Archive for the 'Art' Category



14
Sep
10

children in time 2

I have quite a fine collection of children’s drawings. I find them all quite amazing, from the most artfully talented to the least, children are just true-blue little people who put the world down in color and line, just as they see it,  feel it and experience it—simple and direct. I plan to post little galleries of  their work on this blog from time to time, starting with Miss Bluebird, who is 8 years old now. This is a drawing she did last winter of things that make her happy. While I agree with Miss B about cats and kittens, I am especially fond of the smile (midway down the page and at the right). Now that makes me totally want to smile back and so I am 🙂

And here is Miss B’s self-portrait. This is the girl who is happy because of cats and kittens, flowers, rainbows, books, cookies, songs and…smiles. You can see how her heart is smiling out at us. Thanks, Miss B.

20
Aug
10

thinking of you

Today I found a little drawing by a very talented young girl from the church Big Dawg, Adopted Daughter Bettina and I attended until June, 2009. It was given to Bettina shortly before she died last March. The drawing was of a beautiful horse with a coat of many colors. At the top of the drawing this little girl placed a perky little pink flower with green stem and leaves. At the bottom, beneath the colorfully happy horse she wrote: I’m thinking of you.

This artwork had been amongst a pile of things collecting for months on the table next to my computer desk. Why I saw it today and not yesterday, or the day before, I don’t know. I saw it today—early this morning as I booted up and began my electronic day. Looking at it—its simple beauty took me by surprise as though I hadn’t seen it months ago, when it first came to Bettina’s bedside. She was always so happy to have these gifts from children. From child to child is how it went. I’m thinking of you, it said; and so I am, and do, and did all day long.

I decided to add another posting to her blog, Longing for Light. I called it Hovering, and published the drawing with it. Afterward, I worked again at thinning down her last few belongings…the ones most difficult to deal with. The most difficult thing was reading through the letters she had written…remembering all of the good and all of the painful things that ran through our knowing each other. I made some progress, mostly organizing and separating things for final distribution. There isn’t a lot, just a couple of small boxes, but it was difficult and I thought about her all day long.

I’m thinking of you, Tina…and the sadness returned.

Hovering: Tina promised to hover. She told everyone she would learn to hover. I don’t know if she has learned, or is learning, or maybe flunked 101. I don’t dream about her, don’t have visions, don’t feel her presence…except when my little cat Bella jumps up to sleep with me at night. At that moment I feel Tina…as though Bella brings her to me. I am especially glad when Bella chooses to come right up to my chest, settles down and stretches out there. I say, “Hi, Tina, where have you been?”

So this is Bella…or Tina…or just a pretty orange tabby. You can decide.

22
Apr
10

drawing sacred circles

I have a new arts oriented blog site called, Drawing Sacred Circles. This blog, Called by Name will continue to be a personal journal, while the new site will function as an exploration of the ways in which the visual arts (the arts as a whole) spring forth from God’s presence within us—God’s holy knitting together of the parts and pieces of us until we become circles. The art we make as an expression of that knitting together—that integration within that invites oneness with Creator God can serve others in their own becoming process. My fondest wish is for the arts to be integrated into our places of worship as windows  to look through and doors to walk through, if not fly through.

I invite you to join me in this journey. It is not just for artists. It is for everyone who has ever

• looked at a work of art,

• listened to a piece of music,

•heard a poem read,

•watched people moving in dance,

and been transported beyond themselves by the beauty and wholeness of it. There is a page on this new blog dedicated to your thoughts and vision, called Write to Me • This Page is for You. One need not be limited to commenting on specific postings. I hope to meet you there.

05
Apr
10

from dark to light

Continued from Lessons in Grieving, April 1.

