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As my boy and girl race to the finish line of another school year, the fact that I have not visited my blog since they started back to school last September keeps coming to my attention. I guess I’ve been too busy stirring to string together words. Following a pretty harrowing summer last year, I spent a delicious couple of weeks just gulping in the silence around me. Finding relief in this stillness, I gave thanks that my boy and girl appeared to be successfully transitioning to the new school year and then proceeded to tackle the next set of goals on my to-do list.
From secretly devouring every last page of mixed-media art journals at B&N to signing-up for just about any art class that I could find and then going-on to create and sell my own art, I’ve done a LOT of learning and stretching over the past 5-6 years. So grateful for the life that was breathed back into my soul through this process, I felt a deep yearning to give back to other women who might be in need of restoration, too. That said, this Spring, I found myself on an airplane, flying across the country to Brave River Ranch in Idaho in order to become certified to teach a course called Soul Restoration. A course that combines art and soul work into one beautiful, life-changing curriculum.
It seems, in my journey to become whole again, that I’ve needed to gather a good measure of necessary ingredients: intense parenting lessons, self-awareness, forgiveness, art-making skills, courage, and acceptance, just to name a few. While I’ve spent a good amount of time gathering and honing these things individually, it is now time to begin stirring it all together. In her best-selling book, The Best Yes, Lisa Terkeurst describes the idea of plopping all the ingredients of an amazing cake recipe into a bowl and refusing to stir it:
There would be shiny yellow yolks on top of crisp white flour with a dab or two of brown from the vanilla. Little mounds of sugar would sit off to the side of the bowl along with the baking soda. The milk splashed on top would sink into the flour bottom. I would have a bowl full of potential that will never be if I don’t stir before baking. I’m not exactly sure what might happen if I just dumped this all into a pan and popped it into the oven, unstirred, but I know it wouldn’t come out right. (p.227)
This stirring process? This is where I am right now in my life. I could choose to dump all my wisdom into a pan and pop it into the oven, as is; however, I’m more likely to end-up with a whole, edible cake if I take the time to stir the experiences and the lessons that I’ve been learning together before moving-on to the next step. Stirring takes patience and effort. I think I’m done only to find a patch of flour unearthed at the bottom of the mixing-bowl. I alternate slow, laborious strokes with quick anticipation, sprinkling-in a handful of chocolate chips for extra-goodness. How is my cake going to turn-out? Will it fall in the middle? I am offered no guarantees that this cake will come-out looking or tasting good at all. What I have learned, though, is that I have to trust the process. And even if this particular cake doesn’t turn-out as I expect, I’ll likely gain whatever wisdom that I need to learn from the process and apply it to my next baking session. This baking thing is not for the faint of heart. It is a lifelong process.
In my dream, I am trying to find my way home. I am walking. When I ask Siri for directions, she keeps changing routes and finally settles on the one right in front of me. I have to travel through a decaying urban area and climb the steep concrete wall of a dam. I’m scared, but I start climbing anyways. Higher. Higher. Higher. I near the top of the dam and notice water starting to leak through a crack in the wall. A flood gate has been opened. Cold water rushes out in big torrents and I am tossed about. As I fall downwards with the thundering water, I open my mouth every so often to get air and allow myself to be carried downward. Crashing into the churning water at the bottom of the dam, I rise-up, arms in victory, waving my phone around in the air. “I made it! I made It!” I yell. “I’ll show you just what I made it through because I caught it all on video!”
This was my dream the other night. And it is also my family’s reality as we travel with our boy on this journey with autism. The only way home is precipitous and hard and scary, at times. Our climb is fraught with rigid thinking, pervasive anxiety, intense sibling rivalry and hairy family dynamics. We never know when the dam is going to break and we’ll find ourselves sitting in an anxious, angry mess, wondering just what happened. And yet, we keep on climbing. We climb because we love each other. And we know that love surpasses any fear that threatens to thwart this journey that is ours to travel together. To keep climbing means that even when the flood wall opens and we find ourselves thrashing around at the base of the dam, once again, we are alive to tell about it.
While my particular “wall” happens to be autism, I have come to know so many beautiful souls who are climbing different walls. Just as scary. Just as hard or even harder. Cancer. Broken Marriages. Addiction. Chronic Illness. Abuse. Depression. Racism. We all have stories. Stories of a season(s) in our lives during which we discover our souls being hurled against a concrete bottom, weary and unsure of our ability to stand-up and start climbing again. Perhaps, if we can see ourselves as the heroine of our own stories, raising our arms in victory because we are still here to tell about it, we will be more likely to share our experiences with each other. We can replace fear and judgement with “Me, too.” and “Being human is hard. Let’s climb together.” We can conquer our fear with love.
