Serenity in the Active Voice

I did not purchase our Christmas tree this year. Did not trek to the lot and cull the choices. Did not load up the tree and take it home. This year, I was not the one to lug the tree into the house and wrestle it into the stand in the annual Protean struggle. Nor did I slither upon the hardwoods to tighten the bolts into the trunk - turning one first to the left, and then again: diagonally.

This year, I did not locate the boxes of ornaments hidden away in those secret places where I am wont to hide ornamentation. I did not unravel the mysteries of the lights. I neither decorated the tree nor cloaked its foundation.

Not one gift did I place beneath the verdant boughs.

I watered the tree. Once. And plugged in the lights. Once.

And when the time came (as time always seems to do), I did not unwind the strands of lights, vowing that next year I would make sense of them rather than stuff them once again into a grocery bag. Did not gingerly wrap the globes and glasses, placing them into boxes as if they were hummingbird eggs.

I did, however, release the Christmas tree from its shackles. I did lift up the tree and carry it butt-first across the threshold of the front door - a breech delivery all the way to the curb.

And with squirrels as my witness, I saluted this bristling Fir, recognizing how I had been defined, once again, by the activities occurring around me. As the wizened needles sighed towards the asphalt, I whispered, "Give me the courage to change the things I refuse to accept."

amen.

A Space for Contemplating Life's Journey

When I was a kid, I wandered about on an old peach orchard and plantation. The main house had been converted to a nite club called "The Cotton Patch". I stumbled upon an old fence row. The trees had grown over the old wagon path and interlaced their limbs in a sylvan prayer. In the summer I could rest upon the grass and watch the sun through the lace of leaves - the twinkling light a voiceless dialogue. In the winter the bare branches exposed their very framing and taught me the valuable lesson of process. 

In designing a chapel for Hospice, I recall that place. That sacred place. As an adult I understand more the historical connotations and layerings attached to that Southern land with pitch and tar. And yet that narrow space remains sacred. The grass imprinted on my back like a tattoo.

It brings forth the question: is a place intrinsically sacred, or do we humans (in our creative finest) make a space sacred. Is it a gift, or a construction?

"Expulsion From the Garden (study)"

Myth has it that knowledge propelled the inhabitants of the Garden from Paradise. Or that the thirst for knowledge (couched in rebellion) was the culprit. A forked tongue, creating a division. Bifurcation,  splitting realities. Then atoms. Then Adam. 

Others say that a Mighty and Righteous God - acting in wrath - expelled these naughty children into their Earthly corners. You know: to think about what they had done.

And they thought.

And thought some more.

They thought of things like fear. And concepts of sin. And poverty, deprivation, envy.

They took lots of time to think. And then got bored.

Like children often do.

And then (as children often do), they created games. Just to pass the time, don't you know.

And the games begat institutions. And the institutions begat bureaucracy. And the bureaucracy begat time frames, divestment, hierarchies, expectations.

Roads diverged in hoary woods.

or, oar, ore:

veins of opportunity.

Perhaps it was time to go. Perhaps we were never sent out without a map. After all,

Isn't knowledge just that: 

an interfacing with locust, loci, context and desire?

"Falling From Grace"

Maybe we don't fall from Grace. Maybe we tumble into Grace. Maybe Grace is the connecting Pool of Shiloh - imperiously dark and foreboding on the surface. But the soothing bath of release calls from beneath the plane (once broken).


"Drawing is diving into the murky back waters without my glasses."

Shirley, Goodness, and Marcy

I don't think I can not never do no thinking about the macrocosm without thinking about the microcosm. New genes? Old jeans. Both are remarkably comfortable.

"A new idea is different by nature -- it's off the beaten path -- and it takes courage to risk failure or rejection. For example, how do you know that your brilliant insight isn't going to lead you into a blind alley, make you look stupid, cost you money, or worse? You don't. Thus, a crucial element of creative thinking is having the courage to take a risk."
Roger von Oech (A Kick in the Seat of the Pants, 1986)

I thought to myself - wouldn't it be cool to have a movie made of my life? So, I had one made. I'm watching it now. You are in it. And so are you. You look marvelous, by the way. Is that light in your eyes or an amber speck? Is it both? Have you always made so much space for me? I didn't know until I saw it on the big screen.

Thank you so much. Would you like some popcorn? My treat.

WHEN NO ONE IS WITH ME, I'M ALWAYS ALONE

Love. Habit. Expectation. Songs, promises, vows. Sonnets, qualifiers, laws (of all persuasions). Disappointments, separations, reparations. Change, commitment, suspensions, suspicions. Abject, protect, suspect, neglect. Smothering, mothering. Closeness, distance - dancing ever outward. Apogee, perigee, orbit, jettison. Clarity, over cast. Notions of poverty while embracing wealth. Wood smoke on an autumn's eve. Snow peas, chick peace, appease, oh: please.

I wish I could kic

k love's ass.

MANY MOUTHS

We, each of us, bring the very best that we can to any given  situation. There is quite enough to go around, thank you very much. Some scented vinaigrette might be nice. Kudos  for the suggestion. I was thinking it's thyme. And you?