All that glitters

You know that girl in your head who tells you can't do it, so why even try? Well, I know that she's a liar, but she has me petrified. I'm not mad at her, because I understand that she's just scared and doesn't want to see me fail. Her scope is so limited that she can barely imagine the possibility that I might succeed, or at least have some fun along the way. I feel bad for her (let's call her Violet) because she usually sits alone, cautiously looking around, making sure that nothing will force her out of her comfortable little corner. Violet is extremely suspicious of the other girl (let's call her Phoebe) who lives across the way, in another corner.

Unlike Violet, Phoebe doesn't usually stay put. She's all over the place, flitting here and there, running about laughing, even venturing over to Violet's corner and inviting her to come out and play. On a good day, Violet does. And each time it's like discovering a whole new world. "Look at this!" says Phoebe. "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it fun? Aren't we wrapped up in the joy and wonder of it all?"

On those good days, Violet responds, "Yes! I never knew it could all be so marvelous! How could I ever think that my one little corner was enough?" And she and Phoebe hold hands, laughing, skipping, just living and breathing pure magic.

But on the bad days, Violet, who has a pessimistic and mean streak, looks at Phoebe and says, "What's the use? What's so great about any of this? You keep trying, but it's just so hard sometimes, isn't it? Wouldn't you rather take a nap, Phoebe?"

Phoebe is fiercely independent and annoyingly optimistic, but even she can't hold out forever. Most of the time she simply tells Violet that she loves her and will always welcome her to come and play. But sometimes, on the worst of days, Phoebe takes Violet's gloomy advice and retreats to her own corner, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

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A few weeks ago I signed up for a Postcard Swap hosted by Karen of Chookooloonks. The idea instantly thrilled me for two reasons. First of all, I love the idea of taking online community off-line into the "real" world. What an interesting way to connect with strangers who share at least one common bond (reading the same blog). The concept is fairly simple: Create a batch of handmade postcards using your medium of choice, mail them out to the 11 people on your list, and receive 11 little works of art in return.

The second reason I was excited about this is that I needed an art project to jump start me. I've mentioned before that I started dabbling with watercolours earlier this summer. I'm sad to say that I've only painted once since the class ended over a month ago. I want to paint and try new art forms (at this point, most art forms are new to me), but I never seem to get around to it.

I think about it a lot. But it just seems like such a hassle. I have to work on the dining room table, which means I need to put the kits in an upstairs bedroom, otherwise they'd be covered in paint and glitter . (Okay, I don't actually have glitter. Should I get glitter?) I tell myself that it'd be so much easier to paint and create if I had an art station in my office. That way I could make a mess and not clean it up if I didn't finish a project in one sitting. "If only I had a studio," I tell myself, "I'd create more."

But the real truth of the matter is that I'm scared. When I first started painting, I had no visions in my head of what I wanted to do. But very quickly -- surprisingly quickly, in fact -- I started to have ideas and inklings about what I'd like to see happen on the page. But I'm new. So new that I often don't have a clue about how to achieve my vision. I don't even know what materials to use. Heck, I don't even know what materials are available. I'm pretty sure that some of my visions aren't suited to watercolour, but I don't know what I need.

All I know is that I'm supposed to mail out 11 hand-made postcards in two weeks. And I don't want the recipients to be disappointed. As I fretted over this a few nights ago, a poem came to me, just a few lines long, but perfect and complete. I haven't written poetry in years and was surprised by its appearance. I'm taking it as a gift that I can use to anchor my vision for the postcard. At least I have a starting point now.

I'll share it -- and the postcards -- with you after everything is mailed out. In the meantime, tell me, how do you get your own artist to come out and play?

A Quiet Joyful Girl

Lavender Leaves Henri Bendel candle

I spend too little time by candlelight. But tonight that soft flickering light, and music, seem like the only things that will ease the unexplained heaviness in my heart.

After returning from Chicago last Sunday, I spent the week holed-up in the house with my husband. We spent most of Monday in bed, having a lazy summer day slumber party. We've turned our days and nights topsy-turvy, staying up until 3:00 or later, and sleeping until after noon. We don't get a lot of time like this, with no responsibilities pulling us in different directions. But we're on vacation from work this week, and the only schedule we have to keep is our own.

We've been laid back and irresponsible all week – eating up the little food that was left in the house from before my trip, and then eating out or ordering in when we couldn't find anything left in the freezer. We need to go to the grocery store. We probably should do some laundry, and maybe vacuum. But we've been resting, and it was nice.

