Bumping up against it

It was two weeks ago today that, buoyed by a sense of new mission, I went off to the Hood Canal for a weekend to see if I could figure out where this strong sense of calling was going to take me.

This shot was taken as I was attempting to photograph some buffleheads (black and white ducks) who were frolicking in the water just off the deck of the cottage where I stayed that weekend, and as I looked through my images this morning to figure out what to post this one waved its hand in the air and shouted "Me, me, take me!"

One of the things I've been learning as I process the revelations of that weekend is that this blog is really about what these photos that seem to leap into my camera have to teach me. Writing is my way of framing and interpreting the divine presence as it appears through the photos, just as the experience and liturgy and drama and music of church are a way of interpreting the divine presence as it is expressed in Communion.

So what am I learning as I look at this photo? I love the balance of it. I love the counterpoint between the straight lines of the fence and the curve of the chair, and the way they come together in the curved edge of the table and the almost straight edge of the waves: it makes me think a bit of my straight hair and my husband's kinky curly hair as they reflect together in the loose curls of our younger daughter and the smooth waves of our older daughter.

But I think the part that intrigues me most is the way the fence has begun to bend where the chair touches it, shifting its own stiff regularity to accommodate the curve of the chair. So if I go with that parallel -- that the fence is me and the chair is my husband, then I have perhaps begun to be more flexible in those parts of my life where he bumps up against me the most? Maybe the fact that I LIKE that little ripple in the fence is a sign that this sense of irritation I've been feeling since he's been working at home more, this edgy resentment of the interruption in my routine, is actually a good thing; that even though it's uncomfortable, it's an important part of the picture, and actually makes it more interesting.

Or maybe this is a chicken and egg problem: Because his increased presence is causing some ripples, I recognize them in the picture and want to think they will add to life rather than detract from it? I suspect the order, chicken or egg, doesn't matter so much. The important thing is to realize that it's all okay, all part of the picture: my rigidity, his curves, the bumps where they meet and abrade -- it's all good. In the immortal words of Julian of Norwich,

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

I have a feeling there is a lot more to be learned here, but I have to run: I am taking my daughter on a pilgrimage to Forks today. So amusing, to be hunting vampires on Friday the 13th! Will I get bitten by this bug? Stay tuned...

When experience plays like a shadow

This morning I took my Polish sheepdog, Nemo, into our local art store to visit with Duffy, a wheaten terrier who could be Nemo's twin. Duffy's owner, Richard, showed me a print he'd made -- not so different from this image -- after inviting a bunch of people in an art class to draw squiggles on a piece of glass. "Look at all the differing emotions there," he said.

Nemo, who is diabetic and has an incessant craving for food -- especially sugar -- ignored Duffy and spent his time prowling the store, looking for something edible, and eventually found one of Duffy's bones hidden in the back room. Duffy, after his initial excitement at meeting a new friend, quickly realized Nemo was a bit of a dud as a playmate, and lay down in his customary position on the floor, polar-bear style with his back feet splayed out to the sides.

And so it was that each of us returned to our natural stasis: Nemo searching, Duffy resting, Richard teaching and me watching and listening -- it reminded me again of that study done of lottery winners and calamity victims: whatever life brings in the short term, in the long run they return to their natural state. Two years after the exhilaration of winning the lottery, normally unhappy people are unhappy again. Two years after the sadness and grief of a heinous loss, normally happy people are finding joy again.

Examined from this perspective, life becomes little more than a Rhorshach blot; what we see and feel colored almost exclusively by our unique vantage points. What is sent our way doesn't define us; it is our response that defines us, that describes and interprets the picture we see.

Perhaps the only way that interpretation can evolve is by creating the time to really look at what lies before and around us. Because even this apparently random graffiti has gifts within it -- the dancing red pony, the silver lining at the top, the splashes of sunshine yellow being piped in on the right; the stiff grace of the torn and aged bamboo, the playful curves of black that leap and dance across the wall's canvas like shadows over a teal sea... each echoes on its own frequency in the chamber of the heart's experience.

