I give them what "promotes growth and provide energy" if I can't recognize those things?

So what nourishes you? Is it time laughing with friends over shared experiences? A cup of hot tea on a cold day? A light scone that crumbles in your mouth? A gentle breeze off the lake? The smell of salt in the air? An early morning run? A few hours spent screaming with fellow fans at a ball game?

If you don't know, find out. I know what nourishes me: quiet, a good book, a cup of hot tea or coffee, sunshine of my face, a piece of great chocolate, art, art and more art. And only when I make the time for these seemingly frivolous things will I be nourished. Only then can I maintain a life worth living.

ART

4 a: the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the production of aesthetic objects ; also : works so produced b (1): fine arts (2): one of the fine arts (3): a graphic art

Last Friday, A, B and I went by FairyTales on our way home. If you live in Nashville and haven't been there - go. It's so much more than a bookstore. And I'm not one to complain about anything being just a bookstore! Anyway, while I was there, I was chatting with a woman who works there. Every time I go, she and I have great conversations about art, life, books, etc. This time, I was there to pick up a bracelet that she custom made for me - it says WORDS on one side and CREATE on the other. I like that it can read both as a command "Create Words" and as a reminder "Words Create." I can't remember exactly what prompted it, but we started talking about art and how part of art is the sharing of it. If someone paints a canvas that stays in the back of the closet, is it art until it's viewed by someone else?

My daughter B gets this completely. She wants to share everything she creates. For Valentine's Day, she created 13 ceramic hearts, one for each girl in her class (including herself!). They were beautiful in their variety and on their own. And if the beauty of the hearts wasn't enough, she had colored each envelope containing a heart to match the heart inside. She had put thought into who would receive each heart and when I gently tried to convince her to maybe give one to A and the remainder to her teachers, she was adamant. She created these for her friends. While a tiny selfish part of my heart really wanted to push her to change her mind because I wanted some of these beautiful objects to linger in our home, she was the artist and I felt her vision for these should be honored.

If B gets that art must be shared, I find this the hardest and most compelling part of creating. I do want to share what I write, but I'm also terrified to do so. It's one thing to write non-fiction that isn't trying to set a mood, shape a character or lead a reader in. But each thing I write - even a little post - is a part of me and that's hard to put on display.

I'm a modernist when it comes to determining the meaning of a work of art. By that I mean I don't think the artist has any more say than the viewer or reader in determining what the art means. While that is great in theory, it means that I give up control of my words when I share them. I can do the best I can to write clearly, articulate myself well and choose my words carefully. But the way you read them is what gives them meaning. To me, that's beautiful... and a little scary. Read carefully.

ART

4 a: the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the production of aesthetic objects ; also : works so produced b (1): fine arts (2): one of the fine arts (3): a graphic art

A friend asked me the other night why I majored in art history since I am a self-proclaimed Word Girl. It gave me slight pause. I've never thought of the two things as being contra-indicators. I've loved books for as long as I can remember and I fell in love with art in the ninth grade when I went to Spain, saw El Greco's The Burial of Count Orgaz and toured The Prado. Since I hadn't given this question thought before, the answer I gave then was that my major actually taught me a lot about writing. It was an intensive liberal arts education and I spent a lot of time learning how to communicate my thoughts verbally and in writing. If anything, I think majoring in art history enhanced my love of words because it forced me to articulate what I saw, what I knew and, occasionally, what I felt about a work of art.

After giving this a bit more thought, I think the connection for me between words and art is even deeper than one enhancing my enjoyment of the other. I think both art and words are frameworks for me to understand life. When I visit a museum, the very act of standing before something created by someone makes me stop and think about what life is really about. Not every work of art moves me. To the surprise of many and consternation of some, I do not like representational art much at all. I much prefer abstract art because it lets me interpret and reinterpret it for myself. Even so, I can leave an exhibit of nearly any type of art with my head swimming with ideas.

Words are much the same. A well-written book is fodder for endless thoughts, soul-searching and deep conversations with friends. I have asked J how people who don't read books can get enough distance from their own lives to even understand their lives. A good book takes me far enough away from my daily life to examine it. Without books, how would I even be able to really live?

I think the power in both visual art and books comes from our Creator. We were made in his image and our appreciation and need for art is a reflection of the fact that we are both created and creative beings. I unaplogetically think that art is a vital part of our life, our culture and our very existence. I guess one of my deepest held hopes is that one day, I'll write something that makes someone stop and ponder their life and see it more clearly through the lens of something I have written.

TITLE

5 a: the distinguishing name of a written, printed, or filmed production b: a similar distinguishing name of a musical composition or a work of art
6: a descriptive name : appellation

When I went to the Frist last week, there was a photograph of one of Abraham Lincoln's assassination conspirators. The title of the work was what made me stop to look twice at the image. Before knowing the title, I liked the work. It had a grittiness and edge to it that was not common in the posed portraiture that dominates photographs from this period and that made it stand out from the work around it. While I wouldn't say that I liked the work any less after reading the title, but I did feel differently about it. The title changed my experience of the image. Before knowing the title, I read the insolence in the young man's stance one way. After knowing the title, the same body language had different connotations to me. In this case, the title was "a descriptive name" but sometimes the title has an even more profound impact when it's not descriptive.

