Living For The Art

Despite being kind of fabulous in plenty of ways, my life has looked kind of like this for too long. 

In some ways I've just been too much in transition. A multi-client consultant's mental juggling, red-lining my vespa all over the place in heels and chandelier earrings just to teach myself to believe that the sweet breezes still blow. Living more in reflection and history than creatively and presently.

With the few hours of truly blank-slate time that my first days off following moving into a new house (still covered in piles of unorganized stuff), then going on a sweet little vacation and returning to discover myself on the edge of some possible shifts in job structure, I'm drawing something a little less pragmatic and a little more glorious than normal in this new space.

I've written before about the crucial value of how one uses their attention, but most of us have to address the past before we can really move forward. We need to get out of the red before we can really start to invest and create value. To move forward and create value with grace and poise - from a place of love and strength, not fear and protectionism - takes focus, courage and consistency. Transitory chaos easily overwhelms. 

Lines and Triangles, Guido Brandt.

In my experience, more often than not, the key to traction that allows for real, grounded value-creation is a combination of the help of good friends and especially the transcendence of praise. By this, I mean letting what is truly beautiful and good loom large. No weapon that's fashioned against it can stand. It tends to disarm common bitterness and strife that divides and kill us too often. To notice, give praise to, and feed the glory divides and shrinks the chaos. The chaos must be directly addressed by the minute, but it is much more easily defeated with this means of what is almost mis-direction, or maybe starvation. Centralize and praise what is good and glorious, especially verbally in wide company. You might call it living for the art.

Beyond the piles of shoes, electronics, beauty products, and growing belief in the sweet breeze, I'm painting some beautiful, vibrant shapes using pieces of the very chaos that encroaches. I'm beating my swords into plowshares, and maybe some kickass installation art. The void that surrounds us is immense, and constantly threatens to confuse, steal and destroy. Ironically, victory is only sure with a deep smile and an aesthetic eye. 

Value is created in living for the art.

Squatters

"You have to have a sense of humor about these things, missy." said Kenneth, directing a big smile down at me. My ears were hot, eyes drawn as far back in my sockets as they would go. I couldn't even look at him. I was trying not to explode with disgust for him, and the situation, and not succeeding very well. The entire downstairs floor of our house on D Street had smelled like some mix of dead rats (reminiscent of old vomit, or worse) for just over a week now. He plodded around putting flashy blue light mouse preventer contraptions in all the rooms downstairs. They were his way of saying he wasn't going to do more to address the actual problem, and they gave the trip to the fridge at night the feeling that you were on a tiny landing strip with erratic unpredictable signals.

Abandoned Train Station, California, Simon Christen

In its better days, tenants of this house had nicknamed it buttercup, cause it’s yellow and used to be kind of sweet. Still holding some of the prettiest little chandeliers and charming quirky little traits I've seen in the Capitol Hill Historic District, Kenneth was leaving buttercup, and we who lived there, to the rats, robbers, and slow decay that comes with 100 years of bandaid only maintenance. We weren't supposed to put nails in the walls, because when you did, a steady stream of some of the finest, dryest dust I’ve ever seen came out of the nail holes for an average of 30 seconds-to-a-minute consecutively. Most of the light switches and panels in the house still use push button electricity (you know, before electricity was really electricity).

Somewhere, between the smell, dust of death walls, belittling smiles, nuclear hazard night lights, and the phenomena that my roommates and I weren't sure we felt ok about hanging out anywhere but our beds themselves, and really only under the covers at that, my urban single girl brain began to wonder if we were really getting such a good deal on the rent. None of us are in a position to buy a house. We're renters, at least for the next good chunk of years. But at what point does a tenant become a squatter? Did we live there, or were we  just storing our things there, holding over for the night like some cave in the wilderness? 

Our souls cry for home. A place to belong. This was not it.  Three weeks til Christmas, and we all agreed & began searching craigslist for an immediate escape en masse. One click gave me pause. 

Beautiful. Why do I know that address? 

Impossible. My parents' house. 

The same two people by whom I entered this world, who originally defined my home. The same two people I just had to let go to the other side of the great beyond. The same two people who wouldn't be there on Christmas. There, staring at me on craigslist was the very same house my parents first lived in when, as 20-something west-coasters, they moved to DC in the 70s. A home. A veritable castle. A four story victorian, four blocks from the Capitol - and with a view of the dome from the top two front windows.

