Although The Letters of Vincent Van Gogh seem to get off to a sluggish and heavy start, as I have moved deeper into the collection of the artists' correspondence with his brother Theo, I find more and more his words articulate much truth that I think many (including myself) can understand. This particular letter resumes communication after a year of absent letters, possibly resulting from familial tension or other unclear causes. Much of the letter is spent explaining some of the artist's feelings about the way he leads his life, including his devotion to learning as well as his previous five years of transient employment and apparent struggle. Throughout, he begs his brother not to write him off as a failure, but to understand the reasons for his difficulties:

"...As a result one cannot rid oneself of melancholy, one feels emptiness where there might have been friendship and sublime and genuine affection, and one feels dreadful disappointment gnawing at one's spiritual energy, fate seems to stand in the way of affection or one feels a wave of disgust welling up inside. And then one says, ' How long, my God!'

Well, that's how it is, can you tell what goes on within by looking at what happens without? There may be a great fire in your soul, but no one ever comes to warm himself by it, all that passers-by can see is a little smoke coming out of he chimney and they walk on.

All right, then, what is to be done, should one tend that inner fire, turn to oneself for strength, wait patiently-- yet with how much impatience!-- wait, I say, for the moment when someone who wants to comes and sits down beside one's fire and perhaps stays on? Let him who believes in God await the moment that will sooner or later arrive."


"But I cannot help thinking that the best way of knowing God is to love many things. Love this friend, this person, these things, whatever you like, and you will be on the right road to understanding Him better, that is what I keep telling myself. But you must love with a sublime, genuine, profound sympathy, with devotion, with intelligence, and you must try all the time to understand Him more, better and yet more. That will lead to God, that will lead to an unshakable faith.

... Try to grasp the essence of that the great artists, the serious masters, say in their masterpieces, and you will again find God in them. One man has written or said in a book, another in a painting. Just read the Bible and the Gospels, that will start you thinking, thinking about many things, thinking about everything, well then, think about many things, think about everything, that will lift your thoughts above the humdrum despite yourself. We know how to read, so let us read!"


"A caged bird in spring knows perfectly well that there is some way in which he would be able to serve. He is well aware that there is eomthing to be done, but he is unable to do it. What is it? He cannot quite remember, but then her gets a vague inkling and he sayds to himself, 'The others are building their nests and hatching their young and bringing them p.' and then he bangs his head against the bars of the cage. But the cage does not give way and the bird is maddened by pain. 'What a ne'er-do-well,' says another bird passing by-- what an idler. Yet the prisoner lives and does not die. There are no otward signs of what is going on inside him, he is doing well, he is quite cheerful in the sunshin.

But then the season of the great migration arrives: an attack of melancholy. He has everything he needs, say the children who tend him in his cage-- but he looks out, at the heavy thundery sky, and in his heart of hearts he rebels against his fate. I am caged, I am caged and you say I need nothing, you idiots! I have everything I need, indeed! Oh, please give me the freedom to be a bird like other birds.

That kind of ne'er-do-well of a a person resembles that ne'er-do-well of a bird. And people are often unable to do anything, imprisoned as they are in I don't know what kind of terrible, terrible, oh, such terrible cage.

I do know that there is a release, the belated release. A justly or unjustly ruined reputation, poverty, disastrous circumstances, misfortune, they all turn you into a prisoner. You cannot always tell what keeps you confined, what immures you, what seems to bury you, and yet you can feel those elusive bars, railings, walls. Is all this illusion, imagination? I don't think so. And then one asks: my God, will it be for long, will it be for ever, will it be for eternity?

Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But wherever affection is revived, there life revives. Moreover, the prison is something called prejudice, misunderstanding, fatal ignorance of one things or another, suspicion, false modesty."

It was good to open my eyes to the cool, thin air, the white walls, the quiet of the emptiness. Although the comfortable warmth is right for a season, it begins to stifle and numb and it is then that we know it is time to return to a place of cold quietness-- all must be sorted out again.

"Missions then is less about the transportation of God from one place to
another and more about the identification of a God how is already there. It
is almost as if being a good missionary means having really good
eyesisight. Or maybe it means teaching people to use thier eyes to see
things that have always been there; they just didn't realize it. You see
God where others don't. And then you point him out.

