Wonderings

What makes pumpkins rot?
Why do kids want to touch everything?
How can a spider hang upside down from my ceiling?
Where do fruit flies come from?
How do I get paint on me and I wasn't even painting?
What makes a sweet potato sprout?

Where does stubbornness come from?
How do you laugh it off?

All the right answers

As I walked through the last two years, I have experienced many things I was taught could be healed through repentance and a greater devotion to God. For example, depression is a sin issue. You are thinking too much about yourself. Confess and get busy serving. And of course, panic attacks are a sign that worry has built a stronghold in your heart. Confess it and memorize a few verses. Prior to walking through these valleys myself, I would have used that exact counsel for others. Funny how an unexpected journey into depression and panic attacks can change one's perspective.

Last night I was reading a rough draft of a friend's book on pain. He shares some of his journey through Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but then the preacher in him comes out. He holds out all the right answers for pain. Do this and God will do this. Believe this and you will be rewarded with this. I know that his faith is woven in a multicolored tapestry, but his answers read as just that. Answers.

In my own pain, my own valleys, I can't stomach someone with all the answers. I am drawn to those who will walk beside me living out the journey with me. Christians are not a lucky minority who happen to hold all the answers. Jesus is not a panacea for our pain. There are no magic pills to dull life's pain. But there is great comfort and strength in companionship, both earthly and heavenly.

Progress

There's something about putting my fears out there that shrinks them down somewhat. My studio is clean - or rather cleaner/neater than it was. I began cutting apart old sweaters and sewing the scraps together. I actually am liking the crazy quilt pattern more than I thought I would. Last night, I fell asleep dreaming of ways to incorporate this piece into a twin size quilt. How would I back it? What would I back it with? Batting?

I did find a monster in my studio, just as I feared. It reared its ugly head when I came across some artwork from college with my professor's comments. "You don't try hard enough. You are satisfied with the first solution." And I remembered. . . all the times the direction were handed out on a half sheet of paper, read to us, any questions were discussed and then the professor would leave the room. Occasionally, he would come back lean over my shoulder and grunt "interesting." That enigmatic word. Early in my studies I would ask what that meant. It was never defined. Did it mean good? bad? mediocre? Yes, I needed to try harder - but I also needed someone to set an example for me. I needed someone to stretch me. I needed someone to teach me to think.......to think with me, not think for me.

The Studio Monster

Cleaning up my studio intimidates me today - well, every day.

It's full of stagnant work. What do I do with it? Toss it? Pile it for later? Tear out the parts I like?

And then there's the issue of bugs. Several months back, my home was inumdated with spiders and roaches of various sizes, shapes and colors. I've sprayed and have been quite comfortable inhabiting the rest of the rooms in the house.

And I have quite a collection of finished work. Work that needs to move along. I have an Etsy account. Is it worth the trouble to organize my work, photograph it and sell it off? I guess the other option would be Goodwill and somehow that doesn't quite fit.

I do need to conquer my fear.

Head em up, move em out.

My creativity tank has been sitting on empty for the past couple of months. I have excused myself from the world of art due to the excessive strain placed on my creativity by teaching 630 art students each week. Excuses, excuses! No more. Time to move along, Cassidy.

My Art "to do" list:
1. Clean up the studio
2. Use the raw wool to make a hat.
3. Sew sweater blanket.
4. Continue with art journal.
5. Go on an art outing with myself.

Church

I visited church today. We (KC, Jerry and I) have been planning to do this for the last several weeks. It's time to meet new people.
Everything was fine - until we pulled in the parking lot. At that point, I pulled up my walls and ducked deep inside myself. Thoughts rolled around like: "too many people," "I don't know any of these people," "everyone's SO young."
Off we went. People said hi. They were all so close. Claustrophobia set in. I just wanted to watch. Where's my robe of invisibility? Who are these people? What do they think of me? All my senses were on alert. Everything was new.
The service was fine. Except the chairs. They were little and quite far apart. I was afraid that I would find the floor before I found the chair. Now why did I want to come to church? ah, to meet people - which I am afraid to speak to.
Next week, I have a deal with KC and Jerry. They can talk to whomever they like and I will people watch.
http://www.gracechurchsc.org/downtown-campus/

Extend

I'm still getting used to the idea that most people are able to extend grace because they have been given grace.

