I came here and purchased one cup of coffee with the intention of avoiding distractions at home for the purpose of writing a Power Point on Paul Klee, but today I can't help but feel inspired by the bright sun shining through leaves and clouds and everything.  I noticed on my bike ride home from covering myself in clay that the trees had left all sorts of litter on the street from leaves that were barely hanging on to branches last week.  The sun is extremely warm today, despite the growing population of bare-branched trees and the onset of holidays that induce parents to dress their children in strange garments of thin polyester bought from drugstores.  

It is October 30th and I am remembering what this stretch of the semester means, this long road of not enough sleep and growing piles of text to read that never really gets read.  I will be registering for classes for the lat time tomorrow and visits to mountain resorts has reminded me what it is like to be a senior in something.  I am weary of school, although the feeling of a brush between my fingers haunts my sleep as does clay moving between fingers.  

And so alas our dear friend Paul beckons from wikipedia and my fingers itch to finish slide transitions and text formating before the next task becomes yet too overwhelming as well.

it is twilight and from the trees hang leaves to be dropped at any moment.  I feel old today, talking about graduation and feeling the feeling of a brush I've held for three years between my fingers.  These strokes, these tools, these colors have become my friends-- they've become pieces of me these days-- pieces that took a while to be realized.  

It is strange looking back over these years, realizing where I've been and how far I've come.  How different-- yet how right and real and appropriate it all feels.  A young life matured into a bit older one.  

I've been painting trees, one stroke after another adding colors of light and bark.  Tall spires that remind me of distant friends.  A friend I can't help but think of, I speak to her one stroke at a time.  I keep whispering over and again, "This one's for you.  This one's for you.  I do this for you."  Strange how little things become gifts so quickly-- like somehow it keeps her alive, this memory of the one who really saw me-- saw a heart that I'm still discovering. 

There is a song that says "I can find myself now because you taught me how," a song about someone else who got lost too.

It's midterms already somehow.  I've been fending off the cold, ignoring the days that don't warm yellow leaves, pretending that those cold, gray days are not creeping in like they really actually are.  

Another week will be starting soon and I fear I've wasted the complete hour of unplanned activity.  My nose is running from a house that seems to hold all the cold in and keeps all the warm sun out.  Weekends spent with good friends yet still hoping for a few complete moments without obligation, plans, or movement.  Silence and stillness.  A Stop.  Wishing for a season in which I get one full day off during one weekend.  Wishing for a quiet in my soul--- maybe I'm just longing for something that is not as necessary as I've been told.  Permission to sleep and rest and break during my short space that I tell myself is worktime too.  

Three more quarters before a new season begins.  Three more quarters for making decisions-- choosing the choices that lay before me.  Three more quarters before this mosaic of a life changes into something else.  A new phase.  A bittersweet twilight.  

Where have I come these past few years?  I look in the mirror and see a different person, but I wonder if that person has grown? Has my spirit been changed for the better, or did I just get caught up in this river?  Am I in a place where I am one who knows a bit more about how to love well?  Do I know the Father more intimately?  Have I experienced his healing as I thought I would?  Sometimes it all seems so small yet so rapid-- so many tiny steps adding up to all of this.  The me that I see now.  

 

I remember that girl I used to see with long hair, tentative, contemplative.  Perhaps my identity was different then.  Founded more on shifting sands-- held tightly in my own hands.  And now, the me I know changes daily.  I hope and pray that the thing that holds me together up, in a higher place, keeps holding it together as I roam through this strange life.  I hope for grace when my life doesn't look like they tell me it should look, when I don't have time for the books and the pens and the moments that I long for but seem to have forgotten how to find.  I've forgotten how to find.  Maybe someday  I'll remember and I'll know that intimacy, that closeness that I wonder where I put amid all the other mess of this life.

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart as working for the Lord, not for men... It is the Lord Christ you are serving."  Colossians 3:23

"There fore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God-- this is your spiritual act of worship."  Romans 12:1 

This morning as I was running late to meet some friends for breakfast before church, I discovered that I did not know where my Bible was.  This isn't that strange of an occurrence nor is any sort of spiritual catastrophe, it got me to thinking about the amount of time spent this week giving it significant attention.  Over the last few years, in the midst of this season commonly known as "college life," I've taken a lot of time contemplating the balance between what is commonly (or maybe just personally) considered "spiritual activity," and everything else that takes up my time.

Last week I wrote down some thoughts about ownership and that which is allowed to consume me, exploring the idea of allowing all the little pieces of my life to fit inside the love of the Father rather than reacting out of fear.  Today, after settling into a seat after a rushed morning, as the musical portion of our Sunday morning ritual lulled me into new thought, I found myself asking questions about Abba's view of my life, wondering if the things that I do bring him honor, or if they are simply things that I do and I am only able to connect with him when I sit down with a pen and journal and the bible that is currently misplaced.  