"Perhaps we should replaced the word missionary with tour
guide, because we cannot show people something we haven't seen."

-- Rob Bell, "Velvet Elvis," p 88

I love this idea-- it so beaitufilly articulates not only the sort of mission we are to be on as people, but even more so about what art sets out to do. As artists, we point out what we see for others to experience. When I was working on my Senior portfolio in High School, I read an artical in The International Artist about landscape painting-- the painting, the article instructed, should set out to say something about the place rather than simply illustrating the sight. What is it that the Artists sees in the place that they seek to communicate about it? What is the ultimate goal or intent?

This passage, and some of the author's repvious ideas, relate so closely to many of the thoughts I've been sorting through about art having the same role as literature in its communication of themes about the world-- just like sermons or stories we tell about our lives, art is a beautiful and deeply challenging way of telling others about truthts we discover. In this way, artists are missionaries too-- maybe more so as it gets to the root of the human experience so freely.

In this way, I can't help but think that my choosing, my gifting, my calling towards teaching and artmaking is incredibly spiritual (just as everything we do is and must be). I have been given this unique gift and this daunting challenged to do this thing that few people are brave enough to do-- to search deep and seriously the ways of explaining the deeperst parts of reality as they are experienced.

As I was reading these thoughts about pointing out that which is present but unseen, I could not hlep but think of the way we as artists develop our sight to see all sorts of colors, to see and appreciate shapes and relationships. One of my favorite professors often says, "The more you look, the more you see," and maybe this is true of a lot more than painting or even artmaking-- As we are people seeking the ultimate reality Jesus came to point out, we become people who are ever so deeply invested in looking more intesely at this life that Abba has created so that we can help others see it too.

"Tour guides are people who see depth and texture and connection where others
don't. That is why the best teachers are masters of the obvious.
They see the same things that we do, but they are aware of so much more.
And when they point it out, it changes they way we see everyting."

In preparation for a disscussion for the next few weeks at TOT on what church means, we were invited to share our own thoughts on the issue-- I thought I would share some of my responses to this question here:

Although I am not very old, I feel like in many ways I have had a very full
lifetime of questions about church. In retrospect, some of my
earliest years felt like a tour of various liturgical landmines, including
experiences in churches focused on a lot more "theology" than getting deep into
the pain caused by rampant cliques and exclusion.

My early Christian-hood was based on an inner desire to simply be accepted,
which I hoped would somehow be achieved by my efforts to be a "good
christian." This led mostly to a lifestyle of very careful living that
came out of a deep belief that if I just "loved" God the right way ( i.e.
doing/being what/who people told me I should do/be) then maybe I would at some
point reach a place where I could shed this sense that there was something
inherently wrong with me.


In the two and half years that I have been out of high school, I have
continued the search in sorting out what what was true in my experience growing
up and what I need to shed and forgive. In light of a background of such
hurt, exclusion, and confusion about my own worth and belonging associated with
the church (and therefore God), I have a deep passion to discover what God
ultimately intended for us as a community of human beings. I can't help
but believe that God designed something better for his kingdom.


The first seven months of this year, which I spent in Boise, I found
that my deepest experiences with community and spirituality were often simply
through long walks around my neighborhood and talking to co-workers and
customers who came to the coffeehouse. I felt this deep sense that the
life God intends for us and our experience of him must be much larger than the
parameters that we place on him with our [apparently] pristine church
walls. As I spent a lot of time outside, I got this sense that a picture
of the open skies that God created is a better picture of how church should be
than the brick buildings that we often use to box Him in. I felt like the time I
took away from church as I had known it allowed me a "detox" from the layers
heaped on by my church experience, and I am beginning to see that life is about
enjoying God in all of his biggness and the Church is a major part as it enables
us to live in the communal way that God intended, sharing with one another the
depth of life in both our joys and pains.