Yesterday, my sister showed up at my house in tears, hurting. Blistered by the tediousness of life and the salt of unkindness rubbed into the wound. The people surrounding her for the next nine months live in a paradigm of law. The system bends for no one. People forget how to extend grace or even a sliver of kindness when all they're handed is the law and its consequences.

I know. I was there both as a student and as faculty. It's easy to get caught up in the beauty of a black and white world. I found myself addressing every slight misdemeanor, anything that bordered on gray. I forgot how to extend grace. My peers seldom expressed it to each other, let alone to a student. It just wasn't done. God is holy. He is black and white. Banish the gray! became the unspoken motto. War rhetoric surfaced in our conversations.

Step outside the paradigm of the law to look inside. It's all so confusing. What's the big fuss over? Mountains arising from molehills. Redwoods being ignored in favor of splinters.

Oh, to step back from it all. Look up. Look around. Breathe in the multicolored breath of grace.

Relationship

So, I've been thinking about this thing called relationship. How do you find them? Not necessarily the dating kind, just a friend. It almost seems as though I need to join a club of some sort to have an automatic "in" with a group of people. But then that doesn't automatically create relationship either. Consider church: similar to a club, group of people with common interests, participating in group activities, and still overflows with loneliness. I have spent the majority of my life in christian circles: schools, church, family and friends. I can count on one hand the number of people out of those groups I would consider to be real-honest-to-goodness-come-through-in-the-darkest-part-of-the-night kind of friends.
So, how do I find friends? Strike up random conversations in the grocery store? Look for a ministry of some kind? Hang out in a chat room?
I'm just talking out of the smallness of my relational circle. Musing.

Driving Home

I went furniture shopping the other day. Four stores in a two hour time block. I know exactly what I'm looking for, the problem is that my friends can't remember the where they bought the sofa they gave me. The sofa I want an exact replica of. Creamy white, curved, overstuffed sectional. Not too big, not too small, just right, only the fabric is beginning to desintigrate after years of loving.
All those showrooms must have gone to my head, because I couldn't seem to get into the right lane to access the interstate and get home. Do I want to go North or South? Spartanburg or Columbia? By the time I figured it out, it was too late. I was doomed to continue heading into the evils of Friday afternoon shopping traffic. Two red lights later (the same red light, mind you), I turned into a shopping center to turn around. Stopped in a store for 2 minutes. Nothing was on sale, so I kept moving. This time, I knew that I needed to be in the right hand lane to access the interstate. I never made it. All the sudden I found myself back at the entrance to the shopping center, in the left hand turning lane. (No, there was no alchohol involved, just me in all my glory) While waiting for the light, I spoke with myself, argued with myself, berated myself and still don't know how I got myself in such an amazing situation.

heart

Sometimes life moves so quickly that I loose sight of the real me. The one inside, buried under the busyness. There was a time in the not to distant past that I was wading through pools of hurt. These days, I am mostly content and happy to be where I am doing what I'm doing enjoying the people around me. I want my heart to be strong and open. No walls, just a place where transactions of love are commonplace. No more cowering in a corner, ashamed of the real me.

These words and thoughts grew out of some photos I was taking the other day. A few years ago, my friend was helping me break down the walls that surrounded my heart. She loved me unconditionally and it scared me. Little by little, holes began to appear in my heart. The stagnant air could leave while hope flowed freely. She and her husband gave me this heart ornament as a picture of what was going on inside me.

To teach

"Hi, My name's Miss Ridley. What's yours?"
"Quada'sha."
"Heaven."
"Jesus."
"Greisly."

"Who's your teacher?"
A shrug of the shoulder.
"Uh,...."
"I don't know."

"Hi, What student are you picking up? What grade?"
"Jailene Pamela Rosales."
"What grade?"
A shake of the head and then three fingers held up.
"Is this one person or two?"
More sign language and then "one girl."
And I'm off to find her classroom in a school of more than 650 students.

Escorting two white girls to their car, they are incensed that no one knows their name.
I make a mental note that there are two things working against them: they are white and they have normal names.

I love the beginning of a new school year!