Thoughts on poise

The other day, while driving off the ferry into downtown Seattle, we passed some old friends from Shaw Island, and stopped to chat with them a while.

Later, on the way to the airport, I mentioned that my mother would have greatly admired the woman's poise, and somehow we found ourselves in a discussion about the word "poised." I said I found it interesting that the word had two different meanings -- poised for attack or takeover, and poised like a young woman, but my husband insisted they were actually the same meaning.

Hmm, I thought. I just couldn't quite see it. We shared the discussion with friends, but came no closer to resolving this issue, so it's been sitting on a back burner in my mind, simmering quietly as the week goes by.

And then, this morning, I read John O'Donohue's introduction to his Threshold Blessings in To Bless the Space Between Us, and found this:

"At any time you can ask yourself: At which threshold am I now standing? At this time in my life, what am I leaving? Where am I about to enter? What is preventing me from crossing my next threshold? What gift would enable me to do it? A threshold is not a simple boundary; it is a frontier that divides two different territories, rhythms, and atmospheres."

Suddenly I could see how the two meanings of "poised" were the same. Because we think of the phrase "poised on the threshold," I could begin to understand that the country or company poised for attack or takeover is not just literally waiting at the boundary to begin; it is balancing on a precipice between waiting and action; there is impending and intense motion in the stillness.

And the young woman, practicing poise with the book on her head, is also balancing, standing on that boundary between youth and adulthood, between life in a family and life in the world; her poise implies both an inner stillness and an intense readiness for action, for change, that intensity giving a shimmering quality of anticipation to the waiting.

This, I think, is Eckhart Tolle's Power of Now, that sense of being totally in the moment, balancing in a present that will always be tipping into the future; an intensity and quality of stillness that implies incipient motion.

Are you poised? And if so, on what threshold do you find yourself today?

The law of white spaces

I read this morning, in Jesus the Teacher Within, about the Law of White Spaces:

"A rabbi was approached by a group of his students who had been wrangling over the meaning of a difficult part of the Torah. He asked them to show him the page and then asked what they saw there. The words we are disputing about, they replied, the black marks on the page. Right, he said, well, the words contain half the meaning. The white spaces between the words are where the other half of the meaning is to be found."

The snow has returned this morning, bringing white space back into our lives, both visually and figuratively. Because we stay inside and watch the slow accumulation, we see not only the patterns of the snow on the land, but also the white spaces created by the light within, by the sky, and by the simulated snowflakes, dangling reminders of Christmas past.

And if, as I suspect, we'll not be venturing out, there'll be a white space created in our busy days and plans as well, a suspension of activity that invites us to ponder: just what is it, this page on which we journal of our schedules, meetings, thoughts and prayers. And where is it the meaning lies -- in those etched marks or in the life we live between the lines?

The changing booth

A phone booth -- something you don't see much anymore -- stands in the middle of one of our island recreation areas, equidistant from the skateboard park and the art barn, tucked here beside the mini-gym and glowing reassuringly in the darkness.

Those of us who remember a childhood before cellphones know the promised rescue of a phone booth often failed; they often let us down. The directory was missing, or the coins would stick; you wouldn't have enough to call, or the phone just -- didn't work. The good news was that sometimes, if you flipped open the coin release, you might occasionally find a little change.

Was it easier then to place the blame for communication failures outside ourselves? Because now there's no excuse, just I forgot my cell, or I forgot to charge my cell, or simply I forgot to call. Or -- if the problem lies in the call not received rather than the call not made -- I didn't hear it ring, or I forgot I'd turned it off.

And once we understand that God is always with us, not just housed in some bright little building, tucked in a corner of town we only visit once a week for some religious exercise, then what is our excuse for not calling, for not hearing the call? And is it true, what all those Catholics feared so long ago, that once we get direct communication, the church becomes outmoded technology? Or is there still a chance of collecting a little change?