I find that my journey has led to a lot of significant wrestling that
has opened me to what God is like in so many ways. It seems that the more
I wrestle, the more questions I have and I feel like I am at a point where I can
least effectively articulate what community or church looks like, but I do know
this-- if church is not a place that brings freedom, healing, and restoration in
ways that help people understand who they have been created to be at the deepest
levels, I don't think we can call it the Body of Christ. More than
anything, I think church needs to be a place where we are freed to love-- freed
to love God and all that he has created and loves himself (which includes, and I
may even argue first, ourselves). Church must never be a place where we
can numbly slide over our deepest hurts and loves in favor of "getting through
material" or putting on a program because we will never find life if we do so.
As we are reminded in Isaiah, God "desires mercy not sacrifice--" the Lord is
much more interested in the life of the heart than the ritual. As my experience
leads me to believe, we can talk about loving and following commandments all day
long, but if we never aknowledge or deal with the hurt and brokeness that
ultimately keeps us from doing so, all we will be doing in running around
self-sufficent circles of guilt.

So often we get caught up in what church should look like that we forget
that ultimately we are seeking a life that is true at the deepest, most
beautiful levels as God created it-- a life that I believe Jesus came to
show.

I came across an quote looking up some reference made in my edited copy of "The Letters of Vincent van Gogh" about Edmond de Goncourt that I found worth pondering:

"If there is a God, atheism must seem to Him as less of an insult than religion."

learning

I feel like I've gotten back a few pieces of myself that I've been mising these past few months while also picking up some new ones along the way.

When this week started, I was driving across I-25 on Woodman in a town I've been to before only as a child, visiting aged and distant and yet important relatives--this time being the first time I was there alone, visiting beloved friends whom I know quite well and are still quite young. I was searching for Delmonico and thinking. Solitary roadtrips are good for this sort of thing-- this we know.

It was good to be out and I was thinking about how you learn so much when you venture off the couch and into the world, uncomfortable and unknown as it may be. The night before I spent a lot of time in a small apartment with a large crowd of people I didn't know, but a few I love much. I felt a little overdressed, and as warm as everyone else considering the party required we all wear the most hideous sweaters we could find (courtesy of ARC and Goodwill and the like) and I chose to go the extra mile in a woven houndstooth skirt.

I felt a little out of practice when it came to being brave in environments full of strangers-- I do recall just a few months not too long ago where rooms full of the unknown were my regular dwelling. So, it was strange to be in such a familiar yet distant place. And sitting there, feeling a little self-conscious, I felt myself being carried back to those old days with a sense of comfort and relief.

As I drove the two hours of traffic from here to there, I couldn't help but think about what sort of choices love makes if it is actively paying attention. These thoughts compounded later that night (much later that night) when I was thanked for doing such a thing-- a genuine look of thankfulness from a friend who maybe felt a little forgotten or a little forgetful. My awareness of what love can do if allowed has been more accute these days.

So, there I was on Woodman, I-25 somewhere behind me and I was happy again to be driving my Little Car (a name which seems to have fallen like a default) in some place I didn't know, trying new things, learning yet again what love means, even despite my uncomfortable memories of the few hours prior. It was there, in that apartment I did a lot of learning about who Heidi is, a Heidi who loves to be with people and know them but fears that message will get lost in a crowd. I began to think about whether or not I would be okay with a self who may not be comfortable everywhere.

It is small experiences like these when something as simple as driving a few hours away in a traffic unfamiliar to meet people unknown to sleep in a bed unrecognized that one stretches in small, yet meaningful ways. And although the experience itself might be full of stupid things said or strange sensations about company or experiences, it is wrestling through these muddy spots that we come out being meaningful people who have a bit more understanding about love and the world we have been given to love.

And so there I was, at Woodman and Delmonico, feeling a renewed sense of adventure, a second wind for the learning I long for deep down. For the first time in a long time, the thought of wrestling through the unknown held an old familiar excitement that for a while I thought had been taken from me by too-long roadtrips and too-painful days of moving couches and beds and boxes. I felt my limbs loosening as I began to whisper again I will do whatever you ask of me.

If your longing is to grow, to learn, to expand then you must trudge through things that are unfamiliar, unknown, often painful. Maybe in the grand cases, you must walk though the forests that you think may take your life in the end. But the reality, I am seeing, is that you must hold yourself in a posture that leaves you open to the learning at the end of the darkness. It must be the longing for understanding that comes at the return home that leads you into the darkness, because the darkness itself will never lure.

