Time for recess, Mr. C!

Our first meeting was formal: in his office and I was armed with list of questions. I was interviewing him, after all. He would be my daughter's elementary-school principal and I wanted to find out what type of school he captained. I came away more than satisfied. We'd even had a chat about racism, which was on my heart at the time, as it is often, because of my heavy involvement in a local group attempting to understand and bridge the concern. He'd passed my test and I was comfortable sending my oldest to kindergarten under his care.

How was I to know just what kind of educator he would be and how he would influence and inspire my whole family, let alone hundreds of others.

Gregg Curless, beloved Pattison Elementary principal, is retiring next week. It hardly seems possible. Yesterday, I attended the volunteers' tea, where the school pulls out all of the stops to say thank you, and he hosted. I specifically went because it would be my last chance, perhaps, to see Mr. C and say goodbye.

I greeted him with a big hug and said, "This has got to be surreal."

"It is," he responded. "I feel like this (retiring) is happening to someone else. I remember my first day as a principal, walking into the hallway with a clipboard and wondering what I was doing. I think June 1 (his first official day of retirement) will be the same."

Pattison Principal Gregg Gurless where he shines best: in the midst of students

I do know Pattison won't ever be the same with his vacancy. No, his perennially smiling face, warm hugs and acknowledgement of every student and parent by name will be missing. But his spirit, enthusiasm, compassion and fairness will linger in his loyal staff and the memory of students and parents within the building, within the district and well beyond. Hard to tell how far his reach extends. Pretty widely, I'd guess.

I know with certainly that my girls are better people because of Mr. C. They felt recognized and affirmed by him and were utterly nurtured by his wise and skillful staff. Sure, there were a few bumps in the road, but Mr. C was always available with a groundedness and genuine love of being an educator that took the sting away.

As a parent, I am biased. He loved my children, but not just mine: he loved them all. He always showed genuine appreciation for any volunteer work I offered, adored seeing my husband at lunch regularly and praised the products of our parenting. And, he approached everything with a wonderful sense of humor.

I never heard an unkind word from staff members, which is pretty amazing given that he was their boss. They respect him. One of them on the new-principal-selection committee said she felt honored to help fill his shoes because he had been such a blessing.

When my oldest went to the junior high, she was stunned that the principal wasn't out in the hall everyday roaming among and greeting students by name. Well, honey, I said, this is junior high and Mr. Curless is not the principal here.

I will never understand how one person can have a memory bank that accommodates 700 names, plus those of parents and siblings and seems to grasp each family's structure. I can't even remember what I had for dinner last night.

Mr. C once shared a great story about one of my favorite neighborhood kids. Of course, the kid did something a little daring, but what the principal remembered was that he was honest about the action and that it really was funny, although I'm certain the child never knew he thought that. He understands people, how to motivate them and play to their strengths. Such a gift that has been given over and over, year after year.

I think it's time for your recess, Mr. C! Thank you.

• How has an educator inspired you?
• Who has been the Mr. C in your/your child's life?
• How can we acknowledge and show gratitude to those people?
• How are you a better person as a result?
• How do you experience the ripple effect of that nurturing?


My class this
week focused
on gratitude

not just
the action,
but making
it a practice

a way of
being

some very
special
people come
across our
paths as
examples

one whose
crossed
mine frequently
for the past
decade
won't be
there physically
after next week

but his
inspiration
lives on in
my heart
and that
of countess
students
and parents

IF YOU HAVE A MR. C STORY, PLEASE SHARE IT IN THE COMMENTS BELOW

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Naked-baby confessions

The naked plastic dolls in my studio have become a subject of curiosity. Enough so, that I am taking note. There's a petite basket full of tiny ones that my mother was ready to pitch as she downsized. I couldn't let them go to the dumpster. Then the closer to real-sized models. Two look like clones except one is smaller. They came from the local thrift shop. They were so cute and lifelike, I couldn't resist and, besides, my girls were in the baby-doll stage then. The last used to be a Baby Jesus, sans his halo. People ask what that missing chunk out of the back of is head is ... well, it's where the halo used to be, I respond.

Somewhere along the line they were all clothed. Not now and I think that may mean something ... something significant.

Mostly people marvel over them and deem it appropriate for an artist's studio amid the plush toys, Godzillas and giant princess Halloween mask. They, however, really freaked out a recent visitor from Taiwan. A quiet teen who wants to be a film  director. No horror, she said. No wonder she didn't like the  defrocked dolls.