But the more I thought about this, the more I realized putting a limit on God to these small items may be the root of my conundrum.  This semester my primary scholastic struggle has been nailing down the reasons why I have chosen to be an art-maker and figuring out how to manifest that in the things that I do ultimately make.  Over and over I've come to the conclusion that I paint because I can't help but talk about the beauty that I see in all that God has made.  I can't look at a tree or the color of the sky or the intricacy of a leaf without thinking about how God has placed his image on all that we see and breathe and feel in his creation.  His invisible qualities seen in all that has been made, as I believe one writer put it.  

Looking around the studio at all the work of other students who are also searching for the meaningful things they were made to say, I realized that although the trees and leaves and landscapes I am compelled to paint don't seem as valid as social messages about consumerism and the voiceless in society, the things that I am searching for words to speak about are simpl about the beauty that is all around us.  Maybe the words I am searching for are messages about a peace that goes beyond all we feel we must be and all the things we still must do to simply looking for the reality of the One who saw the words I AM as sufficient to say that in the end, He is still enough.  

Earlier in the semester, through the frustration of deciphering who my work is ultimately for, I asked Abba to open my eyes to see the reasons he has given me this gift.  If there is a purpose for this, I asked, please show me-- because I certainly don't know how to use it without wasting it on my own. I've wondered what the appropriate use of my weekends has been, thinking about this goal I set out back as the summer was coming to an end about taking time to worship and be and re-create at regular and sufficient periods of time throughout the week and what that can look like.  Like-- is it violating a command for rest to do work related to school on that one day?  Or do I need to set apart certain special activities involving specific locations and books to connect with the spirit or is there a way to do this daily in the midst of lectures and papers and hours mandated for the purpose of art-making.  

I realize today that I am guilty of compartmentalization again.  Taking peices of my life apart and putting them in boxes.  And perhaps the thing that I need most is an injection for my daily life.  If my act of touching brush to paint to canvas is for the purpose of speaking to others about the reality that I see in all that has been made, how can I say this is not an act of worship?  If the time I spend listening to people tell me about how to best bring the creators out of young children is ultimately about helping kids embrace the people that the Father has made them to be, how can I call this anything but worship?  

Often, I condemn my busy life as imbalance, wishing more time could be spent in quiet contemplation, seeing that which I consider to be "spiritual" pushed out by the demands of people who might not necessarily have eyes to see the face of the Father in these areas that are so obviously places where the most honor is brought to the Father.  Today, the speaker at our gathering spoke about the dichotomy of bringing heaven or hell to earth and I was compelled to ask which category my art or my teaching falls under.  And in light of this, I began to feel less guilty about spending too little time in activities I considered to be acts of worship and more guilty about not engaging in the worship that could be occurring constantly in my long days. Maybe I need to open my eyes a little wider and truly seek that face of God that I see so clearly in this place he has made when I take time to stop.  

Abba-- how many times have I missed you?  How many times have I sat down to record the beauty you have given and did so in a way that bowed to the altar of my grades or the altar of people-pleasing?  Abba, I ask you again to teach me how to best use this beautiful gift that you've given me.  I ask that each time I set out with my brushes and paint and canvas that I would have eyes to see your face in the images before me, that you would guide my mind and my hands to put down that which you have chosen to speak through me.  I ask that you would get my attention-- cause me to stop in awe before all that you have made.  Thank you for the reminder that the way that I bring you honor is not going to be in the ways that the person I used to be did so.  Thank you for your pursuit of me, this relentless purpose you have to strip away from me all the things that I am not, even when it is hardest for you to get my attention.  I ask that you would consume me in worship each time I enter the studio and each time I go out into the field, each time I enter the classroom as teacher or student.  Consume me with the purposes you have for me in all that I do in each long, long day.  Open my eyes to see.

"Open your eyes and there it is!  By taking a long and thoughtful look at what God has created, people have always been able to see what their eyes as such can't see: eternal power... and the mystery of his divine being."  Romans 1:20

Confession:  I get the growing sense that I am being owned by something other than the One who purchased me.  I've given myself away-- I've been taken over.  Guilt and fear about time that I can't get back.  Time that I'm told belongs to this thing-- this thing that I love and it is worthwhile and important, but I allow it to own me rather than me mastering it.  

This morning I was standing in a place that I've stood many times now.  I looked around at red-orange brick walls and began to remember a different self standing in the same spot a few years back, owned by something that I fear has faded these days.

It's a struggle-- this choosing what to allow to own you and figuring out to what extend which thing fits inside the other.  Or vise versa.  