Seven days of jockeying, six close to sleepless nights, adding a couple new roommates to fill the extra rooms, too many texts, emails, and one of the best exhales in a long time, the lease was signed and we moved in just a few days before Christmas. It's like something out of a movie, an act of God. Is this a new beginning? The real life stuff of great books’ literary themes? A divine returning to the same ground to deepen the plot? These are the questions that go through my mind. These are the things of adventure, real life, a good lift to ride the wave of this human experience. We search for a lot of things in life, without really knowing exactly what they are. Maybe the gateway to many such expeditions is finding what I’ve just found at least some small part of. A starting place. A resting place. A home. Not just for being, but for belonging.

Golden Days

In retrospect, we fawn over the golden seasons of our lives. They are the stories we love to tell and reflect on. The places we want to get back to.

I call the summer after I graduated high school the golden summer. Friends of mine had a huge house (aka the cabin) that everyone hung out at literally almost every night. You could go there at night and find people just sitting on the couches on the wrap around porch simultaneously talking theology/philosophy & the best youtube videos. We'd have impromptu sit down family dinners with 25 people (only a few of us were actually related). We drove around Corvallis in my friend's shag carpet van (no seats) with about the same number of people --sometimes playing jokes on frat party-goers, sometimes just all going to get burritos. We'd get out on the roof and smoke and talk til all hours of the night. You could come back in the morning and find people trying to barbecue pancakes on the charcoal grill (only succeeded once). Most days a good crew would eventually make it out to play frisbee golf (as long as you weren't stuck working) and a lot of the time you could stick around til the evening and do it all over again the next day. It wasn't uncommon that summer for my abs to literally being sore from laughing so much.

Karol Zielinski

For many of us, the golden days are scenes from childhood or adolescence. Although these seasons still happen as we get older, I wonder if they're becoming harder to spot. By this, I don't mean to say that seasons of gut-wrenching pain & hardship (which we all face) aren't without worth. On the contrary, I've seen that those who dig into their pain-- facing it bravely, and with God's help pulling wisdom from it like seeds, can plant the same in hope and eventually reap the most beautiful golden harvests.

I no longer have the luxury of structuring my day around frisbee golf and barbecued pancakes. With age, I find that my capacity for joy, as with ambition, compassion, and meekness among others are becoming more sophisticated. I'm able to accomplish bigger & better feats. I still appreciate simple games, but I can also drink more deeply of fruit I see in family, friends and work.

Do I recognize the golden days while I'm in them? I don't think they look as simple, or always as obvious as the great games I played as a child. I can let myself be complicated-not every area or moment is golden, but some are. For me, now, I find great joy in my work. A lot of that comes from having wonderful leadership--which does a lot to cover and bring peace and direction to my life and the lives of others under their leadership.

The good things in life are not just ideas, nor should they be allowed to only be emphasized in past tense as memories. They have real world consequences. They are producing tangible, pragmatic fruit today. Look for them. Speak of them. Relish their sweetness. What is golden for you today?

To Share These Streets with Her Has Been a Blessing

Two years ago today, my mom died of breast cancer after an eight year struggle. She was a beautiful lady, inside & out-- a giver, empowerer, analyzer, counselor, sometimes a nag, loud laugher, organizer & often creative genius. She constantly assumed the position of coming alongside people to the point that I have a hard time thinking of stories specifically about her, despite missing her constant presence over my lifetime. A lot of my best character traits came from her (although I didn't get her amazing legs, a damn shame.)

Like one plant gives shade or nutrients to another, we belong to each other. Life is not an individual experience, it is a collaboration, whether we realize and choose to accept it or not. She contracted cancer of the breast, but that wasn’t what killed her. It was the intimacy between organs- tissue connection and shared body fluids. As each gives, takes, and communicates with the others, they pass on subtleties too minute for them to influence or defend against. It is the same with our lives.

Capitol Hill Rowhouses in the fall.

