Trust: Needing Roots

The other day, I did a creative experiment: Make marks showing what happens when you try to trust the divine.

My consciousness is in green. I start out steadily enough, then I get distracted by the sparkly popping things in the air and head towards them. I am trusting-trusting-trusting and then the air gets so thin and the sparkly things so thick that suddenly I realize I'm not trusting and I fall to earth. Icarus, anyone?

I looked again at the image. "Shallow roots, that's my problem," I thought.

I went on a riverboat ride and was entranced by the trees along the bank with their roots exposed. The water had taken the soil away from these glorious tangles but they were clearly still doing their jobs: the trees stood straight and tall, reaching toward the sun.

Wondering about roots, I read

The root system of a tree performs many vital functions. In winter, it is a store-house for essential food reserves needed by the tree to produce spring foliage. Roots absorb and transport water and minerals from the soil to the rest of the tree. Roots also anchor the portion of the tree above ground. It is important to keep the portion above ground healthy to ensure an adequate food supply for the roots to continue their important functions.
http://www.ext.colostate.edu/pubs/garden/02926.html



Something to absorb and transport nutrients sounds like just what I need. But how do I keep the portion above ground healthy?

More reading:

1. Room to grow
2. Steady temperature
3. Adequate water
4. Adequate light
5. Proper nutrients
   http://www.wikihow.com/Grow-Healthy-Plant
   

Aha! After last month's post on finding purpose, I have been paying attention to who I am. It seems I ought not be fighting that, not my time of life. So how does a bookish introvert serve? I hope by learning and thinking and putting it together and sharing it with others. It's all I can think to do, though it isn't full of sparkly poppings.

Here is what arrived;

(The first time I thought this through, the "physical" column was missing. I have enjoyed some thought-spinning over whether this is defensive—due to physical disability—or whether being oblivious to physical needs contributed to illness, or both.)

This list can guide my exploration of the idea of trust.

Until next time, I will be experimenting with the idea of "room to grow."

See why I like making art? It's like a doorway to a secret garden.

Trust: On Finding Purpose

The people I most admire live lives of creative and joyful service. From my outside perspective, their backgrounds seem to prepare them, their choices seem to be obvious (though not easy), their strength seems to be unwavering. How do they do it?

In the last two weeks, I felt myself moving beyond the theme of hope. There were several experiences and ideas blending in my mind. They distilled into a dream.

In the dream, I am attending a rehearsal of a community orchestra. I'm excited about the work these people are doing and want to be a part of it. I am keenly feeling the loss of no longer being able to play the viola (due to disability). Maybe, I think, I can volunteer to do some graphic arts for them. That's something I can still do on the computer. Mulling this over, I wheel out into an alley to get my van and go home. The van has been stripped—really stripped. All of the body covering (fiberglass?) has been removed and only the frame remains. The seats and everything inside the van has been removed. The wheelchair ramp is standing open. I wheel inside and try to start the car, but the battery has been stolen so the car is dead. First, I think about calling my husband. Then, I realize I should call the police to report the crime. I wake up with my heart pounding and a feeling of panic.

My biggest fear is becoming useless. I worry about how long I will be able to continue driving safely (answer: not long). I worry about how long I will be able to keep my job. I worry about when I will need to move into a facility.

I believe this dream is about that fear. Drawing me into that orchestra is beauty and community, but I can't make the same contribution I would have made earlier in life. I try to compensate (and feel proud of myself for doing so), but my ambitions are derailed by a reminder of my complete dependence on others...even on strangers. The dream is a nightmare because of my emotional response to it.

Therein lies the lesson. The initial situation in the dream is entirely realistic; it could happen. The stripped van is a dreamlike extreme, but it is true that, like Blanche Dubois, I must rely on the kindness of strangers. What I need to do is get beyond my panicked response to the facts. In the end, this dream is about trust. Only trust can assuage my fears.

My new theme is trust.