A dear and wise friend and mentor said to me a few months ago, in the midst of all these unarticulable darknesses, that it is often in our times of greatest confusion that the Father is molding us and teaching us the greatest lessons. It is often only when we come out of the mist, she said, that we can begin to understand what he had been doing all along. And it seems that each day, I learn more and more that she must be right and I am so thankful.

I don't know what tomorrow holds for me, where I will be, who I will be, who will come into my life to love next, but I do know that I do not want to spend much more time on this couch, wondering, and fearing. It is in the risking that we discover all there is to love! May you go out and experience it for yourself!

Let the door crack
Latch loose
doorknob unclutched
lock unturned
Sitting softly

waiting

allowing the wind to blow
breezing however it pleases


Resting unbraced against the movement
the hinges swing
no hand dare limit

Your eyes touch me, sitting there

crosslegged

the rays of light illuminate
warm, familiar darkness
I let you in
air fills lungs new--
untasted
--water refreshed life

unseen energy
unimagined smiling cheeks
soft sweetness of untensed arms
yours and mine
loose legs
warm lungs breathing in

fearless

the hinge swings easy
releasing question

fears

doubt
control relinquished

and we become soft
supple

open

arms open
eyes open
hands open
mouth open

the crack in that hard door--
splintered wood
--no longer braced
hands touch
fingers feel
hearts warm,
soft like dough
rising with yeast

arms outreached
past the knob
beyond the clutch
once gripping on the lock
the key is lost
it matters little
no need now


"let nothing keep you..."
comes the whisper
release the knobs

fight

fight for the one small crack
for the entombment of keys
free the tempting locks

let the breeze come in to warm
frozen
splintered wood
fear not

fight for the one fragile crack
that precious space between latch
and jamb

here we learn
perhaps
--in this space--
that freefall comes not vertically
but a sweeping tangent
swinging hinge
the driving force

And soon
like phantom
the hard door
meets palm
hinge swinging further
we open

open arms
open eyes
open hands
open mouths

because the crack begins
the release
the softened brace
against the breeze
we thought wind

let loose the knob
listen for the click
plate against jamb
unimprisoned
pardoned
let loose the swinging hinge
open

open arms
open eyes
open hands
open mouth

for who's sake?

art: (noun)

1. Human effort to imitate, supplement, alter, or counteract the work of nature.
2. 1. The conscious production or arrangement of sounds, colors, forms, movements, or other elements in a manner that affects the sense of beauty, specifically the production of the beautiful in a graphic or plastic medium.
   2. The study of these activities.
   3. The product of these activities; human works of beauty considered as a group.
   4. A system of principles and methods employed in the performance of a set of activities: the art of building.
   5. A trade or craft that applies such a system of principles and methods: the art of the lexicographer.
   6. Skill that is attained by study, practice, or observation: the art of the baker; the blacksmith's art.
   7. Skill arising from the exercise of intuitive faculties: "Self-criticism is an art not many are qualified to practice" (Joyce Carol Oates).
   8. arts Artful devices, stratagems, and tricks.
   9. Artful contrivance; cunning.
3. High quality of conception or execution, as found in works of beauty; aesthetic value.
4. A field or category of art, such as music, ballet, or literature.
5. A nonscientific branch of learning; one of the liberal arts.

These last few weeks, as the lessons of the semester culminate, I can't abandon this singluar question of what is the purpose of art and where does that leave me as one who may venture to call oneself an artist. This semester asked me the questions of why do I do what I do? Does it even matter anymore?

I find the combination of classes and opinions presented these past few months extremely perplexing. Through study of nineteenth century European art, we see a shift in the role of arts from a political powerplayer to the commodity of the Impressionist to finally ending in the beheaded hopelessness of the symbolist. In Painting II, nonrepresentational painting was the order of the day in which meaning and personal connection felt nearly discouraged for the sake of the discovery of masking tape and watered-down paint. Intermediate drawing stressed the development of personal voice and motivation, ending with the simple assignment of conveying meaning by utilization of any desired device.