Other baby confessions as long as we're at it: I've always liked dirty babies in diapers  ... you know the ones someone is not quite tending. No clothes, no shoes, usually a full diaper and no attention of any kind. They're on their own, playing in the mud, sticking a dirty spoon or rock in their mouths. Saturday I gave my favorite baby gift: a basket jammed with pristine onsies, soft socks and thick wash cloths – all white. Pure and simple: just like real infants.

Sitting in worship Sunday, ruminating on a wonderful poem our minister chose to read, made me think of those molded infants. The poem was Louisa Fletcher's "The Land of Beginning Again" and the minister also mentioned early, influential Quaker Margaret Fell and her conception of letting the light "convict" us, laying all open for us to see: the good, bad and ugly.

I have known that place – perhaps too well. It's a place of nothingness, no clothes, protection or screening. Something like these buff babies I seem to collect. And then the poetic line that really stung me was:

"And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done

The greatest injustice of all

Could be there at the gates

like an old friend that waits

For the comrad he's gladdest to hail."

This poem is about starting over clean, dropping our mistakes and headaches "like a shabby coat at the door." I shivered at the line about a friend waiting at the gates, thinking:

"What if it's yourself you wait to meet at the gate of forgiveness?"

I am beginning to believe those babies represent my innocence and vulnerability, My True Self and my inner children. Some of the things that have been lain bare alongside the darker parts. I've been sifting through the dirtier, messier stuff. Maybe it's time to put that aside and claim these delicious little babies.

• When have I unconsciously collected something that held deeper meaning?
• What was that meaning?
• How was I awakened to it?
• How does living into my oddness or uniqueness help me claim more of my True Self?
• How do I express my awe, wonder and gratitude to Spirit for this journey?



always
they have riveted me

nothing hiding,
no protection

the live ones
babbling and
playing on as if
it doesn't matter
they're not tended

the hard facsimiles
don't notice anyway

just beckon me
with their exposure

helping me see
mine and
appreciating it

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Boundaries of the heart

Mother’s Day has prompted me to explore what I’ve learned about the responsibility in the past year and how my perspective has shifted.

I feel very motherly toward the 13 under-served neighborhood kids I’ve championed through art the past nine months. I write them a personal note between monthly sessions and phone several days ahead as a reminder. I often encounter them walking through the neighborhood, at the grocery and in their complex, which I visit several times a month.

Artsy Fartsy registration & community art day/Tad Barney photo

I’ve gotten to know them and their families. I’ve visited some of their homes and organized my neighborhood and faith communities to purchase a computer, printer and years’ worth of Internet for one very needy family. I often find myself encouraging mothers and grandmothers, reminding them of the goodness that I experience in and with their children. Heaven knows, I need reminders about my own kids. Sometimes I feel as if I parent these younger, single mothers at times. Maybe that’s because I don’t carry the burden they do.

Without exception, most of the 10 girls in the program come from single-parent families or bounce between parents. Several are fortunate to have very active grandmothers in their lives. A pair of sisters is being raised by their father. I don’t know the story, but there is no evidence of a mother; there is an involved grandmother and dedicated extended family. Interestingly, the boys live with both parents. One is the oldest of five and I see how his father really works at being responsible. I don’t think he’s ever had a role model; however the father of one of the other boys mentors him. I’ve witnessed how hard the father of sisters works to make sure his girls are involved. His youngest is the first kid I met at the complex the day I visited to plant yard signs announcing Artsy Fartsy. She and her sister, along with their father, were promptly the first in line to sign up.

So it was with a heavy heart I learned they had moved, though I know things I hear in the complex are not always the truth. As several said when interviewed about the impact Artsy Fartsy has had, “it gets us away from the drama.” Then I remembered that the father’s phone had been disconnected and he had driven the girls last time in his father’s car. All the other times they had taken the van one of the boy’s fathers drives when he’s not working Saturdays.

In desperation and because I really care about these girls, I called their school … just to confirm they had moved. The secretary, who iterated that she could not give out personal information, said the father had assured her they had not. Yet, I’d received no answer when I’d knocked at the door several times and called the second contact number. Putting on my persistent-reporter hat, I asked if she could tell me if any of the phone numbers I had were still good. No, she responded, then kindly gave me one that was, where I reached the father. Apparently he’d found work much closer to his parents’ house and was spending more time there, driving the girls back and forth.

I was so relieved.

