Friday. I raced south out of town. Same ritual. Different heart. I wondered how long I've been heartbroken. Wondered how long it would be before I found a way to cover it up again.

I remembered January, February, March and April. Resisting the urge to lay on the hardwood floor with the sun streaming in, when all I wanted to do was soak in the green paint and hurt. Instead, I got up and told myself to get on with things. But then only ended up sitting at my desk, staring out into space. Trying to write it all away in yellow ink.

Saturday. Driving circles, searching for a parking space. Eventually, I thought, things will change or fade or stop and I will go back to the way I was before. And then, I realized there is no back once you've gone through. There is no back. Recalled another season in which the only right thing seemed to be through. A green mountain and a tunnel on the road towards Portland.

I was twelve or thirteen. He kept on asking me about my family, if everything was alright. I didn't know what he meant and couldn't understand why he kept on asking. I'd like to travel back in time to the dark basement and ask him how he knew.

I found the courage to say no. Stopped expecting different results from the same insanity.

"Where are you?" I thought into the closet, as if to know another world behind the shirts. And in the midst of the thickness, the darkness, and warm enclosure of cotton, I realized that I was searching for an old version, a broken illusion. The comfort of my old expectation is gone and in its place is something clean and new and unfamiliar. Like a new clutch. It has stopped slipping, but you still long for the old one because you knew how to handle it. You could at least count on it finally failing some day.

We've opened the door to a new open field. The stretch is vast and the horizon impenetrable. The beauty and the air is frightening to clouded eyes and musty lungs. Yet we know it is good and He is content with the hours we must stand still just to take it all in.

Because there is no back. Only through.

When I said give me eyes to see..

apparently, what I meant to say was "dropkick me in the face."

I've been struggling a lot these days with what feels like a crushing amount of doubt. Whispering the words, "Abba, are you here," somehow feels like breathing in toxic fumes. I think some people like to refer to this lovely space as something like "the dark night of the soul." The valley is deep and the fog is thick. I walk through many of my days heavy and strange. Staring and sighing. Why, I do not know. A strange voice says, "medication," and "just make it all go away, nice and clean," but something deeper, stiller seems to simply say, "hold on-- I'll carry you through."

There is a purple sort of catharsis. IT feels as though my trust is changing. Or maybe a section of my heart is being cut out. A heavy steel door is being moved- something of a simultaneous opening and closing.

There are many days, even more nights, that feel empty and hopeless. Stuck. Confusion. Blank and heavy and crushing and patient and wonderful and terrible and ugly and full of even more beauty.

But, somewhere in the dark, even as any emotional investment in the request feels like a lung full of lead, I write in hard pencil out into the lightless cold: help me see you. I wonder to myself if I will believe it even if I see it. My heart has been fighting hard for hope and it feels as though the well has run dry and I'm keeping my throat well slathered in dust. I suppose there is no more try and therefore perhaps something real can begin.

I looked down at the faded tile on the hall, following behind a line of 2o silent children this morning, suddenly thinking the thought: it might be different if it was the thing I love. Some ghost from my past suggested, can you remember that this isn't really what you wanted? And then one more: How will you ever know if you never try?

I heard these things, but my fingers felt no wrap. No grasp or clutch. Just rested there. The palms stayed open and my acceptance felt as light as the words themselves. Maybe. Those words sat down on the surface of my limp hands next to the brokenness that has also settled there. A secret neutral gray.

So I whispered it again today. I got in the dusty red car and drove east today. I waited for the train to pass, thought about all the yellow grass and they grey-blue sky and thought about Mary and her hair, her jar of Alabaster and the kind words of the master, "She has done a beautiful thing." I thought about a few words heard, debated about believing that little line "it is good," wafting about like incense. I stopped at a stoplight and thought about Middle School kids and there, written across the windshield were the words, undeniable: Love Recklessly. Great, I thought, okay. Peaceful and unimposing.

