of fairy sprites and zephyrs

life on pause

again today

and in the early
gazing down
at the tundra
from a window high
marveling
at so much white
covering
like icing
thick on a cake

and then
zephyrs of snow
jumping high
swirling
like fairy sprites
escaping
if just for a moment
seemingly
laughing at us
and at the day
and the cold

but for me

no slopes to slalom
no skates to lace
just time

life on pause

and reveling in it
like a cat 
in winter sunshine

drinking in beauty
being at rest

routine shattered
in a million pieces
like icicles
when they fall

and for those
fortunate enough

today

an opportunity
to slow
in a world
making busy a trophy

hitting reset
jettisoning chores
responsibility
and the routine of daily
with hilarity

unflustered by it all

and in the wake
of this decision
the unloading of guilt

much-needed rest
and quiet even

to savor a new year

to reboot

because
owning our lives
getting perspective
part of the struggle

and time put on hold
in tandem with
an Abba Father
reminding

glory

always seeping through
all the cracks
of this broken world

beauty being unfolded
like an exquisite snow-covered morning

and a day 
on pause

reminding


 

For a better story

I packed up and went to the shore yesterday.
On a moment's notice.
A whim.  You might say.
No planning ahead.  Just doing.
Serendipity.

For me.  A flight of freedom.
Of nostalgia.  Of independence.
Wind in my hair.  Music loud.

And over the dune.  Another world waiting.

Ocean surf crashing.
Gulls wheeling.  Their incessant crying.
Making me feel, well . . .  happy.

And as wide as the sea; the sand.
Sparsely populated this day. 
A few, small islands of beach towels and chairs.
The occasional burst of distant laughter.
Conversations wafting like a poorly tuned radio.
In the early summer cool.

Sitting back.  Breathing deep.
Of the sweet slow.
And the filling of beauty.

And there.  In my beach chair.
Reading. And finding for others too.
This quest for rest.  In a life.

White space.  It's called.
Those areas intentionally left blank.
A place for the eye to rest.
In graphic design.

Because.
Life requires editing.

In the midst of hurry and busy and too much.

Rooms and wardrobes and stories and works of art too.

A discipline, yes.
In order to be better.

Whole scenes sometimes relegated to the editing floor.
In the making of art.  A movie.  Or a book. 
The styling of a room even.
Because.
An eye can be overstimulated by too much good.
Something has to go.

Our lives too.

A necessity. To edit.
A waste of time.  Never.
Creating white space.

For beauty and tranquility and the mooring of our lives.

A season.  A day.  An hour.
To slow down.  Unplug.
The letting go.
Finding margin in our lives.

For a better story.

Is it really so simple?

 

I live in an average house in an average neighborhood. 

And in this house and the ones before that.  Painting. In love with it even. 
Walls, ceilings, trim, cabinets, chairs, tables, even the kids, they would laugh, if they got in my way.  Ladder and roller and paint can full.  Music turned loud.  Coloring my world. Racing the clock to return normal, as a gift, to my family at the end of the day.

And to me, in the doing, average is transformed.   

My eye simply delighting in painting the front door of our white two story a deep shade of teal blue.  Such a glorious hue and, frankly, the talk of the neighbors before getting the color just right.  Having to repaint.  Tone down just a bit.  Carried away as I was with the vibrant joyous hues of Jamaican doors.  The ones that seem to shout "beauty" and "come in" and "love" all at once.  Thrilling me.

I was also born into average.  In a small town. 

My having arrived years too late to be included in the one "family portrait" but filling the old empty house with childhood again.  Messes and projects strewn across the floor and the tables and my bed in those growing up years.

Decoupage on old bottles and dolls from yarn.  Felt ornaments and cloth mice with whiskers.  A newspaper with stories and ads in handwritten font.  Clothes made for trolls and dolls. And cardboard houses with exquisite detail. 

Imagination running wild.

And I remember how much I loved those cloth mice with whiskers.
Having painstakingly sewn them freehand.  Stuffed with cotton.
And they looked like it. 
Without a plan.  Crude and ugly.
But to me.  The wild pursuit of creating something.  Thrilling me.
Just scraps from the sewing chest.  Becoming mice.

Then.  Just doing what made my heart sing.

For there are no critics in childhood.
Freewheeling and full of abandon.

But, slowly, over the years, something is lost. 

We listen to the voices.  The culture. 
Comparisons falling hard and being pushed around by fear. 
Seeking permission even.  To be ourselves.  Shame showing up. 
And it is ugly.  Uglier than the mice and the thrill disappearing. 
The beauty slipping away.

For life is beautiful.  Even in the ugly.  Even in the broken.
But I wasn't seeing it. 

Because for a time I tried to hide.  The striving and the measuring up exhausting me.  Exhausting others.  And always with a paint brush.  Painting too many rooms at once.  And too many projects.  And moving the furniture again.  The quest for perfection loud in my ear.  My eye never satisfied. Just ask my husband. 

Teetering on something dangerous here.  I admit.  The wild chasing.

Nothing wrong with painting. 
So glad to have taupe covering my walls. Proud even of my work. 
But it's the thing driving it - for years.  Obsession.   

The being driven.  Not attractive.  Doesn't feel good.

And I finally saw myself.  And stopped.
It was not a screech of the brakes but more of a slow pulling over to the side.
Searching through the roadmaps. 
And asking myself. 
How do I really want to travel?

The wild hanging on filling with excitement. 
But now.  Running on empty.  Something broken.

And I have found that it is in acknowledging my own brokenness.
The being fearlessly honest about myself.  With God.
Understanding heartache, shame, bewilderment and regret.
And He in the business of rescuing.  Redeeming.
His deep compassion bringing wholeness of soul.

Goodbye endless striving.  I'm moving on without you.

Not necessarily the cessation of activity but an attitude of the heart.
A relaxing into what is and into being vulnerable.
Accepting myself.   My own brokenness and that of others.
Into which we are all born.

And I am a child. Once more.  At His feet.
Full of delight.

So that I no longer need to hide who I am and what I am called to do.
The wild pursuit quieting and grace transforming.
This, my average life.
Creating something beautiful out of the ugly.
Coloring all the edges gold of this life sometimes so difficult.

My husband so relieved.  For his average girl and our teal blue door.

Doing now what makes my heart sing. 
In the unfrantic and the unhurry.
Freewheeling and full of abandon.

Where average is transformed into the good-enough.
And glory is left to the Glory-Maker.

And we.  Throwing open that Jamaican-toned-down door.
Sharing lives.  Being real.
Around a table and on a keyboard and behind a camera.

Simply delighting.  In Him.