Call and Response

There is an edginess about this photo that appeals to me today. Change is in the air: the long days of summer are getting shorter, the hot sun that has been baking us all week has disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds, and I found it very challenging to stay focused this morning.

There's something about the sweep of the clouds in this photograph... or perhaps it's the way the bench sits right at the edge of the picture? But even though it's really the focus of the scene, I can't seem to stay with it.

I'm restless, I want to leave the bench (which, being metal and bathed in sunlight, looks awfully hot and uncomfortable) and go explore the beach, or at least get behind the trees. It's at times like this that I find it most difficult not to be overcome by my "shoulds." I SHOULD sit. I SHOULD focus. I SHOULD stay on task.

Although perhaps it's the other side of those statements that really causes trouble: because I'm restless, because I'm unfocused, because I don't seem to want to do the things that were on my list for today I am somehow a bad person. It's very hard to give myself permission to walk away from that bench, though the fact is that the time I spend there is supremely unproductive.

But what if something wonderful is waiting on that beach, or behind those trees? And what if I completely miss it because I'm so busy doing what I think I should be doing? Maybe it's okay to be irresponsible once in a while.

I really, really don't want to be a typical me-generation thinker, in the "if it feels good, do it" mode. I've been hurt by others who've taken that path, and I think a lot of important work goes undone when everyone is off following their dreams and trying to find themselves.

But once in a while I suspect it does a soul good to step off the path for a minute, or to at least stop and listen to the voices that are calling you away. Whose voice is that, anyway? And why is it so alluring right now? What else is going on in life that makes the path seem tedious, or challenging?

Whether or not we follow the siren's call, it's good to be attentive to both call and response; we can learn a lot in the listening.

The lap of love

Yesterday evening I elected to dine near the waterfront, and arrived at the restaurant early enough to get a seat near the window.

This collection of boats was partially obscured by a dock, but it kept calling to me, so after dinner I went back to my car for my camera and then went down to the waterfront to take this shot.

I took several different versions of this image -- some horizontal, some vertical; some with the little white dinghy, some without -- and I don't know yet which I like the best; it takes me a while to feel my way through these sorts of value judgments, as my responses tend to vary over time.

But this morning this is the one that sings to me. For some reason it feels like it has a tenderness to it; the way the larger boats are clustered around the smaller one; the way the lines seem to be converging as they approach the bottom of the image.

I remember reading, when I studied child psychology in college, that the primary characteristic of a two-year-old (other than their use of the word NO!) is their yo-yo behavior. One minute they are clinging to their parent, and then next they are running away to explore the world.

I'm wondering now, speaking first as a mother, if that yo-yo phenomenon doesn't continue well into adulthood; it's just that the string gets longer and longer, so the time spent apart and away, discovering the world, keeps getting longer and longer, and the time spent re-connecting gets shorter.

Do you suppose that our relationship with the divine has a similar yo-yo-like quality? We know our spiritual life has its ups and downs; times we spend in the desert feeling separated and lost balance with times we spend showered with nourishment. If so, then I would hope that the times spent in the hand of God grow longer as we age, rather than shorter...

But however that plays out over time, I just know that today I am craving that closeness, that tenderness and comfort. Like this little dinghy, I want to sit in the lap of the divine and feel arms around me, holding me close.

Dissolving the boundaries

One of my jobs as a photographer (pretty much the only one that pays, though it hasn't lately because the real estate market is in such a slump) is photographing houses for real estate brochures. This home was outside Tacoma: I had to take most of a day to go down and shoot it, and some six months later I still haven't been paid for the job.

But I love this one image, shot from the deck outside the house, because of the way the boundaries between within and without are blurred, and I find it very inviting.

I love the flowers on the deck, which appear to rest on the blanket draped across the couch; I love the serene presence of the Chinese statue within, the reflections of the trees and sky behind me even as we see more trees and sky through the window beyond the statue.

I love the counterpoint between the straight lines of the horizon and the deck railing and the curved lines of the flower bowl and the couch piping, and I enjoy the way the railing lines are echoed again through the window beyond, in the sleeve of the statue, and on the blanket itself.

