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Rae

When I look at her I see a few extra pounds, a slight sag on one side of her face, the residual effects of a Bell’s Palsy and a few extra facial lines every year. I see someone whose love for life is second only to her love for risky adventure. Most likely, one has fed the other. I see an olive-skinned, brown-eyed, Welsh-born, Canadian-raised girl whose voluptuous curves still captivate and tantalize me. I see a face wiser from pain, hands tougher from hard work, a smile gentler and more thoughtful from raising two complicated, wonderful sons and a brow somehow more relaxed from having weathered innumerable storms, many of them my sorry gift to her.

There is a bite to her wit, at once caustic but ultimately harmless. There is a joy in her step even if that means tripping more than is generally possible for the average human. Her temper is only slightly less intimidating than being robbed at knifepoint but still contains a depth of commitment seldom seen in anyone. Her many foibles could drive a man to drink but the sweetness of her caress makes him want to share some. Her intelligence is often disarming, even challenging, but never pretentious…like mine. Her determination has yet to be matched. I’d pit her against any other puffed up, self-important Goliath of strutted accomplishment. She’d wipe the floor with him and spit on his remains. But her tenderness is surprising given the distance between her hot and cold.

She is real. There is absolutely no bullshit with this staggering woman. Excellent, since she as I, loathe the feigned perfection and careful posturing of the ecclesiastical housewife set. Don’t expect much mercy if religious smoke screen faith is your chosen faith expression. You’ll wither quickly in the shadow of her raw and easy way and run all the way home, the look of shock and dismay still on your blanched face. Good girl, sweetheart. Show ‘em that Christian girls can be punchy and sexy with BBC cheekiness, and still know how to dish out justice and love to the least of these.

Her name is Rae – short, no nonsense, to the point, but sunny as is homophonetically suggested. She has no middle name. She needs none. One name means one of a kind, making it unchangeable to something lesser and untrue or greater and elitist. Daddy insisted, since anything more would muddy the waters for his one and only girl. Their only child. Poor buggers.

She survived, even thrived, at a fundamentalist Christian college for a time and then pounded out a history/geography degree at the University of Calgary. Her love for the then is even greater than her mastery of the now. We share this love for those who have forged the crucible out of which we live our lives. Years later her socio-political views are more in keeping with her hatred of greed and hypocrisy and her love for justice (you do the math.)

Our house is often messy because she’d rather write books, watch a good BBC comedy with me, party with friends, help boys with homework or go hiking in the wild on weekends. Fuck the housework. She owns it, not the other way round. Besides, in her once-lived life, lived is the key word.

She is a lover like no other. She certainly knows her way around a man. This man, thank God, body and soul. She is a passionate and scary and wonderful woman. She is my wife. 25 years worth.

She’s been so worth the effort.

Undone – a prayer, part 2

prayer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Great One, retire my insistence upon

remembrances of ways and times and talk

that match not God-viewed reality.

 

Darken my bright skies if only

to ensconce my darkness,

shattering all illusions of self-projected greatness.

 

Pry open the coffins of dreams long forgotten,

commitments never kept, promises never made,

if only to unleash the surprise of grace.

 

Scatter my nice collections of mantelpiece spiritual kitsch

and replace them with broken glass, bits of string, yesterday’s ashes

if only to remind me of my own frailty.

 

Tear the gilded pages from my life’s journal

and use them like fish-wrap to enfold

someone else’s yet to be written story.

 

Plant new gardens of life

from places of my own death.

 

Spur on to greatness the little ones

from my own obscure forgottenness.

 

Prop up their ailing mistresses of peace and hope

with the severed arms of my own distress.

 

Renew in light the victimized, en-shadowed and de-spoiled

with my own pursuits fit only for stolen kingships.

Undone – a prayer

prayer

I’ve been taking a break from my series, “Reflections on Faith and Art” to bring some other stuff important to me right now. Prayer is close to the top of that list. Granted, writing, specifically poetry, is a contemplative prayer practice, I’ve always found the writing of prayers themselves to be, well, prayer. Here is one I posted to Facebook that seemed to bless. Hence, I thought I’d bring it here in the hope that it blesses a few more. Shalom, dear friends.

Lord, show me a place to tie the ends

that beg to be braided into multiple strands

joined in singular purpose.