This week I was fortunate enough to hear Alexie Torres-Fleming speak. (You can get a taste of her by watching her on YouTube.) She talked, among other things, about how the American definition of success (which she initially accepted and accomplished) turned out not fit for her. I was impressed by her ability to discern and follow her inner voice (God). When I accused her of having an unusually articulate and specific God, she responded that we all do if we get past our fears and learn to listen. She also pointed out that, while her mission may not be my mission, we both have one. I was reminded of Marianne Williamson:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." (A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of "A Course in Miracles", Harper Collins, 1992. From Chapter 7, Section 3])

I originally thought this post would be called "body of work." My artwork has taken a turn lately: I am illustrating other people's words by repurposing and recombining earlier paintings with new electronic illustrations. Having created a dozen or so of these new pieces, I realize that I am creating a new body of work. When I first started to take myself seriously as an artist (something I no longer do), I remember struggling to produce a "body of work."

"Galleries and art buyers want an artist to have a body of work to show that they can consistently produce art that is distinctive and of a predictable, suitable quality." (Art glossary, about.com)

I despaired of making work that was distinctive and predictable. A mentor helped me by listing for me all the commonalities she saw in different pieces I had created. She was able to see how my work was distinctive and predictable when I was not.

I think my heroes' lives may also be less distinctive and predictable when viewed from the interior.

If I trust what I heard from Alexie Torres-Fleming, I realize I am being called to create a new body of work in my life as well as in my art. As my subconscious has warned me, my old way of being will no longer be possible. My ideas for what to do instead may not be the right ones. I need to begin by letting go of my fierce—and false—independence. I need to begin with trust.

Choosing Hope

I have been exploring other people's notions of hope. Two quotes have been dancing in my mind the last few days. Christopher Reeve said, " Once you choose hope, anything's possible." Marion Zimmer Bradley wrote, " The road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the traveler than the road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination."

After actor Christopher Reeve became quadriplegic in 1995, he used his fame to advocate for research that would lead to a cure for paralysis. I am ashamed to admit I was disappointed with his choice. I thought he might champion physical and social accessibility for people with disabilities. (At that point in my life, I had begun to use a cane to walk short distances and a scooter to travel longer ones.) I thought his determination to walk again was an unrealistic waste of time. Now I see it differently. He was practicing choosing Hope.

Until recently I thought I didn't “do hope." My interaction with Julie Neraas, author of Apprenticed to Hope has transformed my thinking. She has helped me understand hope as (among other things) a belief that, in the end, things will be all right. I recognize that moments of that belief have carried me forward through my messy life. Reaching for those moments is the underlying purpose of my insistence on practicing life as a creative process. Surprise: I do hope.

I don't, however, do it well. Zimmer Bradley is pointing out that our future is unknowable and beyond our control. Our road will lead where our road leads. As we travel we can choose our attitude: we can choose hope or despair. I spend way too much time in the unpleasantness of despair.

Can I get better at choosing Hope?

Any parent with school-aged children knows that spring is concert season. In the last week, I have been to two middle school music concerts. They have reminded me how we go about learning and improving skills.

1. We observe as other people demonstrate. Reading about hope, hearing other people talk about their hope and watching as others live in hope gives me that opportunity.


2. We break the whole into small, more manageable, parts. What are the pieces of choosing Hope?




• Choose to choose. When I was a young psychology student, I tripped over the idea that I could choose my emotions. My feelings seem to jump out at me randomly from dark corners. (Yes, part of the problem was that I was shoving my feelings into dark corners.) I couldn't imagine having any control over my emotions. Then I discovered Rational Emotive Therapy and the idea that what I was thinking gave rise to what I felt. Even though my first thought was an unconsidered reaction, I realized I could choose a different thought to replace it. Despite my instinct toward despair, I can practice thinking toward hope.


• Look for the good. Speaking of middle school music programs, one of my junior high choir directors told us "the pony joke," with the punchline "with all this manure, there must be a pony in here somewhere." (If you haven't heard the joke, you can find it here.) I've returned to the story many times since. Finding the good in every situation—while admitting what could be the horrible realities of it—can help me choose hope.


• Choose as an individual. I was a viola player between the ages of eight and 30. I was lucky enough to want to play and, though I'm sure my parents reminded me to practice, I don't remember putting up much resistance. I was playing for the sake of playing, because I enjoyed it and not to get anywhere in particular. Similarly, if I choose hope because I want to practice choosing hope, I will be more likely to do it. Attachment to results will not serve me well.