Dreaming in Pictures

Last Christmas I put together a collage of images and phrases depicting the direction I wanted to grow. I posted it above my bed, reading it nightly. The theme seemed to be living in my own skin. Respecting my voice. Celebrating the person that I am and am becoming. These words and images seeped deep into my being, infusing me with courage.
A few weeks ago, I realized that I had outgrown those images and words. The dreams had become reality. I find that I respect my own voice and am no longer ashamed of being an individual. I am much, much better at standing up for myself. So, I made a new collage. This one focused on friends. Reaching out. Community. Moments of stillness woven into relationships.

Trust

I am learning that in order to truly feel loved and accepted for who I am, I must trust the other person enough to be vulnerable with them. It's so much easier to tack on the latest paper doll dress and hide. "Maybe she will like me if I wear yellow." But if I walk forward exposing my brokenness, trusting her with it, I am also allowing her to leave her mask behind.

And then there were shoes....

The wasteland of shoes.
Jumbled, Tumbled and Lost.

Musings

Sketching. Painting. Honoring my body.
There is joy in picking up the brush to caress the canvas.
I do not hold myself to a standard of perfectionism.
Bad art is allowed. The good comes through the bad.

I am struggling with being motivated to do anything. Or maybe I should say, I love futzing on the computer, reading, watching Oprah, dreaming, and watering my plants. This summer has been good for me. Slowly, I'm coming down off Lexapro. (maybe the extra weight will start to slowly come down as well) I have daydreamed of new ways to motivate, teach and control my students. I actually miss them! Sleep has come easily and in large quantities. I haven't accomplished the goals I set at the beginning of the summer, but I'm ok with that. Serendipity has ruled the day, all of them.

The Sly North Wind

I've felt it blowing through my spirit the last few days.
It shows up in an inconsolable itch to change something in my life.
Nothing is wrong with my job, my car, my house, etc.
It's just an itch to check out my options.

Eventually it subsides.
I am happy.
Maybe a tad bored.
So summer projects are beginning to get done.

Moving on

It takes time and work to move through abuse. Even spiritual abuse.
I come to the place where I can acknowledge the abuse.
Hurt over it. Be angry. Talk about it.
Those steps repeat themselves until one day I find that I've moved a little bit.
Some small piece of me has begun to heal.

I realized this the other day when I answered the following questions:
1. How do I view God?
Open, Loving, Safe
2. How do I relate to God?
I find that in silence and stillness I am at peace. I sense His presence in nature.
3. How does God reveal himself to me?
In beauty; In freeing me to find him in relationship; In the words and actions of love from others; In the peace and safety I feel even though I'm not performing all the christian actions.
4. What hang-ups do I still have regarding God?
On occasion, I find myself resisting the idea of God because the fundamentalist strings have been so recently removed. God is closely tied to family and their expectations of what a christian looks and acts like. The whole thing requires so much work.

This is my journey and I am moving on.

Remember

Some dates are etched deeply across my heart.
July 13, 2001 is one of those days.
My painting, Storms, came five years later.
Justin was working at the Wilds Christian Camp for his third summer. That morning he climbed a tree in the guys cabin area to begin taking it down. All the branches had been taken off and Justin was within 30 seconds of coming down out of the tree when the trunk snapped. Justin fell with the tree onto one of the cabin roofs and then to the ground. He died instantly. And just as instantly our lives were changed.

I offer you a brief collection of my memories.
This is the last valentine Justin sent me. He was 19.


We loved being silly in front of the camera. This is our last Christmas together. (2000)


Finally, we made "happy faces." Justin, Lauren, Sharon, Morgan.


Justin was all boy. Strong, but gentle.


He rode this bike for five years. Wore out and replaced every part.


Some days come uninvited.

To be myself

There are many parts of me.
The Yin and the Yang.
The naughty and nice.
As I continue to search out who I am, I am becoming more comfortable with allowing you to see who I really am.

Safety and familiarity is important to me.
Unique things resonate deeply within my spirit.
I have a hard time speaking my truth for the first time.
I am quick to adopt other's quirks, hoping they will like me.

Today, I own my faults and failures.
But I also celebrate my strengths.