The scent of resurrection

I ran across this image yesterday while looking for photos to use in a workshop I'm doing later this week. I'd forgotten I'd taken it, though, seeing it, I know exactly where I was at the time. There's a wonderful park on our island called the Bloedel Reserve, a former family estate that has been preserved for public use, and I was there for a day-long contemplative retreat.

We got lots of breaks for walking around, so I took my camera with me and got some wonderful pictures -- mostly of paths and bridges, which tells you where my head was that day (the camera never lies). But I am a TOTAL sucker for skunk cabbage; have been photographing it for years (with only occasional success) and apparently I couldn't resist capturing this one, and the way it so sweetly cradles and frames these fuschia wildflowers.

I suspect the reason it caught my eye yesterday is because there is in me -- in all of us these days, I suspect -- a longing for spring. And spring, of course, is skunk cabbage season, the time when all those brilliant yellow-greens burst forth, complete with that nasty skunky aroma, as if all that winter decay is done, and the scent of it is being released into the air to fuel new life.

I don't know where I'm going with this -- I'm not having one of my usual mornings, as my husband is bustling around getting ready for his trip to the airport, and he's just informed me we're taking an earlier ferry so I don't get to go to church either. But as he says, life is what happens while you're making other plans. At least he was willing to take the dog for his morning walk -- and now I need to leave.

So what is the scent of resurrection for you? Think about it; I'll check in when I get back.

When new and old collide

While visiting the mainland on that abortive dental excursion we decided to visit our old marina on the Duwamish River. As I think I've mentioned before, when my husband drove out here with a friend in 1988, they drove a Ryder truck full of furniture and towed a boat which they slept in at night along the way.

We were pretty broke when we arrived in Seattle, and a friend steered us to this cheap marina, which is buried in a pretty industrial part of the city; it's just to the right of the bridge displayed in yesterday's photo on the poetry blog. When we moved out here we dropped the boat in that marina, and, after a couple of abortive excursions, there it stayed and rotted til a friend retrieved it and moved it up to Shaw.

It was fun to visit the old place again, and I was glad I'd brought my camera, though I knew its battery was running low. I wandered around with the camera in hand, looking to see if there might be pictures: I mean, hey, boats and water -- OLD boats and water, SHABBY boats and water -- what more could I want?

But knowing I had only a few pictures left before my camera went dark, I was being picky, and I saw nothing that captured my interest in the marina, and began shifting my focus. I took a couple of shots of the bridge, walked down to the water and watched the geese, looked for another possible angle on the boats and marina... nothing. And then I turned and saw the color and texture of this tarp on the side of the building and literally RAN to the chainlink fence that separated us. I took two photos of the cat/truck/building, turned to my husband and said, "OMG, that was TOTALLY worth the trip," and we started to walk back. When I finally found a boat image that might photograph well I got the camera out one last time, but by then the battery had definitely died.

Which is just as well, because I really love this picture.

Last night we went over to a friend's house to watch a movie which addressed the differences between the before and after in our lives; the value shifts, new behaviors etc. that emerge when we begin to understand better our connection to the divine. And I think one of the challenges of navigating that transition period is that we tend to stay stuck in our old behavior patterns, to look for God in the old obvious places despite the fact that we now get -- intellectually at least -- that the divine permeates everything.

I have years of success photographing old boats and water -- I just hung a show yesterday filled with HUGE images of old boats and water -- so it's natural for me to train my camera, my focus, my vision, back on those old successful places. But I had to turn my back on the marina to get this picture; had to turn away from the easy, obvious beauty of boats and water, to capture this much less obviously beautiful image. And that's the key, particularly for artists as we grow in our craft: we have to set aside what we know will work, what we know will sell and do what calls out to us, what resonates on that divine cord that links our innermost longings to the Universal Other.

You may not like this image, and you probably don't want to buy it. But for me it says I paid attention: to my heart, to the moment, to the surroundings and the color and the light. It says there is a deep beauty that breathes through poverty and pain and age and loss and ignites them with the colors of passion and freedom. It feels like a step forward, and I love it.