I’ve been warned by well-intentioned others not to get too involved or feel like I have to be the social worker. I do take those concerns to heart and understand part of my growth work is in establishing boundaries.

But what, exactly, are the boundaries of the heart? Isn’t that the mother’s dilemma?

When I do understand something is not mine to do, but still feel as if I’d like to, the best remedy is prayer – to ask God to be present and working in that situation. It’s taken me a long time to recognize the wisdom and comfort in that act of faith and trust.

It’s that same action, one stemming from the heart, that stirred me, one step at a time, to prepare and eventually reach out to these children and families. Being human, I am certain I would have never said yes to Spirit had she outlined everything in total. I can, however, say yes one small piece at a time and be transformed in the process.

I believe mothering is simply the act of joining myself with other: 

myself + other = m’other = mother

• Who have been the “mothers” in my life?

• How am I a mother regardless of my gender?

• How do I join myself with other?

• How has prayer helped me ask God to mother when I can not?

• How has mothering expanded my heart?

1# Yes

Nodding

simply to help

40 first graders

with scissors

planting a seed

#2 Yes

Listening to

God’s call

to go to the

woods, alone,

on retreat

fertilizing

the soil

#3 Yes

Believing Jesus’

promise in the

center of the

labyrinth

that I would

not be given

more than

I could do

sprouting

the dream

#4 Yes

fervently

applying for

grants

watering

the seedling

#5 Yes

setting up

the studio and

launching

Artsy Fartsy

adding the

warmth of

sunshine

#6 Yes

praying

during the

many

challenges

growing my

trust and faith

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Living our dreams, not our doubts

The flow of grace has returned to my life. I am sure of myself and my work thanks to a series of affirmations and, of course, Spirit.

These past weeks really have begun to follow a pattern, the same one we've been exploring in the Turtlebox spiritual-nurture group. Last post I discussed the dark night of the soul, which was also the topic of Thursday's Turtlebox and  my most-attended session. I had provided a warning that this was a difficult topic and, still, they came. 

That was an affirmation I sorely needed as I had been struggling with some doubt in my own dark night.

Fallen/pastel on paper

Last Sunday, I experienced a very deep and powerful worship, though I had no vocal ministry, which is rare. I was almost so deep, I couldn't move. Our minister noticed, saying I didn't seem my usual self and suggested we talk. Automatically and surprisingly, I agreed. When I mentioned the dark night, she got all giddy and excused herself to return with a passage from a book on the dark night she had copied for some reason: me, she now believed. Then the talk turned to my ministry and how the Meeting has been puzzled that I haven't finished applying for funding. That when they created the fund, they all had me in mind: a person with many gifts and not in a regular job. She reiterated the Quaker notion of releasing one for ministry by financially helping with living expenses.

I had not been ready for this step because of my doubts, but now see that I am. Another affirmation.

In reading an e-mail from a Quaker friend who plans to volunteer this week with Artsy Fartsy, she said the nominating committing had just met and discussed my "sold vocal ministry." I thanked her on both counts and said I was grateful for the vote of confidence as I struggle with doubt.

A third affirmation.

After posting the last blog on dark night, a wonderful Quaker/writer/friend said it was one he'd read again because it applied so well to his current experience. Then he thanked me for sharing my explorations. I expressed my gratitude, mentioning that I often feel like Bridget Jones who says, at one point, that she doesn't need another person to tell her she's messed up because she feels that way most of the time.

A fourth affirmation.

Unexpectedly, my husband brought a letter to me to the studio. When I ripped it open – it was from a grant funder to whom I'd applied – a check for the total amount of my request spilled out. "Thank you for your commitment to the children in your community," it concluded.

Yet another VERY concrete affirmation.

The doubt really has dissipated along with the dark night. One of the wise women who has been attending Tutlebox said a spiritual director told her a long time ago that God is in your dreams and desires, not the doubt.

I believe that again.

And as we talked about Thursday at Turtlebox, the dark night strips us of ego and things of the world, so we may lose ourselves more fully in Spirit's flow of love, which I am feeling so powerfully and gratefully again.

I am living my dreams, not my doubts.

• When I have felt connected to Spirit, then separated?
• How did I experience that darkness and separation?
• What kept me going?
• If reconnection happened, what was that like?
• Where are my current dreams taking me?