Body Image

I struggle to accept my body - well, not all of my body - just the parts I dislike. My body is the part of me I cannot take off. It is assigned to me. I didn't even get to choose what I wanted to struggle with......
I used to hate my arms. They were wide and thick - now, thanks to lifting weights with a friend, they are firm and considerably smaller.
I dislike my belly. It grows - pooches - expands and then unexplicably shrinks. I can't figure it out. Little, if any of my eating has changed, yet here I am gaining weight. I have to assign this current weight gain to lexapro. Which raises a whole other question: would I rather be depressed or gain weight?

Leaving, Part 3

The long and the short of it is that I came back to teach at BJU after four years away. Parts of the story felt miraculous. I was quite sure God was at work, opening doors. I signed on to become a graduate assistant and then the position at the BJA opened up. Come August, 2002, I found myself living in Greenville, SC, with a faculty sticker on my car. How ironic! I couldn't be a graduate assistant, but a faculty member was just fine.
During the two years I taught in Hawaii, I had gradually turned into a diehard Christian fundamentalist. I listened to only classical, BJU productions, and The Wilds. I played the piano for my church, all hymns. My dress standards kept getting more and more restrictive. I diligently observed my morning Bible reading and prayer time. I could check all the boxes. I was a good Christian. And because my pastor vouched for my change of heart, BJU was willing to bring me on staff.
I spent the first three years at BJU living my life more restricted than the rules required. I remember commenting to a friend at one point, that the rules didn't bother me. They were set "looser" than I cared to live anyway.
I look back on those days, wondering at how I conducted my life. One of the driving forces behind my choices was my desire to escape the label of "rebel." Anytime I questioned the rules, that label had been slapped on me. Eventually, anytime I spoke up, the label was slapped on me again. I had been labeled so many times that I believed it. I felt worthless. No one I knew was accepting me. In Hawaii, I found myself slowly releasing any questioning or desire to speak up. Everyone was pleased. And BJU hired me.

Happy Things

New plants along the edge of my collapsing storage barn. All I need now is a red bicycle to lean against the barn.



Foxgloves growing next to my screen porch. A round bumble bee is almost always bouncing in and out of the bell-shaped flower.



Pots of Herbs. Purple basil, rosemary and thyme create a wonderful scent in my backyard.



A day spent in my yard, weeding, mowing and pruning helps restore a sense of order to life. Filling pots with soil, gently tapping down the new plants.
Giving everything some water.
Trimming the wild growth around the carport, so I no longer get attacked as I get into my car.
Pruning the azalea and mountain laurel forest.
Mowing the grass.
And then just sitting back. Resting.
Smiling as the birds sing.

A Quick Sketch

KC was tired the other night. Actually, I was too, but I found that I felt more alive drawing her than I had felt all day. Grabbing a tuscan red prismacolor pencil and sketching her for 25 minutes, filled me. One of my summer goals is to spend more time drawing people. And time drawing other things, too, but people are my focus. In art school, I learned little to nothing about figure drawing. Proportions, likeness, it all escaped me. Since then, I've avoided using anything with people in my art. With one notable exeption: a portrait of Morgan in the style of Chuck Close.

Leaving, Part 2

As I walk through the hallways of my memory, I want to pause. Breathe.

I write my story as part of my healing from christian fundamentalism. For me, these entries are times to sit down on the side of the road for a rest, take off my backpack, sort through the contents and check my map. Thank you for reading and leaving me your comments. I enjoy the company.

Returning to my story, after I graduated from BJU, I taught in Christian schools in Florida, Tennessee and Hawaii before returning to teach at Bob Jones Academy (BJA). In Florida, I taught elementary art for one year, before I was offered a job in Tennessee teaching every elective a Christian school can offer.

The year in Tennessee was full of arguments with my family. Well, maybe I should rephrase that - my mother and I argued. She struggled accepting my attendance at West Park Baptist Church (WPBC), the church the family had left because the music was too contemporary. When my family first started attending WPBC, the church was part of the community of christian fundamentalism. The pastors had attended BJU, all of the music came from fundamentalist publishers, AWANA clubs were offered, there was weekly visitation and yearly revival services and missions conferences. On top of that, the church was growing so quickly that new buildings were continually going up. Slowly, through my teenage years the leadership introduced soundtracks into the worship service. The organ was played less and less, eventually being replaced by a digital keyboard. An orchestra joined the keyboard, guitars joined the orchestra and finally came the drums. For my parents, the drums signaled the beginning of the end. In their eyes, WPBC had compromised its purity and was sliding down the slippery slope of evangelical Christianity that ends in apostasy. As a family, we were happy there. We made friends and were an integral part of the church family.

