Being seen

One of my gifts is seeing into people, beyond their exterior and deep inside. I didn't recognize it as a gift for a long time and assumed that we all had that ability. We probably do, it's just that some of us have honed it.

The other afternoon, I lingered around my studio as I noticed the stone mason working to remove the Rookwood drinking fountain from the school, site of my studio, that will likely be torn down this summer to make way for apartments. I wanted to chat about his work and if he'd mind keeping it clean for a big Saturday event I was hosting. The dust had settled everywhere and, especially, just outside my door.

He was a robust German-American as crusty as they come and more than willing to lecture about life and history – his perspective. At first, I listened intently, then become uncomfortable as he pounded away at me. I felt he was taking advantage of my good listening skills. When I listen, I do so completely and it can be draining when it is entirely one way. I kept telling myself to look for that of God in him, then I decided God would not want me to be suffering through this harangue. I screwed up the courage to tell him that I wasn't interested in an argument, even put my hands up in the air as if to create a barrier. He backed off and said he wasn't arguing. I responded that, while I appreciated his perspective, it wasn't everyone's, including mine.

Slowly, his demeanor changed and I got the real story. At 18, he'd apprenticed himself to an Austrian master stone cutter who had survived Hitler's Youth and losing his family during WWII. He was a survivor who demanded nothing less of his students. The stone cutter I met had assumed his mentor's personality. Even he admitted it. We wouldn't have gotten there if I hadn't been willing to look inside, then confront him. That of God in me was responding.

I had been trying to sort out the man from his message.

Not being seen is one of the wounds that I carry. Our gifts often arise from our wounds. In this case, I am certain that mine does.

Serendipitously (but maybe not), I had the rare privilege of being seen twice this week, all in the same evening.

Last post, I wrote about a new, local church congregation interested in partnering with me for Artsy Fartsy. The first time I connected with the pastor, we both knew Spirit was at work. Monday we were set to discuss Artsy Farty's needs and how the church could help. I truthfully told them that I was burned out and needed a little break before making decisions. They agreed and put no pressure on me, except to say that clearly saw God working through me in this effort and would encourage me not to lay it down. They saw my compassion and creativity. Wow. The day before my own faith community, motivated out of kindness, told me it didn't matter whether I laid it down or not. The community I have been part of 16 years doesn't see me the way almost strangers have.

Recharged after that affirming meeting, I danced over to my amazing bool club and our annual Christmas meeting and small gift exchange. I treasure what these women provide every months year after year. And these gifts come from the heart. Our newest member, Phoebe, said what she had to give was poetry. I was excited because she's a deep, talented spirit. And her poem blew me away. She sees me. I want to share it:

THERE IS A PLACE
A poem for my friend, Miss Cathy

She tells stories with strong colors,
offers hospitality with tea
and the way her soul stands –
with an elegance to rival the stars.
I see these: thoughtfulness, and spunk.
Thoughtfulness to observe,
to plant compassion like one would plant
flower seeds in spring.
Spunk, to fling snowballs at teenage boys,
to start a new adventure,
trusting One beyond herself
to form the rhythms and extend the roots.
Her life is a gift
to the rest of us,
less because of what she does, and more
because of who she is,
one who knows there is a place,
and offers it.

When I saw my shaman/pastoral counselor yesterday and we talked about what was happening in my life, even before I shared the above experiences, he said, "You really don't feel seen, do you?" and he has mentioned that before. "Ah, but I did TWICE this week," I responded.

• When have I felt seen?

• How have I been wounded when I haven't been?

• How do I see others?

• How have my wounds become my gifts?

• How do I express gratitude to God for my gifts?

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Giving me what I need

Last week, I talked about my Quaker ministry for our Meeting's first Quaker Quest session, intended to draw those interested in Quakerism  into an informal experience of our unique worship and community. Several people told me they'd never heard the complete story, so I decided to share it here, in the two parts in which I presented.

...

Eight years ago, seemingly out of the blue, my daughter’s teacher called asking if I’d help in the art room with 40 first graders armed with scissors. I immediately said yes and found that every third day that school year became a blessing. Especially witnessing that kids from my own neighborbood in subsidized housing could really shine when expressing themselves. Marginalized elsewhere, they could be themselves when creating.