THis past summer and this semester, I have had a lot of encouragement to start showing some work in a public capacity and pursue selling a bit. And although this is something that I do want to do, I am posed with a lot of questions, especially concerning the reason that I am still not taking a lot of active steps to do so. Something that I have contemplated for a while is the sense that showing and selling artwork has never been my preoccupation, even less any serious goal or desire. I do not see myself developing my artistic skills for the purpose of fame or marketing or amassing great amounts of wealth-- the hassle of all that I would prefer to do without.

All of these thoughts left to simmer in the background, my studies this semester have walked me into new territory concerning the role of the arts today in our society, in the world, in my life, and what that means for the lives that do bump into mine. Just like the definition above, art has so many layers and I struggle even now to make sense of all the thoughts I've been sorting. But the question is today, where do the fine arts fit in the midst of our out of control commercialism, in our digital age where music, video, and popular culture prevail? Where do our large scale oil paintings fit between the ipods and cell phones? Do these "items" mean anything more than the junk mail that clutters the kitchen table?

In this context, I don't know. What David did with his "Oath of the Horattii" and "Death of Marat" in 1800, we do now with banner ads and billboards and facebook groups. We wonder how the arts get pushed aside so easily, how our school children hardly know what art class is, but the slow study and development of meaning and beauty is so easily overrun by an overabundance of (mediocre) visual stimulus.

So I can't help by ask myself the question of why do I do it? It wasn't the political power or societal significance that drew me to art in the beginning, now was it? What is it that makes me want to teach this thing I love to other people? Why does it matter if one might as well make films or advertisements for the newest, fastest, internet provider?

As I've had to think through the things that kept me painting and drawing this semester, I've come to the conclusion that art has to be about the things that our lives as artists are about. Just like a legitimate speaker or writer must speak or write out of his or her personal experience, so an artist must soley devote themselves to the recording of that which matters to them in the moment that they paint or draw or sculpt or sing or whatever. Is the artist seeing in new ways that must be communicated visually? Things that just cannot be held in?

I don't think that art has the same place that it did a hundred years ago. It would be foolish and impossible to attempt to deny all that has changed in our inevitable age of information. But as I think through why it is that I am beginning what feels like will be a strong fight for the arts as a teacher, I realize that maybe, more than ever, we need the arts not for the sake of communicating to the masses, but to ourselves and to those small circles that embody our lives. I wonder if even though fine art today may be redefined as urinals called "fountains" and empty glass boxes, it still somehow remains just as valid as Classicism because it serves as a way to co-create an understanding of the human experience as we know it.

As we bear the image of a creator, an artist at the heart of things, we've been "making" for as longs as history bears evidence of human existence. And throughout all this time, we've been sorting out what all of it means. I think today, we ask more than ever, what is the possible productivity of art-making? And unfortunately, I think a lot of the debate concerning the place of the arts comes out of this economic focus on the material worthlessness of self-understanding and beauty for the sake of beauty. We are so quick to evaluate and compare and measure the efficiency of every action that it is no wonder that this communication of human essence gets pushed to the margins as "playtime." (I've often wondered if, in our work-addicted lives, we devalue things that we really need (like rest, recreation, love, enjoyment, ect) because they leave us feeling a less weighed down and this freedom frightens us.)

There is often debate about the validity of "art for art's sake," a statement referring to the value of art solely in its aesthetic purposes. The Impressionist focus on visual pleasantry over commentary and reaction to the horrors of Industry embodies perfectly the idea of "art for art's sake." It is this idea of artistic detachment from social and personal realities-- art becomes a scientific collection of data rather than an expression of truths experienced in one's life.

This is what I wonder however-- is it possible that if art is ever an expression of some experience, whether it be purely visual or not-- can it truly be divorced from the realities of creation? Monet's work has often been speculated by critics and viewers to be a comentary on the appreciation of nature or some creator, some otherworldly force upon nature, but the artist was quite put off by these sorts of comments. He claimed that he never had any intention of depicting anything more than the way light bounced off the surface of objects. Funny how any visual observation leads us to an immediate connection to our humanity or experience.