I knew that my parents were deeply troubled by the music in the church and toyed with leaving for a couple of years. One night during those years, I overheard my grandfather counseling my father to leave WPBC before he lost his other kids. My grandfather used the word lost to describe me. According to him, I was lost because I was openly rebellious. My rebellion took the form of obeying my parents' rules while arguing that they were too strict. Nothing more. The rules governed every area of our lives, including our clothing (no pants in church), entertainment(no movie theatres, one youth group activity per month), television viewing (Andy Griffith, but not the ones in color - because he lies on those shows), music choices (classical, fundamentalist christian music), and curfew (ten o'clock, all the way through college). My grandfather's counsel won out in the end and my family left WPBC.

We came home from church one Sunday evening in early January, my senior year of college and my father called a family meeting. We were told that we were leaving WPBC effective immediately. The instructions included a ban on telling any of our friends. I was furious and stayed up most of the night completing a drawing for my senior art show. The piece was called 40 Frogs, and it fit my mood. I colored hard and fast, my hand cramping, while comparing my life to the Egyptian's plague in Exodus. Two days later, I returned to BJU to finish my senior year. During that semester, BJU refused to allow me to become a graduate assistant.

Skipping ahead a year, I moved from Florida to Tennessee and began attending WPBC again. My mother felt betrayed by my choice of churches. She wanted to know what was going on at the church, but when I would tell her, she would get angry. Sundays seemed to be the easiest day to get into an argument. I don't remember the arguments being over anything substantial, but my mother was hurt by them and she eventually asked me not to come home for Sunday dinners. The school I was teaching at decided to switch to a computer based curriculum. All their teachers were terminated at the end of the school year. Little did I know that this difficulty would result in a two year stint in Hawaii and rebuilding the relationship with my family. Funny how 5,000 miles makes family bonding so much easier.

Leaving, Part 1

How did I come to the decision to leave Bob Jones University's employment and ultimately Christian fundamentalism? I guess the answer starts with how I came to BJU and even before that with the small drama surrounding my graduation from BJU.

I was raised to attend BJU - there was none of the normal shopping around for the school that best fit the next step in life. My freshman year was paid for by the time I was a freshman in high school. So, off I went to college. Throughout my four years as a student, I would vacillate between acceptance of the rules as part of the natural overflow of my theology and a desperate fighting to step outside the cloistered mindset. My senior year, I applied for a graduate assistant position and was turned down. Turned down with no reason given. When I could finally ply an answer from my dormitory supervisor, she said that I was not loyal to the school in my music choices and in my choice of churches. Well, the music thing I could understand. It states in black and white right there in the handbook the list of acceptable music and I had routinely participated in a mail order music club. When the campus post office delivered my Cd's to my dormitory supervisor's apartment, I'd check to make sure they were the right ones. She would graciously keep them for me until I could take them home. We wouldn't want the leaven of contemporary christian music amongst our students.

The second reason I was given for being denied the Graduate Assistant position regarded the church I attended: teaching Sunday school, attending the worship service and returning for the Sunday evening service. There's a part of me that shakes my head in disbelief, I attended a lot of church! Especially, given the fact that I also attended chapel Monday through Thursday, nightly prayer meetings in the dorms, and collected enough Bible credits to have declared it a minor. Nevermind all that, what was the problem with this church? Nothing. That's right, nothing. It was on the approved list of churches (yes, there's an approved list and a black list) until I graduated. So what's the problem? The problem is that I did not return to attend the Sunday morning worship service on campus, even though the rule book specifically stated that those who teach Sunday school at a church in town may stay to attend that church's worship service. Several times my senior year I had been called in to the adminstrator's office and reminded that I needed to return to BJU for the worship service. Each meeting resulted in me restating the written rule and the administrator explaining that the rule was not valid in this situation. This church was the one exception to the rule. I still get angry thinking about the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

In the end, I was denied a position as a graduate assistant because I obeyed the written rules. It had nothing to do with my qualifications for the job. I had been accepted into the graduate program, as well as going through the interview process and being chosen as the best candidate for the job. I was frustrated and even angry. I was being punished because I was doing my best to live life as a whole person. I did what the rules asked me to do (or not do, as was the case more often than not), but I refused to sell the school my soul. They did not own me.