I parked in the neighborhood, in front of a pink house with painted white rod iron porch railing, just beyond the yellow painted curb. I walked across the street, picked up a chocolate cookie and a paper cup of apple juice, found a chair. I got out my notebook and wrote the date across the top of a new page, day, month, date, year. "Teaching Social Skills." Settled in for another powerpoint presentation with inspiring purple swishes gracing the staple turquoise background; ready for some good old professional development.

And then I felt the bottom of both feet meeting my forehead:



oh. right.

I drove west in the dark, a little stunned. Who smuggled that in? There seemed to be some courage to do a few more things. But I can't tell you about them now. I don't think it would count.

"No matter how big our conception of God, it is still too small."

"The images that are carried about are burdensome.
A burden for the weary....

"Even to your old age and gray hairs,
I am He, I am He who will sustain you.

"I say: My purpose will stand
And I will do what I please...

What I have said, that will I bring about
What I have planned, that I will do.

"I am bringing my righteousness near,
It is not far away
and my salvation will not be delayed. I will grant salvation to Zion
My splendor to Israel."

Is 46

It seems as though as soon as I find an image to trust, it shatters. Retreats into the shadows. HE is every-illusive, and everlasting mystery. Where is he to be found? Must we wait until the end of this life for the shadow to become flesh and blood? Are we yet walking around with veiled faces? Or is there yet hope for a not-too-far-off tomorrow?

the most simple things are always the hardest

I came across a few words this week that have been on my mind: The first is from William Morris, a prominent mind behind the 19th Century Arts and Crafts Movement, which sought to return to the more simplistic roots of interior design in the wake of an entire society disillusioned by the industrial revolution.

He says: "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful."

and the other quote... well, I can't remember where I read it or what it was about, but at the time, I thought it was good enough to write down. And didn't. Oh regrets.

ANyway-- not the point. This afternoon, I am taking a little break from working on a painting I started maybe last weekend or so. It is a painting of this house that I've passed on my way to work in Superior for the last eight months-- an image that drawing after drawing and a few attempts at painting that continues to elude me. I can't seem to get it right.

This afternoon, as I sat eating lunch, looking at it again, I was aware again that the things that we need to have the most simplicity are the most dificult to master. Simplicity is an every-illusive thing. It seems like it ought to be the quickest, easiest endeavor. Yet it seems like a hundred years until its actual complexity is mastered the point of the simplicity that is desired. I often think about one of the first major critiques I had and something deeply profound that my professor said: "If you are going to make it simple, it has to be incredibly beautiful." And that-- I come to find out-- is extremely difficult.

One of the strange nuances-- and therefore extremely fascinating aspects-- of color is that it goes against all of the things that we think ought to be. You have to be extremely careful, because there is a deep power in color and you have to make sure you are wielding the sword you hold with great strength and restraint. I fall into the temptation a thousand times to use all of the most wonderful colors, all of the screaming, heavy, and outwardly fabulous ones. But the problem is often that no matter how stunning, no matter how deep my love for it, too much in the wrong context does nothing but harm. It is often true that the best way to honor these "best" colors is by using only a small amount and surrounding them with the strange and neutral ones that only serve this one small dot of favorite.

Or sometimes, it is only the subtlety of colors that only contrast on one dimension-- only saturation, only temperature, only value, only hue, only compliment-- not all of them at once-- that give them the most strength. When we try to have it all, it seems to fall apart only too quickly.

Somewhere earlier in the process of this painting, I got caught up in the seduction of a certain color. I was searching, walking through the possibilities of this endless walk towards the perfect simplicity, and I got sidetracked by a flaming red orange. This will bring the depth I want, I thought. I used it-- a lot. And then I stepped back. I tried to preserve it. Altered it. Fussed and maneuvered around it. But then I stepped back and realized-- this isn't what I want. It isn't right.