The next day gradually took on a better hue except for the visit I had to make to my oncologist the following day. I was not looking forward to any part of it and anxiety was floating overhead. I’d never had to go alone before and the prospect was unpleasant at best. It would mean a trip via expressway and toll road into the city—finding my way to the parking lot, then across the sky bridge to the Lurie Cancer Center on the 21st floor and finally just being in that graceless environment again. Five weeks of care-giving and five weeks of grieving didn’t set a positive stage for this return engagement, but  I knew I had to do this (learn to take myself so the Big Dawg wouldn’t have to use vacation days). I just wished I didn’t have to go alone. I couldn’t think of anyone to ask, so I didn’t. Then, as a gift from heaven, a friend offered to come along. This was amazing because I knew the medical environment was not her cup of tea, so I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving and promptly took her up on the offer as she is a veteran highway traveler and would be helpful, along with my newly acquired GPS, which I’d not yet used.

The next day was warm and sunny (unusual for March 31). We set out promptly in the afternoon and found to our surprise that traffic was unusually light, which put us in the parking garage about forty-five minutes early for an appointment that traditionally is never on time. Elevators are not her thing, but twenty-one flights preempted her inclination to take the stairs. The elevator door opened in less than a minute and there we were. We walked in, presented the parking ticket for validation, and were told that the lab was running on time, and I would probably be called soon. Soon? That would mean early because we were early! This was shockingly unbelievable.

Not only were my labs done early, but pleasantly as well—the technician even seeing to it that I would see the doctor directly. (That would be a first.) My friend and I no sooner sat down in the huge waiting room again, than the beeper went off, a door opened and my name was called. This was looking like the eighth wonder of the world. Early. Everyone was early, relaxed and pleasant. Yes, the eighth wonder to be sure. Once we got into the exam room, the ninth wonder was about to unfold.

They had had several cancellations that day, so for the first time in the four years that I’ve been an oncology patient, the medical people had time, not only to talk to me but to listen as well…listen with heart, not just mind. I was able to tell the doctor about my experience as a care-giver, which I think was heard well and profitably. (Thank you God.) When I said, “I don’t know how you all manage to work in oncology,” I heard something I’d never heard before.

The doctor said, “Oh, but we have success stories.” I had to question that, as I’d come to dread cancer in all its thieving forms. “Yes, she said, ‘You are one of our success stories.” Imagine my surprise, since it had taken me nearly three years to recover from it all.

“Success,” I queried?

She went on to explain that I am in full remission, and although my follicular lymphoma will probably recur (five years or more), it will not again transform aggressively and will be quite treatable. Then she told us that lymphoma—a cancer of the lymphatic system—is more treatable than solid tumor cancers, and that treatments for lymphoma are developing more rapidly and more successfully than treatments for solid cancers.

This was news—big news to me. For four years I had expected to have to go through the dreaded R-CHOP again and probably end up dying within eight to ten years as my sister had done, because each recurrence and treatment weakens the body. I felt like I’d been given my life back…that I could once again entertain the idea of  making art into the sunset. I had three lovely upbeat days with wings outstretched and then returned to earth. It had been a good flight…grace poured out like a river.

Life goes on. Unless I am hit by a bus, I will probably still be here when some of you younger folk start looking older. And when you do, remember, I was there first and told you all about it 🙂

(This is a newspaper photo I had for a few years prior to my cancer diagnosis. This 92-year-old lady was my hero. I’d planned to be just like her…making art into the sunset. After cancer I’d taken the picture down and filed it away. Now it’s back, more as a reminder than a goal. Who knows the mind of God. Not I. And that’s a fact!)

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16
Feb
10

home again

It has been nearly two weeks since I returned from the Mennonite Arts Weekend in Cincinnati (MAW). I wanted  to write about this  earlier,  but I couldn’t seem to find enough interior space to organize the experience into words and sentences. This was our last trip together, Big Dawg, Adopted Daughter and I. We would not get to retirement at 50. We would not head out together to roam the country, visiting churches in an RV with a big PEACE sign on its side. This trip to Cincinnati would be all of it and none of it. She wanted to come along. We rented a very big van with room for her to lay down all the way and still plenty of room for all the equipment and artwork I had to bring along. A dear old friend (DOF) flew in to go along with us. The trip was a sober reality, not the devil-may-care trip we’d dreamed about.