For some reason the illusory nature of the boundaries between inside and outside in this image reminds me of a line from the Episcopal liturgy: "by him, with him and in him in the unity of the Holy Spirit." I confess I've never thought much about that phrase; all those prepositions seem to just roll past, gathering strength like a wave to enhance the impact of the next phrase, "in the unity of the Holy Spirit."

Which, of course, is one of the dangers of a beautiful liturgy recited exactly in the same way Sunday after Sunday: the words acquire a rhythm of their own and tend to lose their meaning. We stop listening, and think of other things, waiting for our cue to step forward and take the bread and wine.

It's a bit like the Lord's Prayer: I am remembering a sermon in which the preacher said the harshest word in the Lord's Prayer was "as." He paused briefly, as we all stared at him, perplexed, and then went on to explain. "You know. "Forgive us our trespasses AS we forgive those who trespass against us?" And I remember thinking, "Ouch!"

But what does that mean, by him and with him and in him in the unity of the Holy Spirit? If I pay attention to what I am reading about Christophany, this phrase appears to be addressing the nature of our mystical union with Jesus Christ.

I have to back up here a second and say that, for all I am willing to admit to being an Episcopalian, I find it VERY difficult to write words like these in this blog: priest, communion, Christ, Holy Spirit. Because Christians so often use those words as battering rams, or as exclusionary mechanisms, they have acquired an uncomfortable and invasive power that makes me -- and many others -- want to fold my arms across my chest and turn away.

Which is too bad. Because I suspect that the real power of the Christian faith may actually lie in those three little prepositions: by, in, and with. Because the magic that makes my often Buddhist heart repeatedly turn back to Christianity lies in the sense of mystical unity implied by those words. I love the thought of the Divine reaching out to us; that we are formed BY it, that, through Christ, it walks side-by-side WITH us; and that through the Holy Spirit it lives IN us -- as we live IN the divine.

I don't begin to understand how that might work, this blurring of boundaries between human and divine. And I am still not comfortable with some of those churchy religious words -- and even LESS comfortable with the ways those words have been used over the centuries to exclude, abuse, and excuse.

But there is a comfort in those three small prepositions, in the sense that there is a loving presence that reaches out to us, walks with us, lives in us and lifts us when we stumble or fall. And as, thinking of that comfort, my resistance to the Divine softens and blurs, so, too, the boundaries between self and other begin to blur, and I realize again the illusory nature of the divisions between us.

Through a glass, dimly

During that period in my life when all my friends were getting married, it seemed to me that there was a passage from the Bible -- First Corinthians, Chapter 13 -- which was read at almost every ceremony.You know the one:

"Love is patient, love is kind, and is not jealous; Love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things."

It's all about love, which is why it seemed so appropriate to wedding ceremonies. But there's this odd bit near the end of the passage that always leaped out at me:

"For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; Now I know in part, but then I shall know fully just as I also have been fully known."

It's very mystical, and doesn't seem to have much to do with love. Perhaps it has to do with the way love evolves over the course of a relationship; certainly the love that emerges in a context of dinners and movies in the dating phase evolves into something quite different over the course of a long relationship, developing -- or, sadly, often losing -- the flexibility to embrace joy and hardship, sickness, health, loss and wealth.

Or it could have to do with 20-20 hindsight, that ability we have to look back over a lifetime together and better understand how certain patterns developed.

But this morning I began reading a book called Christophany, for a retreat I will be attending at the end of this month. And it seemed to me that this passage might also be about the human tendency to see everything through the lenses of our own experience; that when we watch, or criticize, or love, or test our mates -- or anyone, for that matter -- we are usually watching, criticizing, loving and testing our own image reflected in them, filtered through a lifetime of preconceptions and prejudices.

And it isn't until we become considerably more enlightened that we begin to see both their unique and completely separate value as individuals and, at the same time, the ways in which we both are manifestations of that single divine spirit that ignites us all.

With luck, over time, that clearer vision that emerges extends across the whole of humanity, so we can come to see the differences -- between red and blue states, between Christian and Muslim, between black and white, between male and female -- in the same way.