One of the striking things to me about studying the book of Ruth this fall was the title. If you read the book of Ruth through several times without knowing the title of the story, I wonder what you might name it. I don't think I would have named it after Ruth. She's certainly a key player in the story, but she doesn't call attention to herself and therefore tends to fade into the background. I think this is noteworthy because the authors (both the human author and the Author) of the story want you to pay special attention to Ruth.

I think the title of something - whether it's a book, an album or a work of art - frames your experience as the reader/listener/viewer. This makes me wonder whether those who select the titles do so with great deliberation or on a whim. I think a close analogy to this is naming your children. In a way, the name you give your child frames her experience of life. Not because the name necessarily describes your child but because it is so much a part of her existence that she can't escape it.

I looked up the meanings for the names of each of my daughters before naming them, but only with the last child (K) was the meaning of the name the reason we chose the name we did and spelled it the way we did. B doesn't really like the meaning of her name, so we've altered the meaning to fit her better, since she doesn't go by her full name anyway. I think it makes her feel better to think of a meaning for her name that suits her better.

I used to not like my name. I think this was due in part to the fact that I did not have a middle name. There's no way to turn my name into a cute diminutive, so I was stuck with the name my parents gave me. It means "small, wise one" and I like that now. I'm not sure I am fully living up to the name, but it's a good goal to work towards. It frames my experience of life nicely, like a well-titled work of art.

GREATNESS

3: remarkable in magnitude, degree, or effectiveness

At the Frist last week, the photography exhibit had photos of Abraham Lincoln and, in a separate gallery, Martin Luther King, Jr. I stopped to look closely at each of these images. I peered closely at these men and pondered what set them apart, what made them capable of being not just men, but great men. I walked away a bit disappointed because greatness isn't something visible in a photograph. We can't see, in looking at an image of either of these men, what made them brave enough to listen to the inner voice telling them to take the path less traveled.

I wonder if Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, Jr. had doubts. I wondered if they felt unworthy of their high calling. I wonder if they even saw it as a high calling. These are men who shaped the country we live in by standing up for what is right, not just for themselves, but for others. I think they are undoubtedly great, not only for the unique skills and abilities they possessed, but for their self-sacrifice.

Imagine being King's daughter and giving up time with your daddy because he needed to hop on a plane to Dallas for a march. Imagine being Mary Todd Lincoln and knowing your husband was putting the safety of thousands before his own safety. While I might be willing to sacrifice my own life for something, it would be harder to watch a loved one make that sacrifice.

It makes me realize how far I fall short of who I want to me. I am so selfish at the core of my being. I want to be willing to sacrifice for others, but where am I doing that in my daily life? Instead, I bemoan the fact that my day is too full for me to take time for me, especially time to write. While I spent a good chunk of my weekend creating a haven, I've not had much opportunity to spend time there. Is it selfish of me to long for this? Or is it impossible for me to achieve any degree of greatness if I never use the gifts I have, gifts that require quiet solitude?

I'm not really aiming for greatness. I just want the ache to write to subside a little - maybe enough to let me breathe if I must go twenty-four hours without time to sit quietly. I'm not sure how a post on greatness turned into a post about me. I guess that puts my selfishness front and center, doesn't it?

FANTASY

5: the power or process of creating especially unrealistic or improbable mental images in response to psychological need; also : a mental image or a series of mental images (as a daydream) so created

I'm reading a book right now by Elizabeth Berg about "the art of writing true." Each chapter contains practical advice on how to be a writer and how to practice the art of writing. Each chapter also contains homework, which honestly scared me a bit at first! The opening chapter is Berg telling her story and the initial homework assignment is to imagine your life as a writer - where you want to write, what you want to write, why you want to write, etc.

I actually found the exercise of fantasizing about what it would be like to be a writer remarkably easy. I can picture just where I'd like to sit to write, what I would want my days to look like and how I would manage both writing and my responsibilities to my family. But probably the easiest part of the homework assignment was why I want to write. I want to write because I want to make people think. The best thing about any good book is that it makes me think. I really believe that "The unexamined life is not worth living" and books are the mirror I hold up to my life, my heart and my soul to see if I am living as I want to, as I should and as I could.

It's interesting that the definition above relates fantasy to a phsychological need because I definitely feel a need to write. Not because I have any great wisdom to share but because it helps me process my own life and because it releases the words that I feel pressing down on my chest. After getting the words out of me and in to sentences, I experience relief at setting the words free. Now if I can just move from fantasizing to actually living life as a writer, that will be progress, indeed.