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Yearly Archives: 2012
I am a mother to potted plants and a baby flown away.
Children grown in pots, filled lovingly with soil and whisked off to the next home every few years. I want them to send their roots down, shoot out for miles and soak up the California soil, but I am afraid. Fearful to let down my guard, loose control because the earth is years and years, generations of life and death all mixed together. My pots are handpicked, filled exactly with what I “think” is best and they are a heavy but transient load to hoist and take to the next stop on our journey leading where? Do you know this fear, this uneasy unrest, the constant question . . . what do I have to give, where should they grow, when should I trim, how under heaven do I feed them what they need?
And the baby flown away, he reminds me the darkness in this world, he whispers that all will be well in the someday of eternity. I loose track of his blond curls, his sweet face and I forget he is a man running now, more real, more alive, more himself than we. I know that he loves me because he told me in a dream and I wonder why. Me a failure of a mother and carrying these children the only thing I’ve ever done that really matters.
Do you know this pain of feeling failure, of babies flown or never given? Is this day beauty or a scar? Can it be anything other than both? Questions, questions and they’re all I know anymore. Resting in their equilibrium the only thing to do. Soaking up the searing pain and scandalous beauty intertwining because they feed each other. Symbiotic and the death feeds the soil, the blooms making it worth all the sacrifice. Only today’s bloom can be held but it carries in it the seed of tomorrow’s sweet smell. Falling to the ground to rise again.
So we dig our hands down in the soil, no matter where home lies, no matter our space on the land. Blessed by the sun and rain and the Maker of this grand globe. Tiny specs pressed down and we wait for them to spring up and surprise with the miracle once again, bellies filled and tongues thrilled.
Questions swirl and my heart beats fast and frail, but this garden is so good. So good and the one to come is better. I thank him for these seedlings given undeserved, blessed children and the one He holds tight. Beg for wisdom to be a good gardener of little hearts and thank Him for the rain and sun that I could never shower on them.
No matter your journey or who you hold in your arms, I pray you can rest in His love this Mother’s Day.
Many days I’m blind. Hands placed decidedly across my eyes or hiding behind a wall, to timid to peek out. Some days just too dead tired to lift my head and look.
But the story is still there, revealed by each artist, shared by His body – wether I choose to witness or not. To see takes cutting through all the noise, stepping purposeful and looking what is important square in the face.
Strength comes from seeing his body sharing the same struggles, being nudged toward the same goals – longings, dreams and wisdom mingle online. I don’t know if it’s because we hear each other, wake to a thought and echo our own – or if it’s because He is leading us in similar seasons as a whole. Maybe both are intertwined, maybe He uses our words and images to speak to each other.
This week at worship the world overwhelms and I keep my lips shut tight, eyes clouded with tears. Come home in the dark to the man I love and see more clearly in His arms. Us silly kids, friends, lovers battle scared and road weary – one body we are, laying down our defenses, showing eachother the way back to being beloved.
And then the week starts frantic, nose to the grindstone makes it hard to see straight. He comes home, tells me I’m doing the right thing, just don’t give up. Calms my heart enough to hear a familiar voice that I have never met speak truth, beautiful radiant truth into my harried mess. I read and I see more clearly. A friend’s text and I know I’m not alone in being hard pressed. An email and I’m sharing past pain in order to give hope. I remember all the body giving each other sight, strengthening our arms for His work. A family who I know only from their words and images ringing true – remind me I’m not alone in the hard task and blessing of growing new life. They share my longing for space and wonder where to call home and inspire with their contentment in all seasons. A musician‘s iPhone photos open my eyes again to all the exploration and beauty that I forget in the day to day. Another family inspiring with their nonstop adventures overflowing with laughter, taking time to teach me how to capture my own moments. Mothers laying out Bibles and scooping up light spilled on children. A daughter and mother crafting loveliness locally and spilling joy on everyone they meet. I could go on and on . . . His body broken for each other, sharing our scars and feeding each other with beauty and hope. It only takes a shred of courage to open my eyes a bit, just a peek around the corner with a faithful gaze to recognize His handiwork, to see His church amidst the fury of this world. And it takes a moment to slow down, to tear my gaze away from the whirling chaos that demands my attention, to hear and see Him speak through story, through art and through each other’s lives.