Thank you

You know, I thought when my last day of employment at Bob Jones University arrived, that I would automatically rebound from my state of depression. All the stress would magically float away and I would return to my happy self. I look back to that time and recognize that I was ignorant of all that lay ahead. The last week of work, my friends and I celebrated in little ways every day. A fun afternoon and dinner was planned as the grand celebration.

At the last faculty meeting I was given a large crystal candy dish and asked if I wanted to say anything. I smiled and said, "Thank you." The others who were leaving were offered the same opportunity and they spoke in long, glowing, often tearful words of their years teaching at Bob Jones Academy. It wasn't that I didn't know I was supposed to say something - I'd actually labored over what to say for a month or so. I'd written down some ideas. Rehearsed them. And at the moment of crisis, nothing fit. Nothing, but "thank you." Thank you for what? an ugly candy dish? a slow shriveling of my spirit? a list of rules to live my life by?

I think "thank you" was the best thing I could have said that day. Thank you for the time you afforded me to walk through the ebbing of my life. Thank you for teaching me that I can suck it up and carry on through times of extreme discipline, both self-imposed and externally driven. Thank you for creating a world shallow enough and narrow enough that I have to search beyond it to find meaning. Thank you for giving me the students that no one else wanted and allowing me the joy of building bridges into their lives. Thank you for being so concerned with the externals that you didn't notice when my heart began to change. Thank you for limiting life to smallness, pettiness and meanness and renaming them as holiness, purity and love. Because you operate that way, I began to believe that life had to be something more. I read, listened, talked and read some more. I allowed myself to feel, to push the boundaries, to consider that Truth was bigger than the subtle lies you brainwashed me with. Oh, I've had to go through hell to get there. And I can't say I'm there yet. But I am journeying.

Baggage

So, I'm slightly fuzzy from a glass of wine. I feels really good after a full day of teaching. And I'm remembering.......... One year ago, I had just finished my last day of teaching at Bob Jones Academy. I was in the midst of depression, living at my friend's house for accountability. Most nights I slept 4 hours at the most. My heart would race. I couldn't breathe. And sleep escaped me. It was a viscious cycle that would gloriously end around 3:00 most nights. I would get up to face the day with the goal of making it to the end of the school year without being fired.
Why would I be at risk of being fired? I am a good employee. In fact, my boss continued to beg me to return the following year. I could have been fired for any of the following reasons: I attended a church that used contemporary christian music in its worship, I had been to see 3 movies in the theatre while in the employment of BJU (Cars, Esther, The Nativity), I had drunk wine, and I listened to whatever music I cared to. But I wasn't fired. Somehow, I managed to fly under to radar. I'd learned how to keep my mouth shut. But living in christian fundamentalism for 31 years has left me with some pretty heavy baggage. Meet me at Baggage Claim and help me load it all onto one of those rental carts.
The first piece is light. It almost lifts itself off the revolving belt, but as I set it down, I hear that something's broken inside. Checking the tag, I read: "Congradulations, you survived." I set it aside, scanning for the next piece.
I see it careening down the ramp on the other side. I grimace waiting for the crash as it settles in with the other bags. As it makes its way towards me, I notice the other bags seemed to have been cleared out of the way. It's just my dark and heavy bag. Taking a deep breath, I grunt as I pull it over to join the first bag. I check the tag: "Depression. You'll never make it." I nod, hearing the words echoing in my head.
My third bag is quickly heading towards me. At least I think that's my bag. Did it fall in the mud? Gosh, did it get run over by those happy luggage cart drivers I always see outside my window? I reach out with both hands to pick up the bag as carefully as possible. No further dammage, please. This was my favorite piece of luggage. I tenderly set it down to join the first two. Checking the tag, I see: "Spirituality. Abused."
Turning back to the baggage claim, I see my last two pieces coming together. Grasping them quickly, I relax. Nothing lost this time. Just to be safe, I check the tags: "Loneliness. You only know the social rules for fundamentalism." and "Family. We're ashamed of you."
I can't handle unpacking tonight. Tomorrow's another day.