Lift the fog enough to see the edges of solidity,

and fray the ends of cords I only think I need

to tie my world together.

Unleash into my presumptive skies

the birds of purgation carrying with them

twigs and branches for the task.

Let me author the story of my own demise

if through my disappearance you fill

someone else’s stifling horizon.

Swell in the hopeless heart

a future of light through my abiding darkness.

Write someone else’s story

complete with satin ending on gilded pages

torn from the tattered book of my tired, half-written tale.

Finish others by my incompletion.

Airbrush another life

with the melted crayons of my own.

Sing another’s song

with notes plucked from my own

unfinished symphony.

Make yourself heard in the silence of my song.

Art As A Work Of Life: A Guest Post by Janet C. Hanson

It’s not that I’m a snob, although some might disagree. Nor is it that I’m lazy, although others might disagree. I simply haven’t had guest posts as often as I should. With this offering by blogger, Janet C. Hanson, I’d like to change that. When she posted this and it found its way into the internet aether, it was pounced upon quickly like hungry birds to a free meal, tossed around, shared and shared again. She’s insightful and warm and wise and witty. You know, kinda like me (as I am in my bios).

Originally posted on April 30, 2013 by Janet Hanson

A l’oevre on reconnâit l’artisan. You can tell an artist by his handiwork. ~French proverb

painting-of-woman-writing

“You can make art or make a product. The two are very different.”

My art teacher, Randy Blasquez, shared the quote on her blog. The context was art and love. “Why doesn’t love come across when you look at a painting? Because it wasn’t put into the painting! The artist was pleasing the gallery or trying to sell.”

How much of your life is spent trying to please the gallery?

The books on writing, the books on art, the books on living life to the full, all agree: Skill matters, but love is essential in any work of art.

I think you would like my writer’s group. Around the word-slinging circle you’ll find a Whitman’s Sampler of styles. We take turns being the discouraged, remind me why I am doing this member, or, less often, the poster child for astounded success. I’ve learned by watching these women wrestle with their art. Things like,

  • A good writer is generous. They bleed their fears, doubts and delights all over the page, with nothing held back for later.
  • A good writer refreshes. They peer into the fog and refuse to blink until they notice a reason for hope.
  • A good writer lights the way. With words gripped by ink-stained fingers they draw us from the dark.

Bad writing may sell books, but readers are left in shadow. A bad life may look successful, but the world is left just as dim.

Art As A Work Of Life

For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago. Ephesians 2:10

Together, we are God’s handiwork.

Does your story prove that it’s true?

Generous, refreshing, bearer of light, are we changed by the reading of you?

Every day, we’re given a choice–to be just another product, shaped by the world, or let God shape his image in us.

Where have you noticed God’s artistry at work in your life?

Find out more about Janet and her wonderful material here.

My big prayer experiment

prayer

It is a strange thing indeed that God bids us ask, seek and knock when, with little room for doubt, we stand squarely at the center of the very hurricanes from which we then seek God’s rescue. It can be stated unequivocally that I will ask for things from selfish motivation, seek for answers to my own pet projects built on projections of someone I mistakenly believe to be the biblical God and then knock on doors I only think will lead to an enhanced sense of well-being and happiness which, in and of itself, grows out of my own ego and is misguided to begin with.

And yet, God bids us come. Why? What is there to be gained through misplaced asking, misguided seeking and misdirected knocking? Is prayer somehow a test of our faithfulness? Our orthodoxy? Does God simply use all of this to plumb our propensity toward righteousness? Unrighteousness? Test our mettle? Prove our character? Uncover poor mental health? Check for bowel obstructions?

I share here the three greatest gifts to my prayer life. Ever. One: contemplative prayer or, as I like to call it, prayer without agenda. It is a practice of which I cannot seem to get enough and about which I long to learn more. I have delighted in becoming a novice of this ancient art and try to practice it numerous times a day. The second gift to my prayer life: bring the roses along with the shit, neither of which impress nor vex God in any way. So, if like the Psalmist, I can come to God on my worst day, in my worst mood, smelling of my worst sin, for the worst reasons and God still stubbornly delights in my presence…well then, I say, “let’s go!” Since God is well aware of the even deeper levels of dark felch in which I so momentously swim why not come anyway and see what happens? Right? Or, am I just ridiculously stupid? (to answer is your prerogative but, know this, you run the risk of me praying for you. And you don’t want that). Finally, intercede. Praying for others has a strange way of drawing on a deeper joy, yielding better interior fruit and somehow diminishing my inflated sense of self-need. I’m not especially good at it, but the practice is half the fun.