A voice has been speaking to my heart for the last week or two about letting go of selves that aren't alive anymore.  Yesterday I listened to someone talk about complaining and grumbling in terms of wishing we were where we used to be when that place isn't actually real.  Focusing on mud between toes rather than walls of sea standing upright above our heads as we walk through.  And I've moved to a new place in what I paint and how I see myself from the strange insecure high school painting that I used to think was how I painted-- realizing that the old, less experienced artist has died.  I don't paint like I used to anymore and longing to go back to that place only results in spinning wheels and wasted paint.  

And I've been thinking about who I am now too.  I am not who I was.  It seems like in years past, it's been easier to remember that, but these days I've forgotten and all the old junk has gotten piled up in my heart.

But although I am coming to this place of letting go of old images of self, I begin to see also that things own me that I don't want owning me.  Fear about spending the time I was given yesterday foolishly-- fearing the reprimand tomorrow. Where is the line between challenge and heavy pursuit of pulling all of myself out and allowing this pursuit to be driven by fear?  What happens when I get to the end of the week and I'm tired and stressed and it feels like once again I've failed to live up to all that I'm supposed to live up to.  

Balance.  I suppose this is the ever-lasting catch-phrase.  The key to everything.  And I just wonder-- where do I find the grace I need to keep my live breathing when I'm still learning what that means.  Learning.  Give and take and lots and lots of mistakes.  Lots of bad paintings until we stumble upon that one good one.  Lots of trying until we find the thing that we love.  Until I find the thing that I'm in love with.

I want to be owned by the One that trascends to-do lists.  I want to be owned by a lover. I want to wake up in the morning excited for the shift in my heart rather than fearing having not done enough.  Why can't I just let go and breathe his breath?  

You know, I think that is the funny thing about school.  You commit your life to this thing-- something honorable and noble and wonderful-- something that will ultimately be so life-giving.  It's supposed to be fulfilling when you finish, right?  But how do you keep from drowning in it all?  Drowning in all the demands until it becomes rote and you just do what you must to get them off your back for a few minutes while you try to remember what a weekend felt like.  Where is the balance between submitting to those who have been placed in the position to make you all that you could be-- to draw out of you all the things you love the most-- and hanging onto the thing that taught you to love it in the first place?

I've been thinking about ownership today.  What is the thing that owns me?  I want to be overtaken by the Love of the Father.  I want to wake in the morning and fall asleep at night to his voice of grace and peace and healing.  But it seems the thing that speaks louder is all that I've yet to do and how the day once again felt much too short and I've squandered it.

How do I get there?  This a question I have no answer to.  And I wonder if it is something that I can really get to at all on my own or if it is one of those processes that must be worked out step by step, breath by breath.  

I am approaching a space in my life full of decisions, changes, moves far away or not so far away.  It's been a while since I was posed with one of these big kinds of life questions.  And I don't want to screw it up.  I don't want to base it on something small or arbitrary or a feeling.  I want to be left by the one who has been leading this grand adventure all along.  I want to the things that he's had for me.  It seems that in this season, when I'm surrounded by so many people and my time is filled so much with people telling me where to go and how to live and how many hours of free time I am allowed, this space feels so big and everything is heavy and it is difficult to remember that there is something so much bigger out there.  That there is a Being who has seen this small life of mine since the beginning of eternity.  He saw me sitting here in this chair, next to these stairs, typing on this computer, drinking this Chai, asking these questions about these short four years.  Four years that feel like a very heavy breaking point-- a turning point so dense.  And he knew that I would feel so buried that the light of day would be a distant memory, let alone the sound of his voice over the books and papers.  Dreams about backpacks full of sketchbooks, overflowing like Mary Poppin's carpet bag, weighing me down on my way to the place I really want to go.  Trying to get through crowds of students drunk and crazy, searching for doors out.  

I began this thing three dense years ago full of dreams about kids who needed me as much as I needed people when I was a kid.  Dreaming about red and yellows, thick paint flowing from my hand.  And now here I am-- the new path doesn't seem as clear.  It is wide open.  I think this week it began to really become more weighty, the reality of moving out of the safety of this crazy school life.  Moving out of a cozy house with dark wood floors and wonderful friends who are also embarking on new journeys.  Going somewhere I've never been before, but not wanting to go too far away from this life.  Wondering what that new place will be, what it will be, and how I will ever find it.  What will compel me then?

After a year in what felt like an ugly gray cloud, I find myself excited for what is next.  Perhaps there is hope for tomorrow and perhaps the thing that I'm really wanting isn't to go back to the way things were before in this fantasy past story, but to go forward into whatever new adventure awaits.  A new future when my small steps lead me into a deeper love that i have yet to imagine.