We arrived early, set up our hotel suite and headed into the weekend’s business on the following day.  AD slept all of that next day. The trip was more tiring for her than she’d expected. We three, BG, DOF and I went on to set up my installation and panel display in  the gallery and the projection equipment in the chapel for my presentation the next day. The hosts of the event were very gracious and helpful, but there were snafus and unexpected problems to be solved, so set-up took a very long time. Anxiety was not completely absent. I had spent two years thinking about my theme of suffering as Sacred Spaces/Common Ground, and six months in actual preparation. All the while working at liturgical installations at our church, keeping house, keeping the blog, maintaining activity in an online Mennonite listserve, mentoring a young woman friend, and then since January, taking on the responsibilities of primary care-giver for AD. I was exhausted and sad…running on empty. This was not what I had expected the MAW weekend to look like. It was to be a celebration, but I did not feel celebratory. Four friends and Darling Daughter came to support and celebrate with us. I could not manage a light heart.

At 9:00 on Saturday morning, I began my presentation:

I chose suffering as my contribution to our theme for this weekend—The Art of Place: Sacred Spaces and Common Ground. Before I plunge into my talk, I want to say that it is a great privilege to take part in this festival of the arts and to be here with you tonight, sharing some of the experiences that have transformed my life. I’d like to thank Hal Hess, Anne Hevener and the committee for inviting me to share my journey with you this weekend.

I concluded with a PowerPoint presentation of a cross-section of my work. It went very well despite the hang-over I felt from too much insomnia sedation  the night before. I see this as God’s grace and myself as messenger. During this past year I seem to have miraculously acquired a skill in reading a prepared text in an intimate, conversational fashion and I cannot account for this. I had hoped to make contacts for my liturgical art, but that didn’t happen. I had lots of positive feedback from lots of people, but it was all centered on my Dying to Live installation…my cancer story.

The rest of the day was a bit of a fog for me as I hadn’t had much sleep and was running on fumes. By afternoon I was a ghost and spent a couple of hours asleep on one of the back, padded pews of the church, while the assembled faithful blended their voices in Mennonite singing. If I haven’t ever mentioned Mennonite singing before, let me do so now: every Mennonite grows up singing and reading and/or playing music. Even the poorest congregation sings beautifully. They are not so up to speed in the liturgical art and dance as worship category, but music is exemplary, so I must have slept very well. I don’t remember ever waking up during those two hours, and when I did wake up, I wished I hadn’t had to do so.

My memory of the event is hazy. I know there were fun times with friends and wonderful events, but I can’t seem to recall them very well. It is as though a veil covers my memory. I felt relief once we arrived home on Monday. My buddy OM came to help us put the seats back in the van and stayed for dinner. Empress Bird joined us at table as well and that was good. Afterward, Ad rested while BD, OM, EB and DOF all played Scrabble. They had a hilarious time and it was good to feel joy and light around me.

The next day AD slept a lot and wasn’t feeling all that well. I found her mood and affect markedly different and didn’t know what to think. As novice care-giver I was concerned. The following day the new strange behavior continued. When the hospice nurse came, she took all the necessary readings and suggested it was time to start oxygen and increase the morphine. So, the oxygen machine arrived and the meds increased, and  AD began to feel better.

Before DOF, who is a former dancer and interplay leader,  left for the airport, she and AD did some hand-dancing together. It was lovely to see Ad’s face light up like a child seeing a robin’s nest of hatchlings for the first time. Small pleasures count big sometimes. After DOF left, we began slowing putting the pieces of our life back together…post Cincinnati… looking toward the next phase of living and loving together. The oxygen machine is a noisy presence, hissing and phewing its life-sustaining presence. We named it Darth Vader! It’s hard to ignore and hard to accept. Morphine is strangely helpful, both for the sufferer and the care-givers. I watch her take it and feel relief as though it were a healthful potion rather than the addictive opiate that it is.