Church-from-distance

I do bemoan something however. For five years we lived in a small, tourist, college town in Oregon. It was located in the middle of some of the most richly verdant, mystical territory I’ve yet seen. It was also less than a half hour drive from not one but three monasteries. The one of my choice where I spent countless hours giving God the finger, then apologizing, then wiping my tears, then repeating the process was a Trappist Abbey a mere forty-five minute bike ride from our house. There it was that God flayed the dead skin from my ailing soul on more occasions than I can count. There I sought God’s counsel on major life decisions. There I spent three days crying and screaming through uncountable tears and unspeakable pain when, for a time, my wife and I separated. There I would pray and laugh with the brothers who knew more dirty jokes and more great Merton quotes than I’ll ever know in a lifetime. By the way, never let anyone feed you a false bill of goods on monks. They’re bad-ass dudes with bad habits (pun intended), worse breath and still worse sense of comic timing. But honesty? Depth? Love? Oh yes.

the brothers

Geography or setting does not determine good or bad prayer. It can help however. This post signifies the beginning of a search, a sort of prayer experiment if you will, in seeking out a new sacred spot where God and I can swear at each other through loving and mutual tears. Without further verbose delay, I give you my journal entry from day 1 of this search:

“Egad, my soul is desperately thirsty. I need to pray fervently for a space to pray fervently. At times like this I wish I was a 20 minute drive from the Trappist Abbey where I could go and work out my salvation submerged in beauty and the green, deep stillness. Lord, how I miss that place. How I miss the spirit of learning, the ethos of readiness, of dark corner catacombs out of which came light and goodness, bright, and the silent choir of active contemplation.

Lord, show me a place to tie the ends that beg to be braided in multiple strands joined in singular purpose.

Lift the fog enough to see the edges of solidity, and fray the ends of cords I only think I need to tie my world together.

Unleash into my presumptive skies the birds of purgation carrying with them twigs and branches for the task. 

Let me author the story of my own demise if through my disappearance you fill someone else’s stifling horizon.

Swell in the hopeless heart a future of light through my abiding darkness.

Write someone else’s story complete with satin ending on gilded pages torn from the tattered pages of my tired, half-written tale.

Finish others by my incompletion.

Airbrush another life with the melted crayons of my own.

Sing another’s song with notes plucked from my own unfinished symphony.

 

Why not join me in prayer? We’ll pray for each other and see what epic tales emerge…

Check out the Trappist Abbey here.

Prayer picture: www.julieamarxhausen.wordpress.com

Finding Today

capelookout003

It is surprising how much time one can spend yearning for an unknown future or pining after a rose-colored past. I for one have lived too much in this unhealthy and unnecessary tension. The healthy version of the already but not yet is the glowing embers of a faith in what has already happened, what is presently happening and what is still to happen. That is a tension worth exploring.

I am speaking in more general terms. Today is like no other before it and unlike anything to come. It is absolutely unique in every way. Of course, it will have many features seemingly identical to those previously experienced that will give it a certain…predictability, at times ennui. But, for anyone seeking to practice life with God, it is anything but. Life can be routine but hardly predictable and never dull. Therefore, it pays to be consistently grateful and regularly hopeful.

I entered this day with old, familiar fears, recognizable yearnings and comfortable proclivities; the stuff that is my warp, woof and wake. God is not unfamiliar with these things in me. Nor is God particularly vexed by them since, to quote G.K. Chesterton, “sin [read all that doesn’t quite make the grade in life’s terms] is the least interesting thing about us to God.” Good thing because I’m especially gifted at it and have a few spectacular ones to my credit. Viewed through the wrong lens, they might easily be misconstrued as a jaunty tip of the hat to the devil (who or whatever that is).