With both hands, I cup the body of Mama Bird with her cracked, broken wings, and apply gentle pressure. Kneading and smoothing. Adding and taking away. These wings, each lovingly shaped and adorned with small flowers, sat for a few weeks too long, wrapped in wet rags and sitting in a black garbage bag. When I finally get around to attaching them to Mama Bird’s body, the wings have started to dry and crack into pieces as I lift them from their solitary perches. Wings left unused become frail and brittle.
Sensing the panic welling up inside me, my art teacher declares, “You need to pop those suckers on soon and work from there! There’s no way to do it gently.” It is the end of class, so I pack-up the pieces and parts of my bird, once again, in wet rags and lug them home with me so that I can do some emergency repair work. When I unwrap the clay that next morning, I feel a sense of reverence. I aim to make this bird whole again. I can’t help but think, as I hold these broken wings in my hands, that this must be how God feels when He cradles our broken spirits.
The molding process? It can hurt and it might last longer than we would like. In the case of Mama Bird, with some work, I am able to put her back together, all in one piece, but her transformation is still not over. We have glazing issues, where for some odd reason, the “feather white” glaze that I have so carefully chosen, chips-off in tiny pieces when we remove her from the kiln. Even with repeated glazing and firing at higher temperatures, Mama Bird’s glaze continues to flake-off in places. For some reason, though, I am okay with it. Her “shabby chic” exterior speaks to me. The bare clay peeking through is evidence of Mama Bird’s journey. Scars of a warrior.
Early on, I had decided to keep the hole open in Mama Bird’s chest where I hollowed her for firing.
I imagine a huge spray of colorful flowers flowing from that hollow, spilling forth with beauty. The tiny little flowers that I fashioned from vintage fabric and wire sit patiently in a block of green foam while Mama Bird undergoes her many transformations. Now it is time to fill that hollow space. After playing with flower arrangements and securing the wires with a final dose of resin, I step back from Mama Bird and take a look. There is still something missing. This mama bird is a warrior. She needs a crown.
To all my fellow warrior mamas out there, I want you to know that it is never too late to repair your wings. We make mistakes. We suffer losses and heartaches. We may even feel so broken that we cannot fly again. But God, the Master Artist? He specializes in crafting beauty from our brokenness.
Just in case you didn’t know, I am a quiet person. This fact was first brought to my attention when I entered first grade. David Petry backed me into a corner of the classroom where he towered over me with his puffy blonde hair, pointed his finger in my face and asked, “Don’t you ever talk?!” Up until then, I had not defined myself as “quiet.” My earliest years spent climbing trees, hiking through fields, and gathering clay from the riverbanks of Nelson County, I felt perfectly at home with myself. That is, until we moved to suburbia during the summer before first grade.
First grade was a real eye-opener for me. Not having attended kindergarten prior to starting school, I had a lot to learn. How to read, how to write (other than my first name), and how to make new friends. Fortunately, an outgoing little blonde girl named Susan asked if I wanted to be her friend at recess on the first day of school and we stayed pretty tight all through elementary school. Riding our bikes to each other’s house, playing in the woods, and creating haunted houses in the upstairs’ bonus room over her parents’ garage. At school, I remained fairly quiet and learned that teachers tend to like quiet kids, even earning the endearing nickname, “Lamby-Pie,” from my second grade teacher, Ms. Stout. Unintentionally, I was well on the road to becoming a people pleaser. It felt safe and comfortable at the time.
I continued-on into middle school and high school where I developed a nice group of girlfriends, all pretty quiet-natured, like me. I loved my girlfriends and the fun we had together. At the same time, I carried around this nagging voice in my head that told me I was too quiet and shy. Everyone around me seemed to be more confident. More fun. In my eyes, quiet equaled boring. It took a LOT of energy for me to put myself out there. And while I was known for being a kind, friendly person, I mainly focused on the quiet part. The part of me that I did not want to own.
As a young adult and into adulthood, I began to feel stuck inside a box. A box that I named “QUIET.” My spirit longed to bust out of that box and make itself authentically known. I wasn’t even sure what it would look like if I busted-out. Would it be loud and crazy? Cursing and saying whatever it felt like? I hated the incongruency between what others saw from the outside (calm and peaceful) and what I actually felt on the inside (anxious and irritable). I wanted this peace but without the cost of smothering my soul.