• Choose in community. I have to make the choice myself, but I am not alone. Julie Neraas writes and speaks of hope as a communal effort. When I can't find hope, there may be others who can hold it for me. In turn, I may be able to offer hope to others when they lose it.




3. Having broken the whole into parts, we choose one part and do it slowly so our bodies (or, in this case, our minds) can get the hang of it. If something is difficult, we do it more often. Eventually, we become more fluid.


4. Practice practice practice. One of my least favorite sayings is "practice makes perfect." Even if things become easy, we keep practicing. Explore the nuances. Add variations. Practice to practice, without attachment to a perfect product.

One more quote: Chinese author Lin Yutang wrote, "Hope is like a road in the country; there was never a road, but when many people walk on it, the road comes into existence."

It's time I made my own hope road.

Attracting hope (in which I go too far with the dove metaphor)

"I hope you remain in good spirits," wrote my friend in the last line of his e-mail. "Ha!" my monster-mind replied. "In order to remain in good spirits I have to be in good spirits in the first place. How long has it been since I've felt in good spirits?" Okay, monster, let's dance.

The free dictionary defines in good spirits as "without losing equilibrium." We use the expression when we are talking about getting over a health challenge or relationship difficulty.

But what are good spirits? I dodged the alcohol and ghost-related Google results, spent some time remembering my experience with positional vertigo during bedrest and finally connected "good spirits" with the best spirit: the Holy Spirit. Pentecost Sunday this year is May 23, 2010. Pentecost is one of my favorite Christian traditions. We tell the story of Jesus' apostles gathered together following the execution of their leader. "Suddenly there was a noise from heaven like the sound of a mighty wind. It filled the house where they were meeting. Then they saw what looked like fiery tongues moving in all directions, and a tongue came and settled on each person there. The Holy Spirit took control of everyone, and they began speaking whatever languages the Spirit let them speak." (Acts 2:1-4)

The Pentecost story is an answer to the question: how do you keep going when it looks like everything is lost?

The answer: the Holy Spirit, something mysterious enough that it sends us traipsing back to the Holy One to say, "hunh?" Now we are in conversation with—in relationship with—God, which is just where God wants us.

I grew up in church with stained glass windows that included a depiction of the Spirit descending like a dove. I am wrestling with the concept of hope this summer, at the invitation of my present church, which is studying the book Apprenticed to Hope. My initial (monsterish) response is that "I don't do hope." The author and my church companions are slowly opening me to the possibility. The dove is also used as a metaphor for hope, thanks to the story of Noah's released dove returning with an olive branch in its mouth.

I decided to see what I could learn by playing with the metaphor of the dove.

How do I await the Holy Spirit? How do I invite hope?

How do I attract doves?

It turns out, according to the folks at the University of Georgia, to be fairly simple. Doves want food and water. They nest in piles of twigs (sometimes in low bushes, sometimes on the ground), but they're willing to travel distances to get what they want. Even if my heart is not the perfect habitat for the Spirit, it's willing to find me and able to put up with a less than perfect host..

Doves like to drink water, that common substance that covers 70% of the world's surface. Yay! I'm common. I also am embarrassed to admit that I didn't quite know what water does for a biological creature. It turns out that our bodies need water to regulate temperature, provide the means for nutrients to travel to our cells, remove waste, and protect our joints and organs.

I can translate those functions into a list of spiritual disciplines. A practice of meditation helps me regulate the extremes. Participating in community and worship allows nutrients to travel to where they are needed. Confession removes spiritual sludge. Practicing the presence of God (prayer) helps protect my functioning parts.

This is where the monster raises its ugly head to say, "Practices! You're no good at practicing. You do great for three days and then you go back to your old nasty habits. That little bird is gonna die of dehydration in no time." Sigh.

Doves like to eat millet, a general term for small-seeded grasses grown in difficult production environments. Yay again! My soul is absolutely a "difficult production environment." Rather than spending hours cooking sumptuous dinners for these little birds, I can find some tiny seeds to scatter that might attract them.

If these practices seem like hard to crack, huge sunflower seeds, what would be millet?