Even in work that is a pure exploration of abstract ideas, we see color relationships that teach us that nothing exists in isolation, that the properties of certain colors bring up certain exeriences, memories, emotions. We find that as shapes and colors and textures merge, we hear voices whispering truths about our lives, whether we intended it or not.

I could write for days on this subject, as so many books have been published, but as I contemplate this question for myself, I have to decide what it means in terms of my gifts, my life, the people that I touch and those that touch me. And the more I study, the longer I paint, the more I write on this blog, and the more people I meet, the more I am convinced that art is a way that we probe our inner-darkness to find the voices of light. It is through the searching of our own lives and souls that we discover the subjects for paintings and it is through the work of others that we begin to shed light on Reality. As we as artists continue to put our own experiences on paper or on canvas or clay or fibers, or whatever the media is these days, we turn one more light on at a time, moving each other closer to seeing a bit more clearly.

"Then the man who received one talent came. 'Master,' he said, 'I know that you are a hard man, harvesting where you have not sown and gathering where you have not scattered seed. So I was afraid and went out and hid your talent in the ground.' "
Matthew 25

" 'I am the Lord's servant,' Mary answered. 'May it be to me as you have said.' "
Luke 1

Although the flakes are at rest for a while, it has been snowing for the last five days off and on. Everything is white and wet and dripping and cold and utterly clean and beautiful. The roads are packed and the stores are full, despite the rush back out the car to clean off yet another layer of ice and snow.

It is 12:36 p.m. on a Tuesday and I am yet again on the couch, in my pajamas. I finished the second of my two final tests yesterday at 11:45 and will be bundling up in a few hours to venture out to the first of three critiques. The work is done and now we simply await grades. The noise of the semester seems to have come to an abrupt silence and here I am, nestles in the loving arms of the indigo couch, wearing the purple sweater constructed with an ambiguity between public and private display. I'm almost finished with the hat I am crocheting out of alpaca yarn, which I actually already finished once, but decided to redo after learning the pattern. My throat itches from the hairy fibers lodged in my sinuses and I figured it is time I sat down to sort through the blizzard of thoughts rushing through me.

I don't think the snow or the early completion of finals or many of the other events of the last few days are the result of coincidence. A few weeks ago I reached the firm conclusion that the cessation of the semester is a much needed end to many things. The provision of deeply needed new beginnings, a cleansing of the slate, seems to have been christened by these continuing piles of snowy whiteness.

I'm not sure where to begin. When I look back at my fall-semester-self, the word that comes to mind is rigid. Petrified. A deep sense of lostness that I still don't think I want to admit. I am not the put-together self that I wanted to be, to prove myself to be. controlling. out of control. stiff.

I've been thinking a lot since this past weekend about the posture of openness. That posture has not been mine. I've been evaluating, thinking of ways to respond. I've been putting my toes in puddles, but not really jumping in. I've been feeling a lot of things out and even when the "feeling" was a good one, I've still been timid. More than this, I've been open to little outside of my own expectations. I've been very narrow-visioned.

I am in the formative stages of realizing that I have not been quick to say, "Lord, whatever you would have of me, I will do."

Now-- I want to be clear-- I do not mean to place a value judgment on all that has been, all I have thought and done-- to say this was really bad, or I did a good job here-- because I think all of these things are to some extent to be expected (I just didn't really let myself expect them until now). This is what my life was. This is where I am at, a true part of my life that happened and is happening. But I think it is important to stop and look back at all that has been, my postures, my attitudes, my dreams, my desires, my actions, my words. Adjusting has been hard. I haven't done as well as I would have liked to claim.

But in this moment, as I sit here and look out at the snow, I am thankful for what my life has been over the last four months. I'm not proud to admit that I've been lost and tried hard to hide and deny it. I am not proud to think about a lot of things that I did and said that left me feeling stupid and embarrassed. But I feel like these dark valleys where fumbling seems to be the only possible action is where the hard refining comes.

I've been very stubborn. I've been angry and I think more than any other time in my life, I have worked hard to control and manipulate my life and the Giver of Life. I've given way to expectations that I've hardly thought through, partially resulting from a lot of time taken up by school and life-stuff that doesn't wait (even if I should have made it wait).