I think one of the most important tools a painter uses is the palette knife. Some people get the mistaken idea that this tool ought to be used for actually painting in an additive way. And I suppose these artists can enjoy a certain amount of success, but they limit their strokes deeply using it primarily for this superficial purpose. No-- the palette knife is often the savior of any great painting because it is the method by which we are able to remove all of these things that simply carry us down a path that we did not mean to go. I looked at the red orange, glaring and distracting there at the bottom, and away it all scraped, so swiftly and easily. gone. As Morris would instruct, we need to use the palette knife to remove all that is neither "useful or beautiful."

I've been thinking a lot about this in the rest of my life recently. I often get to these points where I suddenly am aware of the fact that all my inner space has been used up. I need an interior palette knife. I need to clear away all of the things that lack use and beauty.

I've been wrestling with the need to sort out the things I've been choosing in my life. I've been thinking about this dichotomy between choosing a path, living a directed, intentional, and meaningful life and enduring the things that I hope will inevitably lead me there, even though I feel the weight of the possibility of being led astray, disillusioned and exhausted.

I have often heard people say that their art often takes them places that they did not expect to go. That throughout the process, the stumbled upon something unexpected. And although I do not mean to invalidate their experience or process, I find this reasoning to indicate, to a certain degree, a lack of integrity. I don't mean that in the sense that they are liars and cheaters (although, perhaps, that is what is happening afterall). What I do mean to say, though, is that I find that the process of art-making that continues to drive me forward is one in which I am guided by a strong sense of control over what is happening in my work. I set out with a purpose and seek to find the way in which to meet it.

I suppose that there are moments that I simply "follow a creative wind," but those are moments when I am seeking to create something devoid of conviction or meaning. I simply want to see what materials can do. This is all right and good-- but these are often things that I give away to kids at work or end up throwing in the garbage-- they tend to lack any communicative value; they really only serve me as learning processes to be used later when I am actually seeking a purpose.

A number of months ago, a friend asked me what makes a piece of art good. At the time, I wasn't sure how to answer this question. Yes, there is the matter of opinion and a certain aesthetic that connects to your temperament or experience. There are formal elements that work together in a harmonious manner. There are matters of popularity and historical value. But, as I've still been thinking about this question now, a few seasons after the presentation of it, I realize that all of these elements can be present in a work of art and it might not be any good.

However-- the word that I keep coming back to is this idea of integrity. I think what makes good art is integrity, that is, "the state of being whole or undivided," as our friend Merriam would say. I think there is something to any form of expression that tells us whether or not it is connected to anything deeper than the surface from which it is emitted. Any real and serious art comes from some sort of intention.

I often get frustrated about the sheer amount of things that get made these days. I often think the production of art can be divided into two roads: There are people who try to make art because they want to be artists and there are people who must make art because they are artists. It is a matter of personal integrity-- that is, integration with oneself and identity. A sense of wholeness. And I think this can't help but come through in what is made.

And so-- if I am painting a life according to an intention, it would follow that I don't simply "let the the work lead" and see what happens. I think often our experiences do reveal more about where we are and where we ought to be going, but they still are leading us towards or away from something and we have to take an active look at those realities. I sometimes have to take the palette knife to areas-- even if they may be quite beloved and good-- because they do not fit within the wholeness of my intention. Not for this painting anyway.

And so in the last month or so, I've been taking a lot of looks at what the painting of my life looks like right now. At this moment, things seem to be at the messy stage-- somewhere in the middle where I wonder if the picture is ever going to be resolved. I come home from work and think find myself thinking about the next task that needs to be accomlished. There don't seem to be any areas of neutrals and the eye has no place to rest. My canvas is too full. But it seems like for this painting, this season, that is how it must be. Messy, difficult, and uncertain.

Over the last few years, something that I've really learned to see is where my limits are. I have learned that although there are many things that I can do, and there are choices that I can make to fill up every spare minute with being "productive," this doesn't mean that these are the choices that will really lead to life. I have learned that although it is possible for me to say yes to every person and obligation that presents itself, it probably isn't right or good or helpful. There is a certain threshold that I simply realize that I should say no.