I am waiting for the hospice nurse to arrive. I need to know that stats. My AD doesn’t say much about how she is feeling…doesn’t often know…I rely on the stats and the experienced nurse to tell me. When we’ve reached a new plateau in the dying process it is always a shock to my system, so this time I’m prepared. No more flying around in my head. I know there is a process underway here. The cancer will take over and the morphine will increase and eventually the two will shake hands and my dear friend, AD will go home.

But right now, we still have work to do and lives to live. We are busy…she with dying well and I with helping her to do that as best I can. It is not time for grieving yet. I am so busy keeping lots of balls in the air and picking them up when they bounce to the floor. Sometimes have to dust them off before tossing them back into my small universe. Dear God, don’t let go of us.

Our nearly twenty old cat, Frank had begun sleeping most of each day with AD. They were a great comfort to each other. This morning at 5:20 a.m. he  was in a lot of pain. We knew it was time and woke AD to say goodbye. We took him to the Emergency Vet Clinic straight-away. She says he will be waiting for her.

The nurse left. Oxygen has increased from 2 to 2.5; morphine increased by 2.5 ml. Ad is sleeping now and I have to get on with my list for today. I’m glad I had a chance to talk with you.

15
Jan
10

let there be light

This week I see light at the end of my long,  project list tunnel. The major project on this list has been my participation in the biennial Mennonite Arts Weekend (MAW) coming up in Cincinnati on February 5-7. For the past 22 months I have been thinking about this in the back of my brain, and for the past  4 months working on it, front and center. The theme of the event is, The Art of Place: Sacred Spaces and Common Ground. My talk will focus on  suffering as both sacred space and common ground. This will be  followed up with  a Power Point presentation of some of my work. I had never done Power Point—hadn’t even installed it on my computer, so I had to install and learn.  Adopted Daughter helped me. (Not only is she a banker with thief-stopping knowledge of the world of credit, but she’s good at installing and walking me through PP!)

My presentation will be a total of 70 minutes. In the gallery I will have a four-panel installation of my cancer odyssey, Dying to Live, suspended from the ceiling—creating a space that will allow people exposure to what it feels like to have cancer. In addition to this I will have a few of my assemblage boxes on display, the handmade book version of Pailoun’s Story,  additional digital montage work—both secular and liturgical, and  Thin Places. If you think that this is a lot of stuff and I must be crazy, you are right. I don’t know what possessed me to cast such a wide net. It just kept growing is all I can say. Once I started putting it all together I realized it’s size. I am one to finish what I start and so I did…pretty much night and day.

This is not all I’ve been doing while this blog got thinner and thinner. As many of you may know, a lot has been going on in the LGBT inclusivity arena as well…painful and arduous experiences which led us to our present church community, where I have thrown myself into providing a stable visual art worship component. This has become a ministry—an outpouring of the gifts I have been given. Also in the mix is this blog which I have so enjoyed writing, AD’s cancer recurrence and my becoming a care provider. I am leaving out many lesser projects and tasks that wove in and out these past months in addition to the aforementioned. It is enough to say that I have learned that multi-tasking is impossible, but serial tasking is not only possible, it’s good medicine for both chem0brain and elderbrain.

So, I see the light at the end of the tunnel and it’s welcome…like springtime. Life’s rhythms are returning to a normal level of busy with time to even clean house every now and then (ugh!). In 1 week Big Dawg and I will become members of our new church and 10 days after that we will pick up our rented van, pack it full of all the MAW stuff, get in and head out to Cincinnati. The only gray spot in all of this rosy, forward tilt is the reality of AD’s health. Right now, as I write this, she is having a CT scan to determine the state of the state. We live in the now and celebrate it, breathing in and breathing out…

08
Sep
09

creation

Today I am suspended in anticipation of a meeting due to occur this evening. It is difficult to think creatively in suspension. So I thought I’d pin up some pretty pictures for you of a project I’ve just completed for my new church called Creation. View images from left to right, row by row. (Did I mention that I am a digital montage artist??)

In the beginning….

Creation-1

Creation-2

Creation-3

Creation-4

Creation-5

Creation-6

Creation-7

Creation-8

Creation-9

Creation-10




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