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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 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.
YOU have a gift to share, dear friend! Listen to your heart. Embrace your passion. Spread joy with wreckless abandon!
With fondness, my mom often recalls the way that her grandmother, Nanny, always took the time to artfully wrap the gifts that she gave with each individual in mind. Tucking in a flower here. Tying-on a fancy homemade bow. Adding a trinket there. Whether it be cooking, cleaning, sewing, or wrapping, Nanny made sure to fold her love into these gifts.
While I certainly use my fair share of gift bags and tissue paper, I believe I inherited my Nanny’s gift wrapping genes. I derive a great sense of pleasure in finding ways to add my own personal touch to a Starbucks gift card, a CD or batch of hot cocoa. With vintage texts, manila tags, and a bit of paint and glitter, I wrap these simple, inexpensive gifts with my love for the recipient. I imagine most people would be just fine with a quick wrapping job, but, when I can, I enjoy using my gifts to bless those around me.
I can’t help but wonder at the way God wrapped-up His love for us. God chose to send us His love wrapped in the flesh of a beautiful baby boy. Jesus. It just doesn’t get any better than that. As we draw near to the day of Jesus’ birth, may we receive His gift with open arms.
The Blue Mug 