Just for today I can:

• Pray the Lord's prayer (worship, supplication, confession and practicing the presence in one convenient package)


• Have a quiet time of meditation—even if it's only two minutes.


• Call a friend.
  

Later this week, I can go to church.

What would happen if I lived each day as an invitation to hope and the Holy Spirit?

Repurposing Art and Life

I am in the midst of an art experiment and loving it. I was asked to find artists to show their work in our church’s small gallery between May and August. Our theme this summer (not chosen by me) is hope. I was unable to find anyone to use the gallery in May. A couple weeks ago, I decided to do it myself.

For my series on hope, I developed the following experiment:

Google a word or concept you love (or resist?),
followed by the word "quotes."

Choose your favorite quotes and
respond with art.

(My results)

In addition to the time crunch, I'm getting used to a new level of disability. I am able to use my hands much less skillfully these days. Painting is a huge energy commitment because of the physical work involved to get materials out and put them away. In the last year or so, I scanned my art every time I painted. Sometimes I would paint something simple just for scanning and using later. Now I have a library of scans.

This feels like cheating. I'm not starting from a blank page, but it is my art. I'm not cheating, I'm collaborating with myself. I'm repurposing.

Repurposing. There is a word that was not in my father's (extensive) vocabulary. Answers.com defines it as “To use or convert for use in another format or product: repurposed the book as a compact disk.” Most references to it seemed to involve home decorating or ingenious use of everyday things.

In my last post, I wrote about my need to reinvent myself. Repurposing my art has been so much fun, I wondered if I could draw lessons from it to repurpose my life.

1. Necessity is the mother...
   
   I wouldn't be making these pieces of art unless I needed to do so. Having a purpose and, frankly, being pressed for time motivated me to action. When it comes to reinventing myself, I can leave things as they are while I struggle or I can make changes that will make my life easier and happier. Gently reminding myself of the pain of inaction and the rewards of change may help motivate me.
   
   


2. Be inspired by others.
   
   I subscribe to Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void cartoon series. His interplays of words and lines delight me. It was his work that inspired me to combine words, paint and electronic illustration for the series. Paying attention to how others create and re-create themselves may exhilarate my own efforts.
   
   


3. Keep the best parts.
   
   The quote reminds me of a scan I have available. I open the file, choose the part of the piece that is calling to me and copy it into a new file. Textures and hues in the painting (intentional or accidental) that attract me. Parts I don't like so much, I leave behind. What chunks of my life grab me? What slices do I want to discontinue?
   
   


4. Add something new.
   
   Existing material may form the backdrop of the new work, but it's only a start. To say something new, I add something new. I can add focus by illustrating an image. Similarly, there may be something I can add to my life that will bring everything around it into a whole, will become a point of convergence.
   
   


5. Adapt as needed.
   
   I often make changes to the backdrop or older illustrations as I repurpose them. I adjust lines (the woman walking on the road in the Lin Yutang quotation was once dancing to a Hebrew Psalm). I duplicate and darken layers. I make changes to add meaning. Parts of my life (some of them dear to me) must be left behind. What changes can I make that will deepen my experience?
   
   


6. Be prepared to undo.
   
   Sometimes, when I'm drawing, my hand spasms and the line goes wild. When I am using the computer, I can use command (or control) Z to undo my last move. Thank goodness! I am getting used to using many “undo” commands as I work. How much easier things would be if I lived my life the same way, if I forgave myself mistakes, backed up a step and moved ahead.
   
   


7. Share it.
   
   The “Hope Quotes” series will hang in the North Como Presbyterian Church Gallery of Gifts in May. Pieces will be added as the series expands. In writing and visual art, sharing my work with others is an important part of my process. Often, in "real life" I withdraw into my shy place. (This happens less often as I age.) I need to remember that living out loud is one way I can contribute to the human community.

It may not be as unexpected and clever as using rain gutters to corral cables, but reinventing—and repurposing—may keep my life doable and entertaining.

Eight Things to do instead of giving up

In the last few weeks, I have come very close to giving up. Completely. Turn my face to the wall and wait to die. I have managed to change my mind, but it has taken work.

