Living small

Have you noticed the sky lately? Not sure how you could miss it or how I could have taken it for granted all of these years. Now, it commands my attention.

Inflated, cotton-candy spun clouds effortlessly wading across a pure cerulean sky calm me, ground me and remind me that there is something bigger. Much. That my struggles, really, are minuscule in the grand scheme of the universe.

Orange ice-cream-coned top confections embrace me with color. Color is my muse. It inspires, brings joy and serves as life's varnish.

Sunlit, lemony-green foliage sparkles against a crystal, cobalt sky as I sit on my porch toward the end of summer. I am refreshed, pausing for reflection on a perfect day. A day God has bestowed as a gift.

Striking shadows under energetic, elongated clouds mark the ground, sweeping the rows of corn right along. The visit reminds me of the beauty of the Midwest I take for granted, sometimes feeling stuck here ... when all I must do it look up for renewal.

Fierce, sharp warrior clouds bathed in pink and blue race me along the highway, taunting, teasing, telling me that I am not in charge, that the will shift or disappear at any minute. That I ought to notice. Now. Be present or miss the opportunity.

A sky pregnant with wisps accompanies me, sharing spots of blue and sun filtering through. I feel more whole with their appearance as we drift home together.

Trees stand as dark creatures against an ominous, early fall firmament signaling the change of seasons from "come out into the sun to play" to "time for a long, nap."

Organic, billowy jets charge north across the horizon gathering as if for attack. I observe from the distance their power, glory and precision. Nature is not to be messed with.

Low afternoon vapors obstruct the sun and blue, riding along like the Amish bicyclist ahead. He goes one direction, they cross his path. Movement, dance and display disarm me, charm me.

Slogging out of the grocery at dusk one late-summer's eve, I drop everything as does everyone else. Flies would have a field day invading our open mouths. Pedestrians and drivers alike are stopped in their tracks to witness the miracle of floating pink, purple and blue usurp the landscape. Invade our consciousness. Though moving very much like Harry Potter's dementors, these are hauntingly beautiful as God reaches out to say hello. See me. Know me.

My favorite day of the year the past three has been blessed with stunningly dry air and sunny, blue-sky days. A real answer to prayer. This September's Oakwood Art Day is no exception. My heart smiles at the brightness of the weather, only surpassed by the spirit of the children at play.

Saturated clouds slowly unload at first glimpse of the Appalachian foothills as I head east to a reunion of old friends. They stoke my anticipation and gratitude, mirroring that I, too, am full.

The sky tapped me this summer on a trip to Iowa. The lush corn stalks, extended family and childhood memories welcomed me home. I was sucked into the stunning, familiar landscape and echo of the past calling.

Mother Nature has my attention. I can't help BUT look up, check in and see that God exists and all, really, is right with my soul.

• Have you noticed the sky lately?
• What, exactly, have you noticed?
• How has the experience (re)connected you to Mother Nature?
• To Spirit?
• How has your spirit been lifted?


no wonder
my neck hurts

I am nearly
always looking
down

at my phone
at the ground
at the computer screen

anywhere
anywhere

but up

until She
grabbed
me

jerked her arm
down and
said pay attention

NOW

she's stunned
me with her
beauty

and reminded
me

that I don't
have to live
so small

 Listen to this post:

Magic under the spreading ash

My young and wise friend Caleb can hear the trees. When he was younger, he'd hug them to be close enough to listen. On rare occasions, they have spoken to me – I seem more open to their messages in fall, when their color show enraptures me.

A particular ash tree has recently shared its magic with me, an adult cohort, a merry band of children, an angry mother who has softened and an interesting community centered around the park, home to this magnificent ash. She has witnessed, and perhaps tended, an unfolding transformation.

I first met her last spring as I joyfully romped through seven Sundays of assisting another artist with an arts program in the very urban Washington Park, smack in the middle of Cincinnati's Over The Rhine and the front porch of Music Hall.

She was planted there, silently observing our triangle of green defined by concrete walkways long before we ever showed up. Just as she accepted the grand park make-over and OTR's transition from slum to chic locale, she gracefully allowed us to play and create beneath her spreading branches, fully embracing us.

At first, we saw her only for her shading glory on some sweltering afternoons. She was an almost unnoticed comfort. Then we enlisted her as gallery space, decorating her with rope and clothespins as kids' special works waved under her, drying. I was first aware of her magic the week we employed glue and glitter and much of it spilled off the vertical papers and down the tree trunk, to her chunky roots. She glistened, consenting to our improvisational use of her. I think I almost detected a smile.

That week the entire tenor of our project changed. We had become part of her landscape. Seven weeks sailed by and I never said good-bye or even thank-you to her.

I am certain she continued to quietly nurture whatever transpired under her space over the summer. She carries the quality of acceptance.

We returned in the fall, clueless to the turmoil brewing. We neglected to dress her the first week, preoccupied with beginning again. She soldiered on forgotten, but not forgetting. Tensions erupted the second week, even though we remembered her, the rope and clothespins. The protective magic, I noticed, had returned. So had the large brood of siblings and cousins of all ages under the care of two teens, who clamored for their own space and time. Bedlam ensued as toddlers found their way into all of the supplies while their guards went off duty to find their own space to create. Paint was flying and spread all over hands and clothes. Our art making had spun out of control, unaided by the mother of some of the young artists taking issue with park rules requiring an adult present.