Old Violins

ochre.
timbre.
dwelling throughout time.

speckled.
laughter.
reinventing broken things.

jasmine.
chimes.
tangled lengths of chord.

dominoes.
pelican.
swelling.
crescendo.
Amen.

Attractiveness

I've been working on my altered Bible. The New Testament has been turned into drawers containing traditional illustrations of Christ. My first entry carries the title "Attractive." The artwork was created over the Genesis story of Rachel, Leah and Jacob, where Rachel is noted as beautiful and well favored. What makes a girl attractive? Is it fashionable clothes? A great smile? The perfect body? Before a child ineracts with the world, she is attractive. She is beautiful before she learns the perfect smile. Her attractiveness is bigger than her body or even her clothes. Start with her eyes. Watch, till you see her soul bubble over. An attractive woman does care for her physical appearance, but in proportion with how she cares for her soul.

Objects with history

I love the rolling stool in my studio. My uncle used it in his practice as both a country doctor and a surgeon in Southern Alabama. The metal legs are rusting and the gray vinyl is cracking, but it remains my favorite seat.
My great aunt gave me her great aunt's easel. I wonder what paintings it has held through the years. Today, it's holding a Candy Land board awaiting repurposing as art.
There's a New Testament sitting on my bookcase from my grandfather. He signed his name inside and dated it 1927. It's well-worn, as though he carried it in his breast pocket through the years.
I wonder what objects of mine will live and live again in someone else's possession?

Comforting things

Wool blankets made out of old weaters. Tree branches hanging in front of the window. Strong coffee tempered with cream. Old journal holding my thoughts. Wine corks filling a glass jar. Bird chorus seranading a new morning. Antique mason jars displaying pencils, rose petals, black sand and a beta fish. Deep cleansing breaths. A day with nothing pressing.

PMS happenings

1. Yesterday, I was getting ready to leave in the morning when I noticed that there was a hole in my skirt....exposing my butt to the world.
2. Again, yesterday, I got lost on the way to a meeting across town. I was 10 minutes late and the presenter had all the handouts down front - in a room of 250 people.
3. I cut my grass for the first time this year and got blisters on my hands.
4. I won a bid on ebay - but couldn't log into Paypal and had to change my password for the 49th time.
5. Poured coffee down my cleavage this morning.
6. Four classrooms full of angry, disrespectful students.
7. Weird, rambling dreams.
8. Craving chocolate.
9. Inability to focus on anything.

Movie watching: August Rush

He walked away from all he knew because he believed there was more to life.
One person had reached out to him, giving hope.
Stepping out and met with grace.
He heard the music and followed it.

I, too, know what it's like to be in that fragile place.
One person extended a hand to me.
Grace has dogged my steps.
I am learning to hear the music of my own heart.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5ab6RtA-KE&feature=related

Speak to me

Words.
Barrage.
Spew.
Angry, hurtful, pain.

Words.
Open.
Transparent.
Vulnerable, risky, trusting.

Words.
Kind.
Gracious.
Soothing, tender, healing.

Words.
Truth.
Love.
Pain, vulnerable, healing.

Musings

My life could be summed up with the phrase: "Right is always right and wrong is always wrong." Admitting my humanity was only to acknowledge the times I acted in my flesh, ie. sinned. I was a spiritual person, trapped in a body of flesh. There was a dichotomy of flesh versus spirit. I was to continually kill anything associated with the flesh: any desire I had whether it was physical or emotional. The monastic life was wrong because it was catholic - but there were definitely times life felt as though I was living that way. I was taught that anytime I felt the urging to scrifice self, that I was "acting in the spirit." In other words, that was God talking. I was also taught that I was an incredibly selfish being and that any attempt at self preservation, self respect, etc was a demonstration of that selfishness.