And, in the midst of reaching this self-understanding, I have also learned that these limits take a special vigilance to protect them. It is all too easy to let others try to tempt me into negotiating my limits-- Just do this one thing. You can do it; you will be fine. Or-- You have to do this. You have no choice. And in the midst of these exterior influences and as I pass through various seasons and necessities, I do find that these limits do need to flex or I may need to expand my borders. And that is often a very complex decision, and negotiation of desire, trust, and humility. It is that process of analysis that tells me what to take out of the painting and what to add. And it also tells me when the painting is in the middle and when it is finished.

And so here I am. Here and now. I've battled a lot of discouragement this week. I found myself driving home from work last night wondering if I am even any good at teaching. Wondering if I am living in some illusion of an aptitude that I do not actually possess. I'm sure it has something to do with two or three boys who have a fondness for following me around all afternoon reminding me that "No one likes you," and asking, "Why are you so mean?" It may have something to do with the reality that I am doing very little of what I really love-- creating art and helping kids love it to-- and spending more of my time and energy bracing myself to complete another task or project for which expectations are extremely unclear. Perhaps it is the perpetual battle I fight in my mind against unwarranted guilt and inadequacy. Perhaps it is a deep sense of loneliness and a need for enough encouragement to counteract the sapping experience of working with children who find a particular affinity for deliberately walking away while I am mid-sentence and shouting disrespectful comments while I am explaining the activities I have prepared for them to do. Perhaps it is an overall lack of any sense of real purpose in what I am doing in this endless day-to-day.

I am tired. I do my best to "consider it great joy when you face great trials," but there are days and weeks that it all feels gray and endless. Hopeless and impossible. The resolve to hold tight to hope, to keep my dreams from sinking into the muck is only one more burden to maintain.

And yet-- in the midst of it all, I do hold to a deeper reality that this is only a small part of this long and changing journey. When I can catch a breath, I find deeper down a reminder that it really isn't all up to me afterall, that I am held by a greater purpose, that my intention ought only to be the pursuit of the Father's heart-- a Father who is pursuing me more than I pursue him and he is running to meet me on the road. Somewhere, like a far-off whisp of cloud, I remember that I can hope in his love and his faithfulness and know that he is my rescue, my sustenance, even when I don't feel it, when I don't even have the energy to actively believe, even when the only sense of comfort I can find is to call out into the darkness all of the doubts and questions. And then I can trust again that the road to simplicity is a long one, that even the smallest stroke in the direction of my intention will carry me forward. And so, somehow, I choose to remain faithful.

it seems as though
we are caught; pacing
in this no-man's land somewhere between
The Awareness
of our inability to walk this road
alone
And the Inability
to do it any other way

He said the words
"It is not good..."
And yet here we are.
alone
How did we get here?
or is it just me.

Sometimes it feels a little like
feeding the very
Monster
from whom we hope
to untangle our kicking feet

trying to climb our way
out
of a pit we simultaneously
dig
Wondering how it just keeps getting deeper.

I drive along
thankful that at least
the windshield is
clean
But the sun
blinds us all
witless

And maybe it is all backwards
perhaps: We bit
The hand
That fed
Or (expect) the feeding hand
will bite back

It seems easier
to settle for the under-table crumbs
than hope for any hand at all

I grow weary
sometimes
tired of hope
sick of asking questions about
my part
and Yours

Tired of the regret
disappointment
and questions
I say
I'm giving up control
But I think that maybe
I'm just finished faking
a strength
I never really knew

I don't know where you are
Can't seem to grope
anymore
through the dark

I want to scream and fight
but don't even have the words
wondering
how long it will be
that I will be emptied out

Is this little lifetime anything more
than this series of
unanswered questions
tired legs
weary hearts?

They say
Where we end
you begin
But it feels like I ended long ago
And you are still
far off
too busy
or withholding

And where am I left?
with an angry
confused
heart
A head swimming with chemicals
invalid
too much
demanding
and over-sensitive

and lost.

Speaking of love...