Perhaps then the "Objects in Mirro" -- whether it is our own reflection or something completely other than ourselves -- will awaken within us the respect and reverence that is due all of God's creation.

Soul Food

This image, which is entitled "The Color of Music" began life as a photograph of a portion of the hull of a very large boat. The boat was being sandblasted, and all the layers of paint that had been created over the years were being exposed in the process.

I took several photographs at the time, and have played with them off and on over the years because I love the colors. This one was created for a specific exhibit at the Gallery, and consists of 3 layers of the same image, just shrunk and rotated to create an illusion of depth.

Thanks to a couple of people who have commented on this blog, I've been surfing in the world of art blogs lately, and it's clear that I am drawn to images like this one: abstract, primarily cool; intense colors with a splash of warmth; generally fuzzy with a spark of definition. And it occurs to me that perhaps I need to do more of these; to explore the more intentionally creative aspects of my craft.

One of the lovely things about starting your day with an intentional period of quiet time is that you get to watch these bits of longing bubble up within you. If I give myself time to sit; if I allow the to-do's to gather like dust on the surface and then just blow them away, I get glimpses into the rich colors that lie below the surface; get to follow the color and the joy that draw me into the more creative realms of consciousness. Which always feels like the beckoning of the divine: go deeper! go deeper! Seek the clarity which lies at the center!

But that's also the blessing of visiting art blogs and galleries: wandering about, drinking in the richness of color and design; getting steeped in the creativity and originality that abounds in such places. So thanks to all the struggling gallery owners who are working to stay afloat in these harsh economic times, and thanks to the community of art bloggers who share their thoughts and work and dreams with us: you feed our souls!

Safe Travels

One of the things I love about visiting my friends Sue and Dave in Vermont is that their house is full of angels, fairies, buddha figures and butterflies. Several of those figures have appeared on this blog over the last year or so, but I offer this one today for all those who are embarking on new adventures this summer.

For Claire, who is opening as the star of Thoroughly Modern Millie this week and will share with us her newly discovered dancing and singing skills; for Karen, walking into a first anniversary of her daughter's death; for a dear friend whose divorce is now final; for the cast and crew of Midsummer, which opens this afternoon; for all those who travel; and for all of us who have ever been children: may the angels of love watch over us, comfort, guide and protect us as we continue on our way.

But being over full of self affairs, my mind did lose it

Both my husband and daughter rose early this morning, and the general consensus -- since they were planning to go into Seattle together and had preparations to make before their trip -- was that I should wait to meditate until after they left.

I agreed to do so, and spent my time doing other chores and chatting with them, then got caught up browsing some art blogs, so I was a little slow to pull away from the computer after they left. By the time I did, I was hungry, so I did dishes and prepared a snack before settling into my chair for the morning's meditation.

But by then I was out of the "zone" that usually starts my day. The morning coffee had kicked in and the to-do lists were roaming freely through my consciousness, so all my efforts to stay focused met with pretty weak results. I stayed the course, because I understand that it's good practice for me to continue trying to access the peace while other parts of me are restless and out of tune, but it was with some relief that I rose from the chair to blow out the candle when the clock chimed quarter after.

Having been immersed in Shakespeare for so many days and nights, I find that odd lines from the play keep popping into my head: a clear indicator, I think, that even after all these centuries Shakespeare still has his finger on the pulse of humanity. This morning it was this line -- displayed in the title above -- from Theseus, as he attempts to justify his negligence to Hippolyta, that sprung to mind. It seems the perfect description of my failed meditation attempt...

I mean, no one thinks of Barbie and Ken having a meditation practice: it's all about the clothes, the social life, the travel and the jobs, the pink Barbie house and the pink Barbie car. We're most of us not so different (though perhaps more anatomically correct and less shapely) from these dolls; our minds are generally full of such affairs, and less inclined to look beyond the trappings of daily existence to the heart of life that lies beneath.

Which is why I try to sit before my day begins: it's easier to move into that space when my brain is still a bit befuddled with sleep. And it sets the tone for the rest of the day, taking charge before all the other voices -- my internal listmaker, my comparer, my acquisitor, my naysayer -- can attempt to dominate the day.