To live life perched atop the twin cliffs of unfulfilled longing and unrealized dreams is to lean precariously over a bubbling cauldron of self-pity and willful blindness. That is an ugly, unwelcome concoction to be sure. It smells bad. It’s dangerous and never very fortifying. God brings so many people into my life. Some want someone to hear them laugh and rejoice. Others are hurting, needing the Jesus touch, which, at that exact moment, can only be brought by me. God is both willing and fully capable of doing so without me. But why, when I’ve been given the gift of inclusion in the secret schemes of heaven while living on earth?

The fact is that I/we, have been given life, physically and spiritually. I do not want to waste such a precious gift trying to foist upon the world the unwieldy clubs of self-pity, regret, self-doubt, self…anything. In seeking to be healed, I must seek instead to become an agent of healing. And I can only do that as I open my eyes to what my eyes first see.

In the days and months that drift lazily past like a prairie stream, things have changed. My mind has changed on stuff. I think differently about who I am and who I am not. I feel differently. I no longer feel the need to grope desperately in the darkness for any shred of passing light but, in the waning dark, revel in the growing light. As they say, “it’s a God thing.” Instead of grasping for things over which I have no control, I am striving to submit honestly and readily to things as they are; the life I am currently living.

The life I have is the one I embrace. Regardless of what may still be lacking, I lean into all that is and hope for what can be; for what is yet to come.

I am finding today.

Easter Freedom Through Lenten Doubt

 

the resurrection

A website on which I am blessed to share blogs is ConversationsJournal.  The following was a post I shared in February at the beginning of Lent. Today, as Easter puts an end to Lent and begins a time of resurrection celebration hinting at ascension, I wish to share it here. I trust it has been a blessed journey for you and your loved ones. Let’s continue that journey together in the mutual love of the Blessed Kingdom.

Easter Freedom Through Lenten Doubt

Peace, R

 

Picture is of “The Resurrection” by Carl Heinrich Bloch and can be found here

Reflections on faith and art – Earworms of Grace: Leitmotiv

Like everyone else, I love Fridays. tgifIt was Friday. Friday is my day off. It also happens to be my Sabbath. I’m rather possessive of Fridays since they have become so reconstructive to my psyche, such as it is. Yet, ironically, if there is ever a day I feel more stressed about “wasting” free time, it’s Friday.

I have a fixation with fixations: an idea, a besetting issue, relational matters, missing car keys or, God forbid, a misplaced book bag. Whenever an idea, either good or bad, finds a perpetual return, I can get stuck in what the French call an idée fixe, a fixed idea. It’s something that, good or bad, refuses to go away; a kind of paralysis.

stressed

My brain and my soul spar over time served, with neither winning. I should be working harder at not doing something significantly insignificant. It’s a bit like standing in front of a wet paint sign and sensing an overpowering need to touch something, just to be sure. “Don’t think about sex,” the deacon tells the unsuspecting youth group and, for the next half hour, boys have a dreamy look in their eyes with one eyelid partially closed and crossing their legs. Ha! As if they’re fooling anyone.

I love to practice silence and contemplative prayer on these days and deal with distractions about the same as anyone else – poorly. But of all the distractions with which I’d prefer not to do battle during contemplative prayer, some trite, facile, mind-numbingly repetitive song would top the list. It just keeps showing up no matter how hard I try to redirect or quell the noise. You know that thing where, at sixteen, you finally get a chance to lean in for the long awaited kiss but start laughing instead because of the impressive fart joke your jackass buddy told you earlier that day? It just keeps showing up at the worst moments. Or, when you’re trying to find the Zen of vacuuming the stairs but the only thing that incessantly hammers away at your brain is that ditty from the ghastly used car commercial that sounds like it was written by angry zombies on a bad acid high.

I’ve heard this phenomenon described as an earworm. earwormI have no idea who first coined the phrase but it is very appropriate to my point. Sometimes my mental needle gets stuck and can’t move on (for those younger than I, that is a reference to ancient, black discs that magically play music when rotated clockwise and scratched by a needle on a stick). Such earworm annoyances can make a sorry mess of what might otherwise have been a nice day.

But maybe that recurring ditty from the horrible TV ad, vis a vis, idea-fly constantly buzzing around inside my head isn’t half bad. Even if it is a universal experience, I have to wonder whether it can somehow be redeemed, retooled from a shitty tune to some richer fare, something even…redemptive. Perhaps it’s possible to redirect such things and, in so doing, make for better internal music.