When my boy and girl started back to school one fall, I wandered into a free creative parenting class thinking that I would pick-up a few fun tips and wound-up embarking on a five-year journey during which, one by one, I ripped-down the walls that were squeezing the life out of me. And you know what? I didn’t go crazy or run naked through the streets! After doing the hard work of acknowledging my old stories and negative ways of seeing myself, I learned to sit with the uncomfortable feelings and then gently (and sometimes not so gently) release them through my art. It is a beautiful thing, really.
For me, the final leg of this journey has meant embracing my quiet self. After all those years of rejecting a huge chunk of my being, I am wrapping my arms around my gentle spirit and curling-up in its softness and warmth. And, that free-spirited 5-year old little girl who loved to commune with nature? She is still inside me and always has been. She might be quiet, but she is also joyful. She is strong and compassionate. She provides a sanctuary for other anxious hearts. And she knows that the quiet nourishes her soul and serves God in the exact way that she is created.
My boy stands still in the middle of the kitchen with a little grin on his face and a faraway look in his eyes when my girl asks him what he is thinking about. “I was remembering what it felt like to canter yesterday,” he replies. My boy with the gentle soul also possesses a speedy streak. He loves to barrel down the driveway on his Green Machine and spin-out at the bottom and is known to be heavy-footed when driving his Grandma’s golf cart. Now, he has discovered the thrill of riding fast on a horse…
For a number of years now, my boy has taken to horseback riding as a form of exercise and therapy for his autism. For the most part, he has remained content with walking around the ring on his horse, slow trotting and doing a few very low jumps; however, after attending an inclusive horseback riding camp this summer, my boy got a taste of what it feels like to ride a bit more independently and fell in love with idea of competing in shows to win ribbons. “This is going to be my sport!” he declares boldly. “I want to learn more than what I am doing in therapy riding.”
So, naturally, when my boy with autism expresses a keen interest in something that is good for him in so many ways, I seek to figure-out a way to start the process of transitioning him to regular riding lessons. Someone willing to teach him lessons on the weekend (his energy is spent after a long day at school during the week), at a reasonable price, and, ideally, one-to-one. I mention my boy’s desire to Helen, the owner of the therapeutic riding center, and she jumps on it immediately, setting us up with one of the regular riding teachers at her barn, a young lady named Sophie with a soft, sweet spirit.
Several weeks later, we arrive for my boy’s very first “regular” lesson, a big milestone on his journey. He has the whole inside ring to himself and performs each and every request with great pride and confidence. Midway through the lesson, my boy’s horse unexpectedly goes into a canter with my boy hanging-on, mouth wide open. When they come to a stop and my boy realizes that he is okay, he excitedly shouts, “That was fun!” With great valor, he shares his cantering experience with friends and family in the days that follow.
All geared-up for his next lesson the next week, my boy is likely dreaming of flying across fields on his horse, just like the boy in one of his favorite movies, The Black Stallion. Only this time, my girl is joining him for his lesson. My boy and girl. When the going gets tough, they totally have each other’s back. At the same time, they are brother and sister and each possesses a healthy dose of competitiveness with the other. My girl participates in a variety of other sports and enjoys doing some riding when she is not in the midst of swim season or basketball season. It can be tricky when she rides with her brother, as riding just comes a bit more naturally to her, even though she does not ride as often.
You can imagine how devastated my boy feels when his younger sister is able to get her horse to canter and his horse refuses. He even tries switching horses with my girl, but still, he cannot get it to canter. By the end of the lesson, my boy leaves in tears, feeling totally defeated. Over the next week or so, he lugs this discouragement around with him, a heavy load, and it becomes the topic of many conversations. My boy wants to feel like this horse thing is all his. He wants to be special. He hates how autism makes some things harder for him. We talk a lot about how he is special just because of who he is, not what he accomplishes. And how there is enough “specialness” to go around for everyone. We talk about how, yes, it is discouraging to see others be “better” at things we want to be good at, but, that in life, there will always be people who can ride better, sing better, write better, etc. And sometimes, we have to be content with enjoying the journey while we learn the skills to become better. The important thing is that we persevere.