The photos above are from this session I shot of my friend and her boys recently. I didn’t ask them to pose like this, these images just came from them exploring interacting with the camera. Children are so raw and real, they seem to know it’s all about seeing – or not. I envy the honesty they know to look with, that honesty we forget as we “mature”.
I used to pound it out, all the fear. One shoe in front of another, running through the misty streets watching the angst steam away with my breath. Taking it all in, Yellowcard blasting in my ears, wind rushing, sun coming up, going down and and the sky always stretching on. I ran through every trouble, each separation. I ran to hold on to sanity with my love a million miles away, not promised to return and two little boys clinging to me for dear life. Over and over I listened, “This is me afraid”, “Shadows and Regrets” . . . and I held on to a boy and girl in love and all the dreams we dared to see.
Then came disaster and my body torn apart. The steps slowed to a stumble, feeling blessed just to keep two feet firm underneath me. Swaying, carrying the weight of new life in my fearful self I marched slowly on. I gained a child to hold and forgot a few dreams and more than a little of myself along the way. L’Engle says we must forget ourselves in the making but when we lose the little girl who dreamed we are diminished, less than whole.
Now, emotions swirl as my baby grows up. I turn to what I know, quicken the steps of an untrustworthy body and for a few minutes I run again. The melody in my ears, the sun grown long, shadows, regrets . . . but I can feel the life pulsing in my chest, greedily sucking in the air. A smile spreads – I can’t give up, not on one solitary dream, not on my man, not on our love, not on all the romance of this broken world.
The shadows reach long, regrets creep in and pile high, threatening to crowd out the beauty He gives. I haven’t managed to give them all I wish, I haven’t walked the path as well as I would have liked. But this is what I have, light on little shoulders. Spelling lesson in an evening wonderland (in nothin but undies :). Crazy, unbounded life climbing on the table, mad to create. This is enough, always will be and I will forever hold these moments. The dark gives the light its’ purpose, its’ brilliant beauty, its’ power. Scoop up this dappled light, spots of truth and forget all the rest. Our real reality is loveliness no matter what else we have seen. L’Engle, she reminds me of this and that it is no fault of my own that I receive – pure gift is given me. In the light of day our most horrid moments will make sense in this story we have run and stumbled through. And the moments bathed in light, those are ours to keep forever . . . held safe in His hands. He does the holding, I’m to let go . . .
Fingers laced with my love, lying in his arms I am whole enough to let go a bit more . . . and we run on dreaming
“When we were only kids
And we were best of friends
And we hoped for the best
And let go of the rest
The shadows and regrets
We let go of the rest”
– Yellowcard
4-12 . 85mm . LR + VSCO . evening window light
There are days where the world spins right, all painted with beauty. Days when the smiles and silly and growing things are enough.When the feel of your desk solid and the tea warm make your heart sigh gratitude. There are days I am content and worry takes a backseat to all His goodness poured out right now. Days I can glimpse the golden gleam of childhood and feel the dandelions brush my cheek just the way they used to. Moments in this uncertain swirl of life where I remember we are always safe in our Father’s hands. When I see gifts everywhere and they are enough.
I don’t yet know how to forever linger in this wholeness, but it feels like coming home. We have been trying to find a new roof over our heads, somewhere to call our “own”. All we found was confusion sprinkled with disappointment. And yet as I return to where He has placed me, it feels like coming home. Joy to paint a wall, plant a seed, see my children run and play, create and grow. We live surrounded in beauty, smothered by a fallen world. Still I long for that tiny backyard, sheltered under one sprawling tree. I miss the honeysuckle bush sweet and how I popped its’ fruit between my fingers. Breathtaking gardens are visited, nature I never dreamed of is witnessed . . . but nowhere to be found is that green park rolling out between friendly trees, fairies dancing amidst the neighbors’ flower beds, elfin folk hiding round rocky borders. It’s childhood I seek.
Amidst all the diapers and responsibilities, if I can be a bit more Mary, a lot less Martha, my children hand it back to me. Between the add your sums and sound out your letters we stop to paint the world right with blue, yellow and red. We try to slow down the relentless march of days with lunches spread out on sand. Time is washed away in waves, while crabs are caught – me just hoping they will remember the golden light of innocence the way I still do.