Now, I'm weary with resting. Too much inactivity makes me sluggish and sad. And tonight I definitely feel sad, even though I don't really know why. I've had plenty of together time with my beloved. And I've even had plenty of time to myself this week to pursue my own interests.

Something inside of me feels out of sorts. I don't like this feeling. When it shows up I always fear that it is a harbinger of more concrete sadness to come. I tried to shake it with a good dinner, conversation, and a glass of white sangria. But it lingers.

I felt melancholy like this a lot during my college days. I lit a lot of candles then. If they didn't cheer me up, at least they created a space in which I could acknowledge my feelings for what they are. Of course, you run the risk of wallowing when you do this. But sometimes it's all you can do.

I have two cats now, and don't bother to light candles very much anymore. The furballs are reckless, and I'm a bit forgetful, so open flames are an invitation for disaster. But a few weeks ago I splurged on a Lavender Leaves Henri Bendel candle for my office, the one room in the house that's off-limits to the kits. I only light it when I'm sitting at my desk, and have a contract with myself to blow it out whenever I leave the room.

So tonight I light the candle and listen to Ani DiFranco's "Joyful Girl," which came up in this session at BlogHer. I’m only a casual Ani listener, and have always meant to listen more closely. The lyrics for "Joyful Girl" speak of confidence and joy, but when I listen to it, the song sounds sad to me.

This leads me to thinking about the basic difference between joy and happiness. Sometimes I think that true joy is something deeper, something separate from the emotion we identify as happy. Joy can be jubilant, but at its core it is rooted in a knowledge that transcends emotion. It has a solidity that isn't swayed by mere moods. It's a certainty and a comfort even when we feel unsure and sad.

I suppose each person must find her own joy, the foundation on which she can move and breathe and have her being. I'm only slightly surprised to discover that at the age of 31 I'm still seeking my joy, still working to build and strengthen my foundation. The younger me had hoped I'd have it figured out by now. But really, why should I be surprised? As I get older, I realize that there's no such thing as "finally" growing up. We grow and change, but it's never done.

I like the quiet joy of "Joyful Girl," but disagree on one point: "I know that there's no grand plan here/This is just the way it goes," Ani sings. Until recently, I might have agreed; I railed against the adage that "everything happens for a reason." Sure there's a reason, I thought, but only so far as the laws of cause and effect. I believe in a loving God who has given us freewill in the midst of a fallen world. As such, bad things happen – and God is not pleased with them, and neither should we be.

I used to be much more of a "when a door closes, a window will open" type of person. But the last few years of my life had made me cynical and bitter. Over the past few months, as I've slowly opened myself again to the beauty and mystery of the universe, I'm more inclined to think that our small lives are part of a grand plan. And for now, I'm trying to find the joy in that, even if it's a quiet, candlelit joy tinged with melancholy.

Joyful Girl ~ Ani DiFranco

I do it for the joy it brings
'Cause I'm a joyful girl
'Cause the world owes me nothing
And we owe each other the world
I do it because it's the least I can do
I do it 'cause I learned it from you
I do it just because I want to
'Cause I want to

Everything I do is judged
And they mostly get it wrong
But oh well
'Cause the bathroom mirror has not budged
And the woman who lives there can tell
The truth from the stuff that they say
And she looks me in the eye
Says would you prefer the easy way?
No? Well okay then
Don't cry

And I wonder if everything I do
I do instead
Of something I want to do more
The question fills my head
I know that there's no grand plan here
This is just the way it goes
And when everything else seems unclear
I guess at least I know

I do it for the joy it brings
'Cause I'm a joyful girl
'Cause the world owes me nothing
And we owe each other the world
I do it because it's the least I can do
I do it 'cause I learned it from you
I do it just because I want to
'Cause I want to

One life must be enough

When I wrote this week's Sunday Scribblings musings on Town & Country, I was thinking of something that Linford Detweiler of Over the Rhine wrote in a little booklet called Northern Spy Number One: Crawl Low Under Smoke. I couldn't find it at the time, but found a portion of it copied in my journal from June 1997. He says it so beautifully:

One life is hardly enough. I've had to kill so many lives to be alive in this one. The college professor life. The life lived in the South with the brave dancing words full of sweet storm clouds, grace and the reign of laughter. And me struggling with a first collection of short stories.

The life on the Northeast Ohio farm with mist like the secret birthing night breath of angels coming up off the five a.m. fields and the grey birds praising the new coming day in their secret symphonic language, full of mercy and foreshadowing. The life of the pianist braving The Well-Tempered Clavier, making the Mozart glimmer with purity, getting the warm fire of the Chopin Nocturnes and Preludes and Etudes under the palms of miracle hands, making Ravel's impressionist poems come in and out of focus, breathing all the while.