With these understandings, my boy returns to his lessons several weeks later with a renewed sense of calm and resolve. He listens patiently, when the instructor reminds him to keep “quiet hands” as he steers the horse. She breaks-down the process leading-up to cantering into bite-sized pieces so that he can digest the instructions more slowly. And when the time comes to try to canter, once again, my boy does as he is told and squeezes the the horse’s belly with his outside leg, but then he awkwardly pulls back on the reigns, confusing the horse, and stopping him from going into a full canter. With all his might, my boy holds himself together while Sophie soothingly explains what happened. “Just try to relax,” she says. “The horse senses your anxiety and knows that you’re not quite ready to do what you are wanting to do. If you can be patient and become strong on the little things, you will eventually reach your goal.”
I love how this instructor speaks truth to my boy. Even more so, I love how my boy internalizes her words and applies them to other areas of struggle as we drive home. “It’s just like math at school, Mom. I get all anxious about not knowing how to do something and then it makes things harder. But once I relax, I usually get it!”
I can learn a lesson or two from my boy. Sometimes, I get all inspired by these great visions of what I want to do with my art, my writing, my life in general, and I want to be there yesterday. Just like my boy, I start to feel discouraged that someone else is a lot further along the journey than me. I am learning, though, to pull myself back to Center and relax. To become strong in the little things. To trust the process. And one day, I too, will canter. When I am ready.
“God gives us dreams a size too big so that we can grow in them. “
(Dream catcher made with vintage linens)
I started this painting back in November as a part of an online course called Paint Mojo taught by artist Tracy Verdugo. It sat on the art room easel in its crazy, unfinished state until last month. April. You might say that I lost my mojo for a little while there, but in reality, I just couldn’t finish everything on my plate at the same time. During those months in between November and April, I found myself preparing for an Open House right before Christmas and then jumped headfirst into finishing my “Ben’s Dream” piece just in time for an Autism Awareness exhibit in April. All the while, this big canvas brimming with bright colors and symbols winked at me in the corner of my art room. A reminder that I am always a work in progress.
I am convinced that God called me to start creating art several years ago, the year my girl started kindergarten, as a means of helping me practice the real art of surrendering my life to Him on a daily basis. To loosen my grip on the steering wheel and trust the process. My whole art journey has been a series of surrender. Surrendering my old insecurities and ways of thinking. Surrendering to the grief I never allowed myself to feel at the beginning of our boy’s autism journey. And surrendering to the idea that I can be an artist even though my college degrees are in education.
Art has become my metaphor for living life. With each painting, I start with a vague idea or vision and very often do not know how I am going to get there. I just have to start. I paint a big swoosh across the canvas. Or pick-up a piece of collage paper that calls to me and glue it down. Nothing monumental. I just have to do something. Before I know it, that big swoosh is followed by few more swooshes in different colors. I fall into a rhythm. Swoosh. Tear. Glue. Swirl. Ahh. This is how God wants me to start living. Take a step. And another step. You don’t need to know all the answers right now.
Before I know it, a certain energy takes over and LOTS of movement is happening. Almost always, though, I arrive at a certain point in my work, stand back, and think, “But where am I going? What IS my next step?” My heart pounds a little harder and I question my ability to make something out of all the chaos staring back at me. This. This is when I pray. God move through my hands. Guide them in the direction they need to go. Awkwardly, I might sketch-out an image in my mind. Many times, I fumble, frustrated over lines on the paper that do not match my vision. I will myself not to give-up. Something beautiful is waiting to come to fruition. Art is about capturing a feeling, not perfection. And so is life.
Sometimes, I just need to take a break. I sit on the deck with a good book. I scroll through Facebook. (Because creating can feel isolating at times!) I roam around a boutique that inspires me. Or just work on a project that is more structured. I need to refuel in order to persevere through the more trying stages of creating. And when I return to the canvas, I am able to bring a fresh perspective along with me.
When I do return, the vision that needs to be brought to life starts to reveal itself as the images connect on the canvas. A crazy line or paint dot becomes a bird’s beak. The splotch of blue ink that I thought was a mistake peeks through the background adding just the right effect. Nothing is wasted. I fly free in the knowledge that I can trust the process, both in my art and in life.
Last year, I spelled out the word “Steward” with our Scrabble letters and set them upon my kitchen windowsill to guide my intentions throughout 2014. When I chose the word “steward” as my focus, I remember thinking that I really needed to be a better steward of my time at home, as I had lots of aspirations for my creative business, but often became derailed too easily. This was the year that I would not allow things like Facebook and internet surfing to steal precious time. I would set business hours and art hours and stick to them! I even bought Julie Morgenstern’s book, Time Management from the Inside Out, to give myself an added boost.