The Germans, not to be outdone, have a term, delightfully fun to say, referring to a short, constantly recurring musical phrase: the leitmotiv. It means literally, “leading motif” and is conceived as a guiding idea around which larger pieces of music revolve. This idea may be a short melodic phrase, harmonic statement or rhythmic figure that hides and flits about within a larger work. It morphs and changes according to musical or plot needs. Sometimes new ones are added, granting even more interest and mystery to the piece. Leitmotifs can help to bind a work together into a coherent whole, and also enable the composer to relate a story without the use of words, or to add an extra level to an already present story.

Think old movies. The piano accompaniment was used to enhance action, delineate one character from another, create atmosphere or just build a fun backdrop against which the characters could capably caper. Still closer to home, the Star Wars Theme continually reappears throughout an entire series of movies that, in its subtly changing demeanor, evokes equally subtle changes in characters, moods, settings, relationships.

Back to Fridays. I am coming, albeit slowly, to accept and even embrace these Sabbath earworms, these recurring dramas that play out in my overactive brain. Jesus said such cool stuff like “people were not made for the Sabbath but the Sabbath for people” (Rife Armchair Translation). This tells me a lot. It tells me a lot about Jesus and the kind of person he was and is. This is a statement primarily about grace. It is an indication of the kind of gift-giving God I seek to serve. The gift of Sabbath suggests that no amount of bad earworm ditties need steal what is always pure gift. To relax into guilt free nothingness is the best non-thing ever on a non-day to non-do.

sleep in hammockThese days, I love to try and fool these earworm triggers by writing long to-do lists, placing them on my lap during prayer and then crumpling them up while I go off to take a nap. Let ‘em come I say, these leitmotivs, since in God’s playground, they are diminished into earworms of grace. In a Spirit-borne rest, even distractions become holy. I might even find myself singing the nasty little buggers ‘cause, you know, if you can’t beat ‘em…

TGIF picture: www.runningcirclesaroundtheturtles.com

Earworm picture: www.blogs.davenportlibrary.com

Man in hammock: www.psypost.org

Theophany, Poetry and Specialization

Theophany+in+Russia

I recently shared a guest post on robslitbits, my literary site, which outlines the place of the poet in society. It was by Kate Harris, writing for a favorite blog site of mine, Art House America. Since the subject can be approached from a host of directions and focus in as many ways as one can conceive, I wanted to do the same here on innerwoven. This is a guest post by another Kate (Katy in this case) culled from another favorite blog site, The Grunewald Guild.

Beauty changes the world more thoroughly, more quickly and more meaningfully than anything else. To that end, I share this little essay. I hope it worked in you like it did me.

In name of the Logos…the First Word, R

 

Reflections on faith and art – Stop in the Name of Love: Fermata’s Gift of Pause

It was a strange time in his life. He had been many things, experienced many things, perceived many things in as many ways, fought and lost many battles, won still others. But, never in all that time would he ever have used the term, stable. Young, handsome, energetic? Maybe, once. Bright, eager? Still, albeit tempered. Passionate? Sure, but with a more nuanced meaning. Confident? Perhaps, maybe…not sure. Focused? Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Stable is an odd word, one best used to describe a table or toilet seat sufficient to the task of supporting their respective burdens with certainty and ease. Give them your worst and what comes out bruised is ego, not the thing itself. They’re…trustworthy.

Trustworthy! Eeeww, how unsexy. He had hoped for a word more like solid or chill. Probably, the word that best illustrated his present life was rest. The overwhelming feelings of inadequate job performance, deadline anxiety, friendship uncertainties, identity questions, and fears of many kinds, including those of “right” doctrine or “biblical” theology (whatever that means) were all beginning to fade into the background.

The experimental days of project du jour held less fascination for him than previously. Instead, the growing appeal of quieter, simpler ventures held sway over the quickly passing days. He yet harbored dreams and aspirations, the hopes of any person with a heartbeat. However, they were rather less…insistent, less bothersome somehow, full of timeline-laden expectation and anxiety.

bluemassgroup.comHis trajectory fifteen years earlier had been one of skyrocketing up the ecclesiastical ladder of success (you better believe there’s such a thing). He had begun this upward career-clamoring by means of big, glittery, evangelical worship leadership. His growing bevy of names to drop, gloat-able experiences, and boast-able accomplishments all kept astride his equally rising ego…and the accompanying stress.