But it feels like a breaking point has been reached-- that I have come to a place where I can begin to objctively look at what has been, what I have been, and what all of this means. I have been given a gift of a few days of quiet, days just to sit and listen and think and reflect. I've been given some second chances, some new eyes, some new circumstances that leave me free to start over.

I was sitting here, on this couch, a few hours ago, thinking about the fact that it will be nice to put this year to bed, to open the possibility of something new-- free from my own contraining expectations-- in the coming year. It has been a long 12 months. It has been a very long journey, and I don't think the journey was to Idaho or here to Colorado, or to some magical land of self-help wonder. In a deep, sort of yet untouched way, it feels like the journey is heading towards a deeper sense of being able to say, Whatever you would have of me Lord, I will do.

I started out the semester saying that I want to learn how to see the kingdom above all the concerns of this world-- jobs, school, money-- and somehow I feel like I turned and ran headlong the other way. I've lost sight of the bigness of God and traded it for the smallness of my own expectations, my "wishes" rather than the hope of what he wants to give. I look back at my conversations with God and about God and understand why he was so far-- my back was turned in a way I don't yet understand. Sometimes I feel like in the midst of sorting out the difference between Reality and Religion, I lost sight of both. I've rejected a lot of things out of fear. I've been running from things rather than to them.

I feel like I've still got a long way to go. I don't think that the confusion that I've been in the midst of will just go away-- I hope it doesn't because there seems to be a lot more that needs to be sorted out-- but I do hope that I will begin to accept this new start I feel like has been offered in the midst of the snow. I hope that my illusions and expectations will continue to be broken so I can stop limiting my Father. I hope that he will continue to grow in me this voice that says, "whatever you have of me, I will do. I want to be faithful. I want to live free from fear." I'm tired of trying to search out what I want, because it is so empty and frustrating. It's not the life that I want.

I was in Old Town a few weeks ago, and I say these lovely displays in a few stores that said things like "Dream" and "Wish," all glittery and stuff. I couldn't stop thinking about them, couldn't stop looking at them. I've been thinking a lot this semester about this feeling I have about being limited in what I can dream because of money or time or energy or whatever and although I still feel like there is a lot more to be unpacked there, I think there is this sense that the dreams that I really want to dream cannot be my dreams at all. I know the things that I really want to do-- desires to matter, to make a difference, to see differently so I can respond differently-- theses can never be up to me to fulfill.

So, for the moment, all I want to do is give up fear for faithfulness. As this year comes to an end, I hope to begin a new one with a renewed sense of openness for what God really wants to do in and around me. I don't know what is best for me anymore-- I can't seem to see what is right and good. It feels like the older I get, the farther I get from this clear picture of what I want my life to look like-- I loose these rigid images of what my life looks like as a teacher, as a Christ-follower, as a student and I hope that I am simply moving closer to the person that I was made to be-- a person I can not begin to imagine. And that gives me lots of hope.

Thank you all who have journeyed with me this semester, this year. Thank you for enduring all that I have done to turn my life upside down and bearing with me and loving in the midst of the pain and transition and confusion. I am sorry for all the ways that I may have hurt you who were still standing close in the midst of it. Thank you for not abandoning me in the midst of my brokenness and confusion. Thank you for all the times that you are going to have to continue to forgive me as I keep on living this difficult life.

sometimes things just aren't what they seem
the dreams you dream
turn out to be not your own
but the dreams
the wishes
the regrets of someone else
handed to you like a sick birthday present.

sometimes things aren't what they seem
and I call out in the dark
and ask you where you are
call out:
"Where were you today?
This sloppy wet day
When I tried so hard
so so hard
I went out into the world
And found it cold
Pushed down into the gutter
forgotten

and I call out to you
WHERE
ARE
YOU?
and I wonder if I will ever find you
because you've shattered all my illusions
and i don't know what you look like these days
I don't trust the old pictures
those stupid, trite little answers
and you seem so big
so small
so airy
so empty
so fake

I can't help but wonder
if it is possible that you are real
I can't help but wonder
if it really is a joke
some social construct
to make ourselves feel better

But i can't say that
not outloud
I can only let those thoughts rattle around
reverberating around the inside
the inside of a head that feels empty
or maybe a heart that feels empty

nothing makes sense anymore
and each time I think things are becoming clear
the water gets murkier
and I hate myself
for wearing these damn fogged up glasses
all caked with mud

I can't get the picture out of my head
the wet snow
clinging to the mud
the thoughts
the hurt
the anger
forgotten
The misunderstanding must have been mine
because I am the imbecile
And you are the asshole.