A classic case:

months of near ecstasy
and energy

close encounters,
amazing experiences,
vivid dreams,
visions and images
collecting

best I've been
in years

so open, I
ask for
change

and BAM
it comes crashing
in, loosening
so much
old stuff ...
crud that was
still hanging
like a tether
to the old me

the one trapped
by ego 

and I stewed there
awhile

until I began
to understand
just where I
was – a
spiritual
sorting house

soon it was
time to emerge
and fly

because the
baggage is gone
and my heart
is deepened,
but lighter

Listen to this post:

Dark nights and moldy clay

Interesting how life imitates art – probably more often than we know.

This week as I've been reading and planning my Turtlebox group for Thursday night on Dark Night of the Soul, I realize I've been living in this place. That understanding has made it more tolerable and, perhaps, begun to edge me out.

The patterns described, particularly in Evelyn Underhill's classic, Mysticism, seem to fit. I had an energetic almost year of launching ministry, attracting funding, feeling so in the flow of grace and receiving dreams and images with deep spiritual meaning. Then, it came crashing down when I, in the prime of all this and feeling physically at my best, asked for change. I felt I was strong enough and ready. Of course, what was delivered what not what I had anticipated: another helping of pain, energy loss, self doubt and anxiety. I had concocted a myriad of reasons for each symptom.

Psychologically and physiologically speaking, the crash comes after an intensely active period. Spiritually speaking, we're not meant to permanently live in ecstatic states as if that is the end of our journey. This, according to Underhill.

We can experience the dark night in a number of ways: a withdrawal of Spirit, lack of joy or interest in what usually stimulates us, emptiness, doubt, anxiety, uncontrollable and disturbing thoughts, etc. If it sounds like depression, it's because the two, dark night and depression, often accompany each other. Not being an expert, I don't know where the line is in deciphering the difference. Personally, however, I understood that this recent episode, on an unconscious level, was something happening within me. Something that would be transformative in a positive way. I can't tell you why, except that I had a faith and trust built on my experience of the last year; that I knew it isn't always this way.

It also helped that my shaman last week mentioned depression and said it wasn't mine to own ... to throw it back. I realized he was right, so I did. I'd been flirting with drugs to help the night-waking and anxiety, but opted for meditation and a bedtime gratitude practice instead. They've worked.

A few years ago, when the world learned of Mother Theresa's very long dark night, I was heartened. Not because she'd struggled so hard and long, but because hers wasn't always a path of light and ease. It taught me that real faith is when you feel abandoned, yet don't abandon God or God's calling to you.

Underhill says it is those mountain-top experiences which feed us during the Dark Night when "the whole inner experience is suddenly swept away, and only a blind reliance on past convictions saves them from unbelief."

She describes the spiritual journey as "oscillations between 'states of pleasure' and 'states of pain' ... in which each intense and progressive affirmation fatigues the immature transcendental powers, and is paid for by a negation; a swing back of the whole consciousness ..."

Its purpose, according to Underhill "is to cure the soul of the innate tendency to seek and rest in spiritual joys; to confuse Reality with the joy given by the contemplation of Reality" and force "total abandonment of the individualistic standpoint, of that trivial and egotistic quest of personal satisfaction, which thwarts the great movement of the Flowing Light."

I'm really looking forward to tomorrow evening ... to see what transpires and the conversations we share. I want to learn of others' experiences. I've also designed a clay meditation to help open us to the idea of the Dark Night. One that emulates connection, a blunt cutting off, being separate, then re-joining. 

My fingers are still dusty with clay as I type this post. I had such fun dividing the large clump into smaller portions and re-invigorating drier pieces. It was cathartic to slam the clay on the table, re-shaping it and prepping it for tomorrow's hands, ever prayerful that I am doing the work to which Spirit calls even in the darkness of anxiety and doubt ... though that is melting.

• How have I experienced a Dark Night of the Soul or separation from Spirit?
• How did faith help?
• At what point did I understand it was part of the spiritual path?
• Where am I right now spiritually?
• Wherever that is, how can I continue to express gratitude?


The bag hadn't
been touched
for a year.

Simply moved into
my studio with
everything else.

I unwrapped the
chunk and began
working the clay,

noticing dark
spots as I
carved
slices with
floss.

I cut off
all of the bad
and rolled
out little
logs. Smooth,
clean, ready
for the next
set of hands.

Then I
played with
the spoiled
pieces. Easily
and seamlessly
knitting them
together into
one, giant and
very pliable
lump.

Google told
me potters
covet this mold
as it means the
clay has aged
and is easier
to manipulate.

So, the dark
is NOT a
bad thing,
just part
of the 
refinement
process.

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