It was a tough winter. I spent the first week of December in the hospital and the following six weeks in a transitional care facility. (My family would later refer to it as "that place.") For most of that time, I couldn't do anything but lie there. No computer. No Internet access. I made a couple tortured drawings. Once home, I was visited by nurses three times a week. I was allowed out of the house for three things: doctor visits, church, and "the beauty parlor." While I was in that place, I thought of nothing but healing enough to get out of it. At home, I was surrounded by bits of my old life, but I didn't have energy or physical ability to take advantage of most of them…hence the impulse to give up.

Here's what saved me:

1. Focus on one small thing that fills your heart.
   
   I went to a concert. (It was at a church... so I didn't even have to feel guilty about leaving the house www.globalharmony.org) There was one moment where the sound I was hearing was so wonderful that there was no room for anything else in my world—no room for any physical or emotional discomfort. There was only beauty. I thought: "Moments like this. Life is worth living for moments like this."
   


2. Return to the present moment.
   
   I don't know how much of my former ability and energy will return. It is easy for me to get lost in worries about the future. That moment at the concert lifted me because I was nowhere else but the present moment. Pretending that the past and future exist is a game with very limited use. I've been writing for years about “making an internal gesture.” I finally know what I mean: paying attention to sensory information and leaving behind my mind chatter so that I am in the NOW.
   


3. Feel the blessing.
   
   If someone else points out that there are people who have it much worse, I have to restrain my violent tendencies. Sometimes, though, I am reminded of these things naturally. For example, one of the pieces in the Global Harmony concert was about a Southeast Asian family fleeing violence. Hearing others' stories, I understand that—all things considered—I am blessed. When I feel that blessing, I want to go on.
   


4. Go mad.
   
   In Douglas Adams book, Life, the Universe and Everything, hero Arthur Dent decides how to cope with being stranded on prehistoric Earth. He gets up one morning and announces "I will go mad!" After a particularly difficult day in my at-home recovery, I remembered Arthur’s coping mechanism and decided to try it. I had been thinking about things too realistically. I have an incurable disease and it's getting worse, hence: despair. Ruth Gordon said, "Never give up. And never, under any circumstances, face the facts.” In order for me not to give up I will have to ignore the facts. I will have to lose touch with reality. I must go mad.
   


5. Spend time with a friend…the right kind of friend.
   
   I went to lunch with a friend and afterward felt much better. Not any friend would have left me feeling encouraged. My friend talked honestly of the difficulties in her life and how she copes with them. She is a 12-stepper and, as such, reminds me of the tools that come with that outlook on life. She is a deeply religious woman and the strength of her faith became a sort of splint for my own brokenness. Time with a good friend puts me back on the path to healing.
   
   
6. Learn something new.
   
   I received an invitation to a free webinar. It was a subject in which I had only mild interest, but free is free and I had time. I listened to the webinar and took some follow-up video lessons. The subject matter had nothing to do with illness or medicine, so it was a nice change of pace. Absorbing information used my brain in a different way than when I am caught up in the emotions or tasks of dealing with my difficulties. In the book, Nation, Terry Pratchett's characters are recovering from a tsunami. One boy thinks about needing a "thin silver line" to draw him into the future. Learning something new is a thin silver line for me.
   


7. Reinvent yourself.
   
   Having a major disruption in my usual schedule brings with it opportunity. I can reinvent myself. What is important to me? What gives me energy? What helps me move toward life? As I add activities into my life, I can choose which to reclaim and which to leave behind.
   


8. Look for reasons not to give up.
   
   I started writing two weeks ago with five reasons not to give up. Because I was thinking about it, additional reasons have been jumping up and down, waving their arms and asking to be included. This has been fun and moments of fun, well, there's another reason not to give up.
   
   

What can an Artist with Disabilities add to the Global Warming Conversation?

When I was in sixth grade, I made a papier-mâché globe, glued garbage to it and used it as a visual aid for a "save the Earth" oral report. A few years before that, my Brownie troop painted metal drums and put them around town to encourage people not to litter. I don't remember a time in my life without recycling. I am practically an old lady now, and you would think if people my age grew up tending to the environment we would be in better shape.