And, I held that idea for six years. It continued to haunt me and I was prayerful and consulted other Quakers about this over the years. We call this discernment.

As the idea grew stronger, I took a silent personal retreat in the woods to sort it all out.  I was randomly assigned to a cabin called “Simplicity.” On the table inside lay a Quaker pamphlet on simplicity. As I began to read, I understood why I was placed here: to clear my heart and do what Eileen Prevallet calls “listening for the decision, rather than making the decision.” She writes that “it comes from an inner silence in which a delicate inner sensor is at work… you know when the call is for you, and when it is not.”

I came away confident that Spirit was now calling me to act on this leading. After obtaining 2 Quaker grants, I rented a studio in an old classroom in a neighborhood repurposed school. It was in walking distance of me and the kids and there was no question that this was the spot to begin. With a lot of help and prayer, I began to piece together a program. I’d had the name, Artsy Fartsy Saturdays, a logo and list of volunteers in a folder tucked away for years. This was really happening.

That was over two years ago and Artsy Fartsy has attracted almost 20 regular kids, funding from ArtsWave that also supports the area biggies such as the Cincinnati Opera, Ballet and Art Museum, the Clermont County Mental Health and Recovery Board (no better way to build self esteem and resistance to peer pressure and negative influences than a venue for self expression) and Cincinnati Friends Meeting.

Our mission is:

To provide local, at-risk middle schoolers with a safe, imaginative environment in their neighborhood to explore creative expression, be nurtured, tap their creativity, connect, share themselves, be heard and affirmed and become more of who they are. This is a place they can relax, be kids and express themselves.

I’m not sure this could have transpired without my grounding in Quakerism, which, most of all, has taught me the value of silence and deep listening. I would have never heard the call otherwise. There were people of faith who would actually listen to what seemed impossible, crazy or out of the box. They listened and supported this ministry from the beginning … even when I didn’t know, exactly, what it was. I have also felt very accompanied on this journey by the legacy of other Quakers over time and in this Meeting stepping out. It’s what we do.

I was privileged this summer to spend time in London with a book written by a Quaker ancestor in 1661. I had heard about Dorothea all of my life, even though our family had long ago left Quakerism. I returned 15 years ago. There is only one copy of her book and her story of being led to the Religious Society of Friends speaks to how I feel about Quakers and their support of ministry to which I have been called.

“I heard they were a people could lay down their lives for one another, that they were of one heart and one minde.”

So while Artsy Fartsy, on the surface, seems to be about art, it’s more about showing kids with next to nothing that they are loved, valued and children of God through action and not words.  It is connecting hand to hand and heart to heart.

Here’s a poem written when a poet visited our first year by a now 8^th grader, who spent last year as a mentor:

Artsy Fartsy is the best

Artsy Fartsy will pass the test

Artsy Fartsy is so much fun

Artsy Fartsy is number one.

You don’t come to fart.

You come to make art.

So come on down.

Bring a crown and not a frown.

But if you do, Artsy Fartsy

will turn that frown upside down.

So come on down to that old school.

Come on and grab your stool.

Sit and help us paint the scene.

Sit and make some masks and

grab a cape made for a queen

You feel like art’s a boor [bore]

come on down and see some more.

Did you know that Yoga’s a form?

Go through a maze with your finger,

It’s a labyrinth.

Artsy Fartsy is the best.

Artsy Fartsy will pass the test!!

I think she speaks for all of us involved!

• When has Spirit moved me to action?
• How did I test the leading?
• How was I able to give it time, letting it mature?
• What individuals and/or community encouraged and nurtured me?
• What have been the fruits of this action?



in the quietness
of solitude and
the woods

I waited on God,
who wrote upon
my heart in words
immutable

a dark and restless
night strove to 
erase them

in response, I
was summoned
to the labyrinth

walking through
tears of fear
to reach the heart

how can I possibly
do this? I asked

it is just
too much

I looked up
to see Jesus
there with me

offering:
"I will give
you what you need"

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