“We write, we make music, we draw pictures, because we are listening for meaning, feeling for healing. And during the writing of the story, or the painting, or the composing or singing or playing, we are returned to that open creativity which was ours when we were children.” – Madeleine L’Engle (she calls it wonderful racketty creativity 🙂
4-28-12 . 85mm . indoor morning light . painting pine wood derby cars, baby man’s first paint adventure
I’m not good at making lemonade. 33 and I had never made it before.
I don’t think I’m good at motherhood.
I’m a mess . . . Can’t even qualify for a hot mess, just a mess.
I have commenced drinking coffee. Me whose head already spins in circles . . . finally acknowledging that strong drink might be the only hope for making it through the morning mayhem of eggs and diapers, schoolwork and tying shoes. That barrage hitting me bleary headed, still trying to make sense of the day before . . .
The past few yesterdays haven’t gone as I had hoped. How can a woman, thirty some years accustomed to this world still sprout so many dreams in just one day, all to watch them trickle away? And still the mundane must do’s won’t all fit between sun up and sun down. I can’t find the path to talk of grace and hope right now so I rest in knowing L’Engle says true faith is full of heavy doubt – that’s how you know you really care. The fact is I’m deflated, uneasy and my coffee’s gone cold.
We stepped off the roller coaster and have come smack up against reality. If grief is a coma, then awakening is slow and muddled. Just kids we were married and bearing our first child by our first anniversary. Lying,wrapped in each other, I ask him how we got here, how have ten years flown by? What to do when you realize you can’t go back and undo all the mistakes made, can’t grasp all the opportunities you didn’t recognize til now. How has picking wedding colors and assembling cribs turned to college plans and career paths? The panic sets in, I’m always quick to find my way there and to it’s friend despair. He holds me, reminds me we still share the same bed, we hold three healthy children, we care enough to speak our minds, we work hard and we love our God and in this world that is more than most have or even hope for.
Seems I’m always driving now, red light sitting and a motorcycle’s roar takes me back to days of fast freedom. Remember rockin out at the straightedge show and the good and the fierce they embolden my heart heavy with a world of work and worry. Modest Mouse stirs me up and the Lord’s courage appears in the unlikeliest ways. Isn’t that how He always comes? The music washes over, I’m living by songs recently, heart a great yearning ache. The melody draws it out, that deep cry, for . . . for I don’t even know what. I try to walk through the week worthy, stumbling back together with His body. Unworthy. Powerless. It’s all I can think, feel. Tired. Uncertain. And when I am all of this – HE. IS. He is POWERFUL. Washes it all away, brings me in, asks me to ask Him. Breaks my heart, Heals my soul. I’m crying and I’m laughing and I’m opening my eyes . . .
The past few weeks have shared a glimpse of other’s lives. Chances given to covet, peeking at easy street, heaven on earth never works as well as it looks I try to remember. And seeing all the harsh struggle and how we’ve all fallen down, still so hard to get back on our feet. Taking looks at dishonesty, uncertainty, lives destroyed, dreams lost, people hanging on, honest hard work and unquenchable creativity. It all just weighs heavy. Presses down and gives weight to the letters, the message inscribed.
“Keep Calm and Carry On”
Each generation carries the weight of the whole world so the next can play under their wings. A few years of innocence till they shoulder the load. Heaviness presses down.
Our Lord steps in, takes the burden. We are not of this world and so we can smile at the days to come. What a crazy path we walk with hearts lit with passion and death the certain destination. We must hold the days with open hands.
And so my son asks to make lemonade. He who hates singing and too much attention has taken to heart the school musical – “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
So we squeeze sour juice til our hands sting and the pitcher’s full. Stir the sugar in and drink, proud of what we have made. This is all we can do, receive what is given, add the sweet, drink it up sitting round the garden with the ones you love, and give thanks. Give thanks for a cold drink on a hot day. Sing thanks for little hands working next to yours. Shout thanks for food to fill bellies and roof to shelter from the rain. Pray against the dark and breathe thanks for the good and the love,
and make lemonade as much as possible.
“Alright don’t worry even if things end up a bit too heavy – We’ll all float on alright – Already we’ll all float on” – Modest Mouse
Makin Lemonade from sharon mckeeman on Vimeo.
4-2-12 . 85mm . indoors midday
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