The young are apple trees. We prune off many limbs so that we might bear a little fruit. One life must be enough, but damn. (p. 18)

Yes, Linford, yes. Damn.

Serendipity

Life has been so full of serendipity lately that I can practically hear the Universe singing. But my little world has also been full of confusion, sadness, and wounds that won't heal. I'm living a double life. My one face can't see the sun for all the storm clouds and tears. My other face is upturned, scanning the heavens for signs and shooting stars, rejoicing in the sheer magic and connectedness of it all. I'm an emotional Janus. I'm doing my best to hold on to the synchronicity and the magic because I desperately need them.

A few weeks ago I wrote about what it means to call myself a "writer" and to go one step further and use the term "artist." A few days later several of my favorite bloggers wrote similar thoughts on the topic, including this one that introduced me to a book called The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity by Julia Cameron. I posted a note in the comments section noting the synchronicity of our blog posts. Then I went out the next day to buy the book because it sounded just like what I needed.

As I read the opening chapters, I was excited about the idea of connecting with and nurturing my creative and spiritual sides at the same time. I've felt battered and bruised in both of these areas lately and was looking forward to some healing. When I got to the following passage of the book, I had to chuckle at the alignment of everything:

As you work with the tools in this book, as you undertake the weekly tasks, many changes will be set in motion. Chief among these changes will be the triggering of synchronicity: we change and the universe furthers and expands that change. I have an irreverent shorthand for this that I keep taped to my writing desk: "Leap, and the net will appear." (p.2)

Even the introduction of the book contained little bits of synchronicity for me. Cameron writes about living and working in New York and refers to places in Manhattan. I'd just come back from a weekend in the city and was -- for the first time in my life -- familiar with some of the places she described. It felt like everything was converging to make sense for me, in big and small ways. That New York trip itself was full of serendipity, including old friends, an Orthodox nun's prediction, and a new friend who felt like an old one.

What's the serendipity in your life these days?

My First Trip to NYC (3rd 1st)

[Stephanie over at Cool People I Know (whom I found via Jen Lemen) has tagged her readers to jump in on her meme and provide a list of five firsts. This is my third first. Read the others here.]

The first time I visited New York City, I forgot about the Statue of Liberty.

A carfull of friends decided to drive from our beach house in Ocean City, NJ to NYC. We were there as part of a summer program of learning, fellowship, and discipleship. A bunch of college students from different schools, learning to live, play, work, cook, eat, pray, worship, and study together. It was like MTV's Real World for Christians: less hot tub debauchery and more Bible study.

Saturdays were our free time, so five of us piled into one car and made the 2.5 hour car trip to the city that never sleeps.

I don't remember what I expected to see or do in New York. I don't think I had many preconceived notions. At this point in my life, I hadn't traveled much and had never lived in a large city. I was just excited about the idea of New York.

As we approached the city and drove across a bridge, I looked across the backseat and out the driver's side window. There, in the distance, rising up out of the water, small but unmistakable, was the Statue of Liberty.

"Look!" I cried. "It's the Statue of Liberty!"

From the joy and awe in my voice, you would have thought I'd been waiting my whole life to see this landmark, as if I were an avid tourist, or a hungry immigrant.

The sheer surprise and happiness of seeing the Statue of Liberty caught me off-guard. It's not that I'd been looking forward to seeing it. It's that I had completely forgotten about its existence.

Lady Liberty is practically synonymous with the Big Apple. Yet I hadn't included it in my mental checklist of things to see while in New York. But there it was. Big -- and real -- as life. Here was this famous icon and I was seeing it in person, with my own eyes.

At that moment I felt like I was living life for once, rather than life living me. I can't explain how, but seeing the statue reminded me that the world is full of possibilities, even when we don't see them coming.

I thought of this story last weekend while I was in New York City for the ASJA writer's conference. I looked out of my hotel window on the 34th Floor and saw a large, silver gargoyle two buildings over.

As I was walking back to my hotel one day, I saw the building with the gargoyles on it and noticed how shiny it was. Suddenly I heard little orphan Annie proclaiming, "You'll stay up till this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building." It was the Chrysler Building I'd seen from my window! I had the same feeling of recognition that I'd had 11 years earlier when I "discovered" the Statue of Liberty.

I'm looking for obvious monuments. The things in my life that are always there, whether I see them or not. The signposts that reassure me that whether I remember them or not, they stand strong and solid, ready to delight me.