But there was a problem. His thirsty soul was getting in the way. When it appeared there was nowhere to go but up, his soul shouted Stop! in the name of love; let’s go down instead. It was barking louder every day, refusing to be ignored. A spiritual thirst had taken hold coupled with a theological crisis of epic proportions, denying the upward mobility to which his career seemed to be pointing.

In a few short years, he had gone from the music staff of a large, well-healed, hard to ignore big-box church in a wealthy, resort town to a much smaller, über-educated, College town church to a still smaller but diverse one stuck in a semi-arid, fruit growing valley in the middle of, quite literally, nowhere. Here there were no names to drop because people with “names” tended not to live there. Gone were the multiple monthly, high profile gigs that promised regional notoriety and decent pocket cash. Gone was the euphoric environment proffered by the diversity, youthful panache, ideological smorgasbord, and creative playground of a College town. Gone were the long, rainy days so conducive to his creative process and emotional make-up.

Taking its place was residence in a small city known more for its slow drivers, monster truck rallies, poverty, gang violence, county fair, and conservative politics. Where would such a man as he find kindred spirits in such a place? God’s faithfulness however, even in an environment seemingly hostile to his personal mode de vie seemed to emerge serendipitously as a fine dust collecting on the windshield of his spiritual bus.

In his ever-mutating thoughts on the matter one thing occurred to him as a central feature of his life over the past few years. He had learned to stop. If ever there was a singular gift to a healthy spiritual life it is Shabbat, Sabbath, holy pause.

The idea is beautifully mirrored in the fermata. rogerbourland.comLooking a bit like a beady-eyed Cyclops with bad hair it is the musical symbol that, like the crossing guard, tells all ongoing traffic to pause indefinitely while other, more important matters, may be addressed. It holds things back, avoiding danger and confusion.

To pause suggests a willingness to stop indefinitely and count one’s steps. The days of our lives (no relation) hurtle through time and space at a frightful tempo. We are often blind to this fact (as was he) largely because we become hypnotized by how much momentum and power we pick up along the way. But, despite their apparent beauty and order, without sufficient space for pause, they begin to sound more like an unwieldy stampede of bucking, snorting notes headed for unseen cliffs of cacophony (think Lucille Ball after too much Scotch singing Schubert).

The fermata is the Sabbath of music. It shows up not as regularly but performs a similar function. In music, as in life, are surprise, delight, order, disorder and angst…beauty. As any composer will tell you however, music is made even more magnificent against the backdrop of its own silences. Rests are the music of silence. The fermata is the rest of exhalation. It holds things in place, defusing the potentially damaging effects of kinetic energy. Rather than something wonderful ending up a steam train careening over a cliff, the musical Sabbath of fermata puts the brakes on. theoildrum.comSabbath secures us to the manuscript where the Composer’s grace and skill can adjust potential weak spots and lovingly dote on us. Our music can cool down, let off some steam, and regroup before beginning its forward movement again. Music is made more beautiful through its silences, its pauses. God makes us more beautiful in exactly the same way. As we pause long enough to take care of overused musical sentences, our emerging symphony is writ large across our life manuscript where all may experience its beauty.

He yearned to say that advancing age had brought the wisdom he craved. He’d had his moments. But ironically, some of his most egregious errors, lapses in judgment and felony mishaps had occurred smack dab in his late middle age. Chronos is never a guarantee of kairos. boards.cruisecritic.comSubsequent time and reflective pauses however had brought a sense of perspective that fanned out behind him like an ever-growing wake, revealing his course, in a sea more than half traveled. The music was slowly beginning to make sense.

These considerations allowed him pause (pun intended) to reflect on some of the reasons for his place in life. Although not without pain and challenge, the idea of stability no longer seemed so…tedious. No, it was a gift, a grace lovingly massaged into the music of his life.

Maybe it wasn’t such a strange time after all.

 

Photos courtesy of www.bluemassgroup.com, www.rogerbourland.com,

www.theoildrum.com, and www.cruisecritic.com, respectively.