The intimidating African-American woman with the quick tongue glared in our direction. I knew whatever she was saying wasn't good. Racism, she cried to the park staff. I wasn't angry, just sad that it could appear that way: two white suburban women working with her children, nieces and nephews. She yanked one of the youngest and most fully engaged away in her fury. "Please don't, he's doing great," I called, but knew it was pointless. Somehow "Thank you for letting us have them today," reeled off my lips. That wasn't me speaking. 

My partner was near heartbroken. She's used to pre-schoolers, not teens with 'tudes. My work with Artsy Fartsy Saturdays and rearing  my own teenagers had taught me not to take any of it seriously. It was those smart and curious toddlers with no limits that crawled under my skin. Sarah handles them so very well. I think God knew what she was doing when she paired us.

So did the tree.

We re-grouped and discerned that the older girls needed their own space under the spreading ash. Sarah brought poster board and a sheet the next week and we began to acquire a groove, some rules and respect.

I thought I would slip on the acorns and onto my tushie under that tree when I heard Mike say please and thank-you repeatedly last week. He WAS learning and also gained the confidence to declare himself an artist. "Don't look," he'll warn. "I'm an artist and not done." He tricked me once, asking me to look, then frowning and yelling "BUT not yet." It became a wonderful game.

Khaliss was whipping though the paper bags, shredding everything in sight with scissors. In order to distract him and save the bags, I offered to make him a pirate patch like the one the skull was wearing on his T-shirt. He cackled, let me position it and ran off to scare cousins and siblings with his pirate talk.

His older sister, not yet a teen and banned by her cousins from the cardboard, was struggling all afternoon. Sarah gently pulled her aside and had a talk. I don't know what words were spoken, but could hear true compassion and kindness. The tree was happy and so was the Kaleia.

I am now on conversational terms with the once-angry mother. The past few weeks, I ask Kim how her week was and thank her for the gift of her children. "You're welcome," she says. And the tree beams.

Sunday, Sarah was unusually late with a good reason and our creative gang had begun assembling. I can't tell you how many helpers we were blessed with this week. Kids that had once fought for paint, were now stringing the tree with rope and pins, making art examples, taking a break from "work," singing, returning to help pack up and wheel the loaded cart to the car.

And we all couldn't quite part, knowing we have only one more week together. The rounds of hugs were endless. "Can I come see you this week?" V'Era sweetly asked. Oh, how I wished I lived closer to the tree and her neighbors.

• What do trees symbolize for me?
• How does Spirit work in and through nature?
• When have I witnessed nature transform humans?
• What message do the trees have for me?
• How have I learned to listen?


always there
in her full glory

we trampled by
and over her

not noticing
until we needed
her

she gracefully
complied

invisibly guiding
our efforts

forging deep
understanding,
helping friendships
blossom

Listen to this post:

Tenders of some sort

We are all tenders of some sort. There are those who tend themselves, and those who tend their possessions and gardeners, teachers, caregivers, ministers, mothers, missionaries and artists who tend the creative fire. Others tend corporations and the economy, government on all levels, public policy, welfare and safety. Some of us feed others literally, spiritually and metaphorically. Laborers work the line, stock the shelves, fix our cars and broken things. Secretaries tend their bosses, administrators  keep their offices and institutions in line. And there is always someone who wants to sell us something.

We all seem to have a purpose.

I keep driving by a neighbor’s house, neat as a pin. She bought it a few years ago, installed new windows, replaced the roof, covered anything else exposed with maintenance-free composite planking, built a flowerbox abundantly planted with lush flowers and keeps a productive garden. Not a weed or mulch particle out of place. Sometimes, I am envious when I think about our poor box gutter languishing  in anticipation of our worth-waiting-for contractor, the mole hills in our lawn that’s less grass and more violets and the long to-do list.

Until I recognize what I tend: relationships, though not always so well.  I have spent much of the summer with my girls traveling and attending weddings, but also preparing one to enter high school and the other to begin college courses and learn to drive. Today, as a matter of fact, I am preparing to tend up to 16 fourth to sixth graders tomorrow. Actually, my oldest is leading the activity, but I have helped her work through it, cut and sewn many of the super-hero capes, sent out post cards with a personal note to each child, called each one’s home with a reminder, arranged transportation and smiled each time I think of these special kids. In some circles they aren’t so special: a rag tag bunch who lives in the city’s only subsidized housing for families, most with a single parent, multiple siblings, little income and not enough to eat. They’re working the welfare system, some people say. “I fought to keep the projects out of the neighborhood,” a departed neighbor used to complain.

I find that the people with the poorest opinions of these families have never had a personal encounter with any of them. If they did, they would see what I and so many others involved with Artsy Fartsy Saturdays see: warm, generous, eager, creative and bright kids attempting to live as normal a life as possible sans many of the amenities the rest of us enjoy. My family, neighbors and faith community help tend these wonderful families in such a variety of ways.

I don’t wish to demean what anyone else is called to tend. Frankly, it’s a blessing we all have different gifts, callings and interests. How else would we function as community?

My wonderful monthly archetypal astrology group helped me see this gift of tending relationships. I wasn’t particularly aware of it and often lamented what I didn’t get to, but now understand.

So my house and yard are less than perfect. My heart is full, spirit blessed and purpose satisfied.

• What do I tend?

• What are my gifts in that direction?

• How do I respect others and their gifts?

• How do I discern my gifts?

• How do I credit Spirit for them or espress my gratitude?

her house is

a knockout,

visually delighting

me every time

I drive by

a thing of beauty

on darker days,

it reminds me

of the untapped

potential in

my property

until I realize

her gifts are

not mine

and I am tending

something just

as beautiful to

my heart

 Listen to this post: