Peace, Love and a little Rock n' Roll

A little over a year ago, we helped my daughter to purchase the camera that she desperately wanted. When we took her to the store we had no idea that within a short time her camera would become embedded in her hand and permanently attached to her arm. It is rare now that you see Jessica without a baby on one hip and a camera bag on the other. Her camera is an extension of her self and all of our lives have become more joyful because of it. Mark Twain said, “The secret of success is making your vocation your vacation.” What is your vocation?  Are the tools we hold in our hands each day an extension of the passions we hold in our heart? When Maria picked up her guitar and sang, Let’s start at the very beginning…. she was sharing the sound of music in her heart with those in her care

Each morning as I do my dishes, scrubber in hand, I watch and listen to Rachel Ray. I listen to her not for her quick and easy recipes and interesting guests, but because she keeps me “enthused” about being in the kitchen. With orange spatula in hand, she reminds me that cooking is not only a necessary part of life, but one that can be fun and joyful as well. When enthusiasm (god is in us) for our vocation is mixed with passion and love everyone benefits (and my dishes get done).

A few weeks ago, microphone in her hand, Oprah said good-bye. I was a young mother with several small children when the Oprah show came to Salt Lake City. Folding diapers, cooking dinner and washing dishes, seemed a little less lonely with another woman in the room. Oprah was part of raising my family, Oprah was part of the conversations I shared with my friends, Oprah was part of helping me to see the world outside of my own circle. So I was brought to tears with her final show and the “words of wisdom” she shared with the women that had welcomed her into their homes for twenty-five years. Oprah asked us to pick up where she was leaving off….and somehow I felt like she was talking to me personally. In part she said….

 “What I knew for sure from this experience with you is that we are all called. Everybody has a calling, and your real job in life is to figure out what that is and get about the business of doing it. Every time we have seen a person on this stage who is a success in their life, they spoke of the job, and they spoke of the juice that they receive from doing what they knew they were meant to be doing. We saw it in the volunteers who rocked abandoned babies in Atlanta. We saw it with those lovely pie ladies from Cape Cod making those delicious potpies. … We saw it every time Tina Turner, Celine, Bocelli or Lady Gaga lit up the stage with their passion. Because that is what a calling is. It lights you up and it lets you know that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. And that is what I want for all of you and hope that you will take from this show. To live from the heart of yourself. You have to make a living; I understand that. But you also have to know what sparks the light in you so that you, in your own way, can illuminate the world.”

“When I started, not even I imagined that this show would have the depth and the reach that you all have given it. It has been a privilege for me to speak to you here in this studio, in this country and in 150 countries around the world on this platform that is The Oprah Winfrey Show. You let me into your homes to talk to you every day. This is what you allowed me to do, and I thank you for that. But what I want you to know as this show ends: Each one of you has your own platform. Do not let the trappings here fool you. Mine is a stage in a studio, yours is wherever you are with your own reach, however small or however large that reach is. Maybe it’s 20 people, maybe it’s 30 people, 40 people, your family, your friends, your neighbors, your classmates, your classroom, your co-workers. Wherever you are, that is your platform, your stage, your circle of influence. That is your talk show, and that is where your power lies. In every way, in every day, you are showing people exactly who you are. You’re letting your life speak for you. And when you do that, you will receive in direct proportion to how you give in whatever platform you have.

 “My great wish for all of you who have allowed me to honor my calling through this show is that you carry whatever you’re supposed to be doing, carry that forward and don’t waste any more time. Start embracing the life that is calling you and use your life to serve the world.”

I think this blog is more for me than my readers, but I do want to ask you what tool you will pick up to extend your hand to the world around you? What tool are you now using, what tool would you like to learn to use, what tool can you only imagine picking up in your wildest dreams. Is it a spatula, a garden trowel, a microphone, a camera, a paintbrush, a jigsaw, a pen, a needle, or simply, like the little children who stood at church this morning and held up their fingers-singing ‘this little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine,’ a light?  Please share–

For many years, I have posted my thoughts in A View From My Laundry Room. Today, instead of looking out, I am looking in. Today, I am giving you a glimpse inside my laundry room. I choose to write from my laundry room because it embodies both “time” and “eternity”—a great deal of “time” and hopefully something “eternal,” as it is here I have spent many years “clothing the naked.” I have continued to ponder the balance we seek as women, wives and mothers. In so many areas of our lives, this balance comes not from choosing between two opposites, but in integrating our lives so that they become whole. It is possible that our work can become our worship; our vocation can become our vacation; and the same hands that change diapers and clean toilets, can paint a masterpiece, play the piano and write poetry. As our creative lives, our spiritual lives, our careers and our motherhood all blend together and complement each other, I believe it is possible to solve the problem of Maria?

The mission statement first posted by the Dublin Unitarian Church that I have adopted as my own personal creed proclaims: Love is the doctrine of this church, the quest of truth is its sacrament and service is its prayer. To dwell together in peace, to seek knowledge in freedom, to serve humankind in fellowship to the end that all souls shall grow in harmony with the divine-this we do covenant with each other and God.”

When service is our prayer, folded clothes and folded arms become one.  In a simple parable of growth,  Jesus teaches…”This is what the kingdom of God is like. A man scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how. All by itself the soil produces grain-first the stalk, then the head, then the full kernel in the head As soon as the grain is ripe, he puts the sickle to it, because the harvest is come.” Mark 4:26-28 (This also describes my laundry—night and day, whether  I sleep or get up the piles sprout and grow and I don’t know how) As seeds (and babies) grow, our spirituality increases as we go about our normal affairs—Victor Frankl in the life-changing book Man’s Search For Meaning expounds on this principle:

The more (a person) forgets himself-by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love-the more human he is and the more he actualizes himself. What is called self-actualization is not an attainable aim at all, for the simple reason that the more one would strive for it the more he would miss it. In other words, self-actualization is possible only as a side-effect of self-transcendence. (Frankl, 133)

In climbing mountains of laundry, piles of bills, and loads of dishes we are actually transcending something greater—ourselves and becoming something greater-self-actualized. 

As a young student at BYU, I worked at BYU Married Student Housing, one day I was sent on an errand to check on something in the laundromat. I noticed a woman sitting next to a front-loading washer, staring into space as she waited for her laundry to finish spinning. In my naïve, youthful, foolishness, I prayed a small prayer that I would never become like this lady. I was so blinded  by the beam of arrogance in my own eye, that I could not see the sacredness of the work she was doing. Is it a coincidence that the sacred Ganges River, the giver of all life and the place where all faithful Hindus hope to be buried someday, is the same river where women also wash their family’s clothes. These are women who perhaps understand the karma yoga, one of the four pathways to god, the path through work. 

To be continued….

A writer on mythology made the observation that every one has their story that guides their life; everyone has a story that has influenced their journey. Today, we may not be as familiar with the travels of Odysseus or the feats of Hercules, but we still have our own “mythological” stories and our own “mythological” heroes to guide us. Most likely, these heroes and heroines are found in our films. When I was five years old, my parents took me to the Cooper Theater in Colorado Springs to see the Sound of Music—my life was never the same. Maria became my Beatrice, my guide through the labyrinth of mortality.

Maria had seven children, so I had seven children.

Maria married the dashing Captain so I married a dashing Captain Corvette. Maria climbed mountains;

.

I have climbed mountains.

Maria was torn between her life in the abbey and her life in the secular world. I also feel torn between the “contemplative life” and getting my butt out of my chair and taking care of the children. Recently, a friend blogged about the angst she felt about needing to spend more time in church and at the temple after having her fourth baby. In the past couple of months, this subject has also occupied a lot of my thinking as I have tried to balance the pull of “singing in the mountains” with living responsibly. I find myself wanting to “hide in the abbey” (interpreted as disappear and read a book) instead of caring for the captain’s children (interpreted as finding the floor of the laundry room).

The glyph for womanhood seems to embody this dilemma for all women. The cross at the bottom represents our need to be grounded and in touch with the earth, this temporal world, those day to day chores that sustain life.  The circle at the top represents our needs to be part of something spiritual, heavenly, and I will add creative. It is a constant balancing act….it is the problem of Maria…it is as hard as holding a wave upon the sand. Elaine Pagels, a woman, a mother and a prolific writer often quotes the Gospel of Thomas. “Jesus said, ‘If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you.  If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.’”  Finding balance, the balance between our outside life and our inside life, between our creative selves and our responsible selves, between our contemplative lives and our productive lives, between the spiritual and the temporal can save us or destroy us. In the words of another writer, “If you do not go within, you go without.” Or as Stephen R. Covey teaches,…”are we ever so busy driving that we forget to get gas?” The quotes can go on and on, yet I sit here and blog and the dishes pile up and the kids are hungry.

Maybe we just need to listen to the Reverend Mother and “Climb Every Mountain.”

Climb every mountain, (of laundry)
Search high and low, (for shoes, for keys, for time and clues to be who we are meant to be)
Follow every byway,
Every path you know. (The whisperings of the heart will tell you this)

Climb every mountain, (of dishes)
Ford every stream,
Follow every rainbow,
‘Til you find your dream. (To dance, to write, to draw, to sing, to read, to photograph, to explore, to love)

A dream that will need
All the love you can give. (and a big chunk of your time)
Every day of your life
For as long as you live. (If you don’t bring forth what is within you…I hate to think of the consequences!)

Climb every mountain,
Ford every stream,
Follow every rainbow,
“Til you find your dream (oh for Pete’s sake, or St. Peter’s in this case, just figure it out Maria!)

A dream (and kids, and family, and a spouse) that will need
All the love you can give
Every day of your life, (not kidding here Maria, EVERY DAY of your life)
For as long as you live.

Climb every mountain,
Ford every stream,
Follow every rainbow,
Til you find your dream.

Oh, this is where I get teary eyed….seeing Maria and her family climbing the Alps….I have confidence and confidence I love, besides what you see…I have confidence in me…and you….how have you found balance…please share (I have worked all morning on the font-I give up;-).

Every day or so, I log into my checking account and I am asked-What is your mother’s maiden name? —Some days it will ask for my maternal grandmother’s name or the name of the street I lived as a child or my first pet’s name or the elementary school I attended. Before I can even find out if I am overdrawn or if the power bill is due, I am swept up in the memories of my mother and grandmother, a tiny terrier named Tinker and a blue house on Morrison Street. I remember feelings of security and a rose trellis, a white bird bath and a basement family room painted fire engine red, the smell of cut grass and four-o’clocks climbing the house, the sounds of Johnny Cash and Eddie Arnold on the radio, mostly I remember being loved…..

Recently, my mother made the comment that she was a little out of step with her peers in her parenting style. She didn’t pay much attention to what the mothering guru of her time, Dr. Spock, was teaching. She had her children “naturally” when other mothers put their trust in sterile, modern medicine. She breastfed in the new era of formula feeding. She was a professional, working mom. She was laid back and always up for a fun outing while the other moms had us locked outside, lest we mess up the vacuum lines in their carpets. She loved the outdoors and instilled in her children a love of nature, wide-open vistas, the desert and aspens. My earliest memories are of the mountains, streams, Jeep trails, ghost towns and scenic overlooks. My mother was a church goer-always alone, but we knew Jesus and we knew what it meant to be a Christian. My first memories of singing were “Jesus loves the little children… and This little light of mine….”  Most important, when other moms were “shake and baking,” my mom had a rotisserie chicken on the barbeque with homemade bar-be-que sauce, baked beans that took hours to make in the oven, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass playing a “Taste of Honey” on the stereo, and margaritas in the blender—(she doesn’t remember that though;-) Oh the joy of warm Arizona evenings!

The more I think about my mother and her slightly unconventional mothering; I realize how I am like her in so many ways. The helicopter in both our parenting careers never seemed to get off the ground. I was a latch-key kid and as an adult now realize how much I needed the independence that raising yourself brings. I was free to roam the neighborhood, experiment in the kitchen and curl up in a corner and read a book. I could navigate Chicago O’Hare airport at an age that today’s children are still supposed to be in a booster seat. I have wondered if my own children wish they could sometimes come home to an empty house. Oh and books—mom loves books, I love books-Please let my kids love books- (or at least a Kindle). She always was a member of a book club-the arrival of a book each month was exciting-James Michener’s latest work, The Thorn Birds, Pearl Buck. Perhaps, it explains my addiction to Amazon and the joy I get when I open the mailbox and see a cardboard box. School was OUR domain-she sent us there and expected us to make it work-and we did-I don’t remember reading charts or SEOP’s, parent teacher conferences or heaven forbid a teacher ever calling her unless we had thrown up—and back then we had school nurses for such emergencies. We were independent contractors in our home. Unless, of course, we needed to build a haunted house, decorate for Christmas or load the car to go camping-then we worked as a team.

As I reminisce about my mother, I start to think of her mother and the slightly hazy memories I have of her and it occurred to me that like my nearsightedness and fiery temper in the face of injustice, I have inherited many of the qualities that the women ahead of me also share. My mom once told me that my “Grandma Bernie” was the black sheep of her family (check). Seeing a picture of her and her first husband standing in front of an airplane in 1929 with a note on the back that said, “our plane,” I felt a kinship of spirit; she obviously had her head in the clouds. (check)  I wished I had known her better and heard stories of when she was young. I do know she was a “Rosie the Riveter” during World War II, when they moved from New Mexico to L.A. I know that she kept a jar of money to make sure my Mom had what she needed even when money was tight. (check).  I know that she worked hard her entire life and I have a faint memory of going to the variety store where she was a cashier to buy my first Barbie doll.

Our mothering styles are an amalgamation of so many influences, the generation we are born into, the combining of parenting styles of our spouses, magazines, television, and church. But, the golden thread that binds us together is the love we have experienced in our own homes and our desire to pass that on to our children. Happy Mother’s Day to my mom and sisters and to my girls who are now mothering my grandchildren.  We are so lucky to be born into a land of milk and honey—breast milk and Honeyfields that is!

First I cried, then I threw a two-year-old tantrum, then I pondered for a very long time, then I found peace and realized how very much I miss having a place to share my thoughts. My biggest regret, though, was the two emails I received that said, “that is why I don’t blog either.”  Really folks, what are we thinking? What was I thinking–thanks for rolling your eyes Jessica and then sending me this quote…

And this one from Billy Elliot…

I was an inquisitive child, even today I can remember asking the “big” questions of relatives, “Why did God make people?”  “Where did I live before I came to my family?”  I took a poll once, figuring that whatever answer received the most votes must be the correct one. Aunts and uncles would smile, pat my head –or pull my nose and pretend they had it in their hand, as I asked them about the mysteries of life—and then my parents would remind me that children are to be seen and not heard. I grew a little older and loved learning about the “scientific method.” A corner of the laundry room became my lab as I spent hours looking at things under the microscope, mixing chemicals from my chemistry set and reading biographies about Louis Pasteur and Madame Curie. I had my “Junior Conservation Kit,” complete with tweezers and magnifying glass, to take on family campouts, where I gathered specimens of leaves and rocks in my preparation for my career as a forest ranger.  Junior High, in the early seventies, introduced me to “social awareness,” I would strum my guitar and ponder my world of a war in Vietnam, space travel, overpopulation and pollution. (Don’t laugh, I even won a pair of binoculars and a bird watching book with my idea to clean up the air with a giant filter like the one in my aquarium.) High school introduced me to the world of political ideas and my favorite teacher, Mrs. Simmerman, kept us thinking about the Cold War, the Iranian Crisis and Watergate. I discovered George Orwell and Aldous Huxley and contemplated the consequences of living in my brave new world. Paradoxically, by the time I reached college when most young adults are just beginning to “question everything,” I settled down and I quit questioning anything, because I had the answers—all of them. What a wonderful place “the university” was — so secure, so certain, so sure.

But, as Dr. Timothy Johnson points out in his book Finding God in the Questions, “Passages between the seasons of life have a way of provoking questions to answers we take for granted because we’ve been living with them for so long. When change occurs, old questions often take on critical importance again.” I have learned that having “the answers” doesn’t necessarily mean “the questions” ever really go away, even those earliest questions of a precocious kindergartner or an awkward seventh grader. Perhaps, they can be shelved, they can be numbed, they can be buried, but always they will remain part of our lives. Reading, studying, pondering continued to be a part of my life squeezed in between dishes, laundry and teaching my children “the answers.” Unfortunately, as the great historian, Will Durant, has pointed out, “Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.” And, discovering that ignorance, finally opened my heart to once again experience the childlike joy of “asking the questions.”

It is scary to feel like a kindergartner again, whether it is going back to school, trying to make a lump of clay look like a pot or sitting in front of a mirror struggling to sketch a self-portrait with a piece of chalk. But, kindergarten is also a wonderful place. Kindergarten is our first introduction to being independent. It is where we let go of our mother’s hand and learn to raise our own hands and ask questions. It is where we first experience the “burden of freedom.” It is a crossing of a threshold. Dr. Timothy Johnson continues, “