By mid-January; however, it did not take me long to realize that God had a different vision of what it meant for me to be a good steward of my time last year. The power struggles between my girl and me had reached an all-time high and I was failing miserably at being the calm, loving mom that she needed me to be. The anger I felt inside felt a little scary some days and I knew it was time to ask for help. My time this past year was meant to be spent in healing.
I spent a good 4-5 months working with a counselor, just healing my spirit. Allowing myself to grieve parts of my life journey, my boy’s autism diagnosis, and my girl’s unique struggles. As I released the trapped feelings from my brain, their physical grip on my heart loosened, as well. With a new found sense of calm, I was then able to move on to other aspects of our current situation that needed attention.
As a preschooler, my girl had been diagnosed with sensory processing difficulties, an anxiety disorder and ADHD. I often describe all these diagnosis as the “leftovers” of autism. While we sought interventions for my girl when these things first became apparent, the symptoms lessened over time and I guess I just pushed those very real struggles to the back of my mind, as we were still heavily in the throes of addressing my boy’s autism. That said, it was now time to better understand and address my girl’s needs.
So, my husband and I began meeting with a counselor together to hone our parenting skills. While we share a number of strengths in our marriage, we also made the realization that we needed to communicate and be more assertive about our own individual needs. We both felt like “martyrs” for our family, working somewhat independently to survive. Recognizing the importance of validating and supporting each other so that we can function better as a unit has been big for us. And, as you can guess, a happier, calmer Mom and Dad sets the tone for a more loving, peaceful household. Apart from our counseling, my girl is now receiving occupational therapy each week to address her sensory needs and we are in the process of completing some educational evaluations to see if there are any other areas that we might be missing. Lots of hard work going-on here!
As our family continues to heal and move forward together, I have decided that my word for this year is going to be “Trust.” Trust the process. Trust that life will reveal itself and unfold just as it supposed to. And while I keep dreaming and setting goals for myself, I will hold these things loosely, allowing God to gently guide my path. He’s got this. I just need to trust Him.
If you want to stay close to Me and do things My way, ask Me to show you the path forward moment by moment. Instead of dashing headlong toward your goal, let Me set the pace. Slow down, and enjoy the journey in My Presence. -Sarah Young, Jesus Calling
With October and November passing all too quickly, I feel like I am coming home after a long trip as I write here. My head and hands have been working steadily, preparing for my very first Dandelion Studio Open House which took place in my home last Friday. Having had December 5th planted in the back of my mind for weeks, I am enjoying just being in the present now that my deadline has come and gone.
I worried bit last week. I worried that I did not have enough variety to sell. And, as several friends called to express their regrets over not being able to attend, I worried that the turn-out would be small. That all my preparations would be done in vain. I worried about not being a “success.”
I have learned a lot in my 40+ years of living, though, and one of the biggest and hardest lessons learned is that worry is nothing but an energy vampire. That said, I willed myself to focus on what I could control and began the process of surrendering “success” to God. I sat down with my “to do” list and plugged everything that needed to be done before Friday into my planner. Items priced. Bathrooms cleaned. Floors vacuumed. Food prepared. Displays arranged. And when my head hit the pillow each night, I prayed. I prayed that God’s presence might be felt in my home and that each person who walked through our door that Friday evening would feel loved and welcome. Because love always wins. Every. Single. Time.
The turn-out did end-up being smaller than I had hoped; however, it was okay. A steady stream of friends arrived with smiles on their faces and joy in their hearts. And, as our friend, John, began to strum his guitar fireside in the background, I knew that God showed-up, too. With tears in her eyes, one friend gently held a handmade ornament in her hand, saying that it touched her heart when she read the tag, “Love Wins.” In a necklace pendant, another found a talisman of hope to offer a hurting friend. One person felt drawn to a piece of my art only to find-out that it was inspired by her favorite place to stop and meditate in the woods, which happens to be mine, too. Family connections were discovered between my girlfriend’s father and my dad.
As I witnessed these connections being made throughout the evening, I realized that God knew exactly what I needed to take away from this open house. Not big numbers of people or huge amounts of sales, but a true understanding of success. A heart open to God.
The dream was always running ahead of me.
To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it,
that was the miracle.
-Anais Nin
The Blue Mug 