I find peace and purpose in small things my family and I have shared with my mother-- knowing it falls to us to carry her torch now. In 1976 she moved to DC from Oregon, a greenstick sweet little doe of just twenty three. My parents lived on Capitol Hill while my dad went to law school at Georgetown & she often told me how she used to love the neighborhood and watching the leaves change in the fall here. Over thirty years later, just weeks after her death, I had made the same move at the same stage in life and found myself with a weekly reason to walk through Capitol Hill for the first time in my life. It was not premeditated, although it was a kind coincidence. Below is my reflection on the experience of that sweet happenstance one evening after I made the connection, just as autumn was setting in.

I let my mind wander and we're both twenty five, with bright brown eyes and long auburn hair, wandering through the rowhouses on Capitol Hill in the fall, enjoying the neighborhood, wearing burnt orange-brown boots dad bought for her and her leather gloves. Both with peaceful, satisfied, subtle smirks on our faces with little noise but the leaves crunching beneath our feet and sporadic conversation.

We are full of life, healthy, at rest and going places. I shake myself back to the physical reality and it is just me. To share these streets with her has been a blessing.

True Story: A Monday Evening

9:02pm: Say goodnight to roommate, head to back patio with a stack of cardboard, matches, fire starter, fire wood, a good book, mosquito repelling candles & wrist to toe mosquito proof clothing in search of adventure/ relaxation. Turn on twinkle lights.

9:06pm: Cardboard fortress surrounding fire starter in a satisfactory manner, light corners of butter & pizza boxes.

9:08pm: Veiled in a cloud of smoke- nothing but 1/8 inch charred box corners, admit defeat at hands of wax coating on cardboard.

9:09pm: Enter significant mass of grocery ads to even the score. Move scooter cover to avoid melting due to large flames.

9:16pm: The un-aided sweet sound of crackling remains... Logs appear to have caught fire.

9:17pm: I love twinkle lights.

9:19pm: Enter roastable hot dogs on sticks. Excellent.

Sitting Bubbles, Karoly Karsay

9:21pm: Sticks may be too short. Fingers may be burning.

9:22pm: Flame very small to not actually there. Commence blowing on heart of the fire to maintain dog roastage.

9:23pm: Face covered in soot, getting kinda sweaty, hot dogs still looking geometric & cold to the touch.

9:25pm: Begin packing up. Throw last pieces of cardboard & paper on firepit more in an attempt to burn 'em up & avoid walking back to the recycling bin I fished them out of earlier than an attempt to re-start the fire. Think pitifully,"Dear God, save my fire?" Go inside to microwave hot dogs.

9:27pm: Return to check that fire is out. Find it cheerfully crackling almost as big as before.

9:28pm: Grab a beer from the fridge. Settle in to put a dent in my book anyway while the flame goes out.

9:29pm: Minor incident with frozen state of beer. Briefly ponder the science of temperature & matter.

9:55pm: Finished a chapter in the book. Fire still burning.

9:56pm: The moon is beautiful. Is this really happening?

10:01pm: Roommate #2 comes home to find me with snack, beer, book & flame. "This is awesome!" she says. I smile & shrug. Not ready to betray my frustration & near defeat. Bid her goodnight after briefly re-counting the events of our day.

10:44pm: Full of book & snack, face still covered in soot, smelling like campfire, satisfied with adventure & the simple pleasures in life, I retreat to my quarters to disengage from consciousness for the day.

Give & take like a baby

 This morning I was thinking and praying as I walked on my way to work, and something a friend and I have been talking about a lot recently came to mind, the open hand - holding what God gives you with an open hand that receives with thanks, but kind of offers back too.

It made me think of little babies, especially around the age when they start to do that thing where they bring you random things or food and want you see or partake and to be as amazed and pleased with the thing as they are. Then they take it back. They they give it back to you again, over and over and over. The child isn't afraid that you'll take the thing or use it against them, but in their innocence, their desire to share overcomes their desire to possess, if even only for a few moments, because the sharing makes the possession more full.

Sometimes I observe things in nature and they make me think that God put them in, just so that we would know that what He is like. This is one of those, I think. It's as though he gave very young children this mannerism for the sole purpose of teaching us the kind of relationship he wants with us- not to fear, not to horde, not to cling tightly, but to engage with him and marvel over simple things...I remember doing this as a child, marveling over the thing I shared, but as an adult having this exchange, my memories feel more deeply joyful, though I was not marveling over the thing, but the child.