Today is Blog Action Day. All over the world, bloggers are writing about this year's issue: global warming. I decided to participate because I am always excited when people find a way to use technology to make a better world and, as I've mentioned above, environmental activism comes naturally to me. On the other hand, I am not an expert on global warming nor am I a shining example of an environmentally-sound lifestyle.

What do I have to add to a world-wide conversation about global warming? As usual, I bring to the table my two traveling companions: chronic illness and creative activity. They have suggested to me three points to throw to the blogosphere:

Do what you can with what you've got.


"Do you have a studio?" asked a woman who heard I was an artist.

"No," I replied, "I have a corner of my living room."

I used to have a studio. A couple times a week I would go to my studio and paint. It was lovely. I felt like a real artiste. Those were the days when I had more money, more physical energy and more time. I had more physical capability, too. It doesn't serve me well to spend much time mourning those losses. I need to feel the sadness, but then I need to breathe it out and let it go.

Right now, I have a little corner, with a flat surface and some paints. My hands don't do what they used to do, but I can hold a brush and I can move paint around and doing it makes my heart sing.

We humans have already gone a long way toward trashing the earth. The damage is probably not recoverable. There may be fancy future technologies that will help us clean up our act. We don't know about them yet, so for now we have to do what we can with what we've got.

Years ago, I was a fan of Berke Breathed's Opus the penguin. Opus wanted to lose weight and was willing to try anything...except to exercise and eat less. Similarly we humans seem ready to do anything to avoid global warming, except make the behavioral changes that need to be made.

There are practical everyday steps we can take that will make a difference. Visit Common Sense on Climate Change: Practical Solutions to Global Warming and make a commitment to go further in three areas.

Work for systemic change (meanwhile, play by your own rules)


We need to make big changes fast. By "big" I mean system wide.

In my experience, there are two ways to do this. First, we can advocate for changes in legislation and regulation. We can work within the system to change the system. Second, we can do things in a different way en masse and force the system to scramble to catch up with our changes.

I remember writing "DDT" in marker on my papier-mâché Arctic Circle. One of the sobering facts I knew, at 12, was that overuse of the pesticide was so widespread traces have been found in the Arctic ice. Bald eagles were dying. I was adding my voice to the public outcry that led to most uses of DDT being banned in the US in 1972. It worked then. It could work now.

Tell President Obama that we want him to lead the United States in taking bold and significant action to reduce greenhouse gasses.

The art world is pathetically stuck in old-fashioned ways of doing things. Young artists are experimenting with new ways to connect to their audiences. Musicians are sending their work directly to their listeners. Visual artists are making their work available on the web without worrying about copyrights. Writers are publishing their own books. The system is broken, so these mavericks are creating a new system. Traditional media are trying to find footing in a new world.

What astonishing, out-of-the-box ways are people making changes in response to global warming? what grassroots solutions are out there that we might be able to get to trickle up? I just had a good time googling "out-of-the-box solution global warming".

Find and support one unusual idea to minimize global warming.

Keep playing, even though you're losing.

The effects of multiple sclerosis on my body keep increasing. Lately, I've been mulling over words to describe it: relentless, implacable, inexorable. Rolling these words around in my mind somehow throws a layer of insulation between me and my frustration.

Recently, I have noticed a lot of news reports along the lines of Newsweek magazine's It’s Too Late to Stop Global Warming. (interestingly, or perhaps sadly, the first page of Google results I received for "too late global warming" came from 2005-2006.) There is a danger that people will give up.

I have exercised fairly consistently since I was diagnosed 28 years ago. For a while, I jogged. Then I did yoga. I learned tai chi. When I could no longer walk, I exercised in the pool. Now, I use a strap stand to hold me up while I use light arm weights. Physical therapists tell me that doing what I could do helped delay the progression of the disease. I have no idea if that is true (and--shh--neither do they).

Here is what is true for me: exercising brings me closer to my body. I am more aware of its ups and downs. I have more compassion for it. Exercising gives me hope. There are days I do better with the weights and can imagine I am getting stronger. That little swoop of joy is worth the gurgling sadness of the bad days.

Maybe it is too late to stop all the effects of global warming. In doing what we can, though, we may draw closer to our planet home. We may find new ways to work together as a species. We may join in swoops of joy over every environmental triumph.