New Words

So, I've decided to begin an altered book. I am going to use one of my old bibles - a King James, leatherbound bible to be specific. I've been mulling over what the subject could be and this morning I decided. It will be about 20 or so pages, each page dedicated to one of the following words that I desire to see expressed in my life: Creativity, Joy, Friendship, Competence, Peace of Mind, Physical Health, Spirituality, Sensuality, Material Comfort, Independence, Unique, Open-minded, Uninhibited, Joyful, Loving, Personable, Attractive, Productive, Expressive, Inspiring.

As I was compiling my list, I realized that these traits are positive. Now that in and of itself is not unusual, except that I have recently left Christian fundamentalism. These words contain none of the old berating, guilt-tripping dialogue. Prior to leaving fundamentalism, my list would have read: humble, patient, forgiving, kind, servant's heart, etc. Now, I realize that those words are also good traits, but for me they carry painful, negative connotations. Humility involves continually cutting myself down, never acknowledging anything positive about my person. Patience requires bearing with circumstance and people that are annoying and potentially harmful. Combine patience with humility and I have a recipe for abuse. Add to that the necessity of always forgiving those persons with whom I must exercise patience as I rake myself over the coals of guilt and you will have a small understanding of fundamentalism's approach to self-esteem.

Feel free to leave me any comments/ideas for my new book. I would love some good definitions, quotes, and images.

Sealed

Writing to reclaim the broken places in my life.
There are hurt places in my heart - rooms that have been vacuum sealed.
One day these chambers will be ready to open - I will delve into them as they give me permission.
I will feel the pain, hurt and joy locked behind them.
Anger that attacks.
Tears that cleanse.
Comforting silence.
My story is valid.
It is where I've walked and I will own it.
All of it.

New Assignment

I recently purchased Writing as a Way of Healing, by Louise DeSalvo, as part of my journey through my past. I plan on posting an occasional assignment. The image above is the original journal entry of the first assignment.


I feel guilty that I want to sit and do nothing. Not always - just some nights it is more comfortable to stare into space than it is to come up with something to do - even watching tv seems too much. I feel guilty because I was raised to be busy - to be active - laziness is a sin. "Go serve." "He who dies with the dirtiest towel wins." "Lay up treasures." "If you're not working for the Lord, you're missing opportunities." "You'll be sorry one day for all that wasted time." That's a bunch of shit! My soul needs breathing space. I crave quiet. That's part of the natural flow of my spirit. Busy. Quiet. Busy. Quiet. Breathe in. Breathe out. There are times to be still. Resting within myself. Listening to the silence. Hearing the echoes from with walls of the heart. I'm shaking out the rug, so to speak. Beating the dust out of my soul. Letting new wind blow in through the windows.

Wake up slow

Saturday morning.

Somewhat sleepy.

White sofa.

Misty fog.

Fresh green.

Hot coffee.

Egg casserole.

Visiting memories.

Filling up.

Stop.

Eyes closed.

Deep breath.

Contented smile.

Some days it rains.

Melancholy.

Is it just the rain?

Cloudy, overcast.

This emotion is deeper, broader, fuller than sadness. There is a descant floating along above the low harmonies resonating in my spirit.

My house is cozy. I love the solitude. There's artwork scattered around in various stages of completion. Creativity only partially finished.

Melancholy. It's a beautiful place to be. I am content with this quiet. Enjoying simple things like coffee from a friend, a hug from a student, the new green of the leaves.

Melancholy comes easily on rainy days.

Hot tea. Cozy blanket. A book with beautiful pictures.

Melancholy is a wide space that opens up in my heart allowing the spiritual an entrance.

Awe. Stillness. When I allow it, melancholy is cleansing.

It is being content in who I am, where I am, what I am.

It is being open to change. It is listening. It is looking beyond the surface.


Some days it rains.

Apples

Have you ever tried to eat an apple so big that you can barely take a bite? It rubs your nose and stretches your jaw. Then skin gets caught in your teeth. The apple I am eating probably satisfies all the daily recommended fruit allowances in one neat bundle. Juice is now sticking to my nose and dripping off my chin. It takes two sessions to eat it.

A collection of words

Left hand side. Who wins? Tomorrow's trees. Angel's wings. Song of freedom. Nodding heads. What for? Sarah said. Yellow bobby pins. Pig toes. Peace to thee. Aged. Unread days. Diluted hope. Clay hearts. Grace.