"And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything." — As You Like It (Act II, Scene 1)
Six years ago I thought that everything I had always believed in, had a childlike faith in — left and died.
My spirit was broken.
As a child, I stared at trees. Felt at ease. Oh how small, yet grand. Lavender blooms. Lazy afternoons beneath my wheels. Yellow house, with the white rock roof, so far away. How could I convey. A land I never knew. What was true... became my story. Our family glory. Each leaf was You. Before I knew. Every reflection. A possible connection. Mesmerized by tiny creatures, I saw distinguished features. People passing by. A mother cat giving birth. One by one she had become. Their moonbeam. My dream.
But just as dreams come true there are seasons of blue. Adamant. Abandonment. Silent wilderness. It broke my willfulness. And in this place He spoke love without condition. A worldly opposition.
He spoke of beauty. Of creation. From the time I could touch, see, feel, speak. It was always there. Everything given to tend. His to defend. A process that I could only learn by being still with God for the first time in my life. Minus all expectations. Situations. And it came through immense, naturally intense, pain and loss.
The idea that everything was His and His to receive from me.
The process of creativity. A slow growing proclivity.
Not for attention, but for the absolute love of being.
So I heard His voice. Wrote my family stories, morning pages, about the ages, opinions on dominions — and rhymed to unwind. And although there was resistance, at a distance, I became friends again with my work. A visual prompt would lead me to the archives. Pound the keys, get on my knees. Pray. Asked questions. Exhale negativity. Breathe in fluidity.
Our existence is not dependent on who admires, requires or appreciates us.
The child at her desk. Expressing the blessing. No need for impressing.
When I think of the creation of our universe — God worked alone. So it’s not ironic that artists are often working alone. But His vision was a harmony among us where He could dwell. So we are never alone. Even in the valley of grief, the mountain awaits. Stripped down. Who really wears the Crown? What can we control? without crushing our soul: A Spirit-filled life.
Represent. The original intent. Of a Savior.
So I believe in what I see. That dead things are reborn in seasons of great brokenness, when we let go. Burned out forests, a family, Jesus. And unlike putting my confidence, providence, wholly in people, this is my longing. A deep calling. Where I put my faith — while living in a world that historians might deem extreme, “the worst time to be alive.” No. I choose to thrive.
It might sound harsh, brutal and cruel, but our only hope is renewal.
As I was piecing together what I know is vital to our existence — to see and speak His beauty — a sweet voice filled my heart. On our last evening in Oregon, sipping tea with mum, I looked up to see her quietly reciting two different verses of a long four-part poem she loved, titled The Lady of Shallot, by Alfred Lord Tennyson (and if you’re reading my work for the first time, mum is nearly ninety, and going blind).
How beautiful was this? My lovely best friend speaking little pieces of what she fondly remembered, in her repertoire of beloved poetry, during a season where memory lingers. Thinking of the generations to come. Where we might be found. Completely profound. I thought: Here I am in this garden of what is real and living. Contrary to The Lady of Shallot, who was under a mysterious curse, preventing her from looking directly toward Camelot. Sir Lancelot. Toward God’s beauty. Isolated in a tower, a metaphor for the artist. Yet, how can we create, or live without giving back, the beauty of what has been given? And written.
“Between realities and shadows” — we are light. The light which holds the lamp for others to see that there is more to this world than all the hate, debate, judgement. Often in the name of our Creator. Never triumphant.
Who is Greater?
Can I record your voice mama? (to impart His exquisite work of art)
We are never alone. We are known. The moon, stars, sun,.. nature speaks to us. And beautiful people exist. It cannot be hidden if we are working for, and alongside the Master Artist.
Six years.
Oh the tears.
I am restored.
This is my road west.
The greatest protest.
The Way to grow best.
Beauty.
Film: by me, at The Oregon Garden and surrounding area near my home away from home. “The Gordon House,” in the film, is the only Frank Lloyd Wright-designed home in the state. Usonian-style, built for the Gordon family in 1963, it sits alone, surrounded by nature, after being saved from demolition and relocated to the garden.
Reading: by my mum, Beryl. Two little verses from Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shallot.”
Music: “Of the undiscovered country” by composer Max Richter | Hamnet — and “Not Alone” by composer Ólafur Arnalds