And maybe this isn't the point at all
that the problem is my illusion
my foggy-eyed reality
that isn't reality at all
all the ways I went wrong
my "backsliding," "wayward" ways
my selfishness
my "sin"
that age old word that
seems to lack
an actual definition

But somewhere
I can't help but remember
the name
that name you call
you whisper sometimes
that seems to easy
but makes all the sense--
lines it all up and makes it worth it

And today the house is a mess,
just like it was
monday
and tuesday
and thursday
and still today
and I realize that I am just the same
everything strewn about
and I feel ugly
(not the other thing)

And as I lay here tonight
just wanting to sleep
I hope and pray
to this God I don't recognize
that someone
just one small person
might love me
mess and all

Because sometimes
things just aren't what they seem
and my life falls apart
my eyes sink in
and I too
am not what I seem

What I don't understand is how this all can be true when I get to the point of realizing my true level of stupidity, my smallness, my inadequacy and there still seems to be no grace. No net. It just sucks and I don't know why and apparently no amount of trying is enough. But apparently there must be something wrong with me... but no one has the courtesy to call and tell me.

Hello, old friends. It has been a while. I think November wins the prize for the all-time low in posts. I feel as though I've been wandering the wilderness these days, all has been quiet. I feel in some ways that I am just living, just waiting. Maybe the just waiting is the problem. I've been waiting all semester for this job that never happens, waiting for a moment that I might have some time to seek something else. Tired of waiting. Tired of feeling like a failure for sitting here, feeling passive, even when I have more than enough to think about, deal with, take care of.

I am at home at 9:00 on a Tuesday morning. My instructor for Literacy and the Learner probably started a lecture on the effects of drugs and alcohol on the brain about two minutes ago (since she always starts lecture too early). And I am sitting here, on my couch, thinking and writing, waiting for the maintanence person (who probably doesn't even exist) to come and investigate why there a torrent of water poured through our bathroom vent (which actually vents into nowhere) this morning.

Do you ever have those periods of time when it just feels like you are waiting... for something? Those days on end that you spend wandering and everything is quiet-- the quiet that rings in your ears? If I'm going to be really honest, I would be obligated to admit that maybe, yes once again, I've spent a lot of time planning for tomorrow rather than being content in what is happening today, where I am in this moment. It sometimes (or maybe always) feels like if I could just get one more piece in place, then things would feel complete. If I could just get my security for tomorrow worked out, things would be good for today (I must ask myself how backwards that sounds, I think).

So here we stand, three more days and one class before classes end and finals mark the one last chance to make things right, or finish up what we began. I've been thinking this week how much I just want this semester to end. I feel like I need a new start. This semester was like the first pancake-- you know, the one where you figure out you need to turn the heat down and add more flour. It's been good, but I'd be lying if I said I've thoroughly enjoyed it.

Maybe that is the beauty of college-- even though everything feels transient and unstable, you get a break every few months to regroup and each semester is a new chance to apply what you figured out through all the mistakes in the last one. I need a clean slate.

I woke up this morning thinking to myself, "God is far away." And now, a few hours later, I wonder if I have put my own conditions on his proximity. I may be gauging how close he feels by how much he does what I want. But it just feels like he has been so silent for so long. No answer, no time or energy to seek what else he might have to say.

Wilderness. Desert. Wandering. Waiting. Feeling things out. Learning, very slowly, silently.

It is the end of the semester and it seems like a lot of people are scrambling-- skipping class to do other work. And I just feel like I am floating along, indifferent in some ways. Just doing what I need to do, one by one finishing work, wondering what will come after that. Worrying about being stressed later, where money will come from, if I have done enough to prove myself in other ways.

Break. Having a break will be nice. Some intellectual silence to go with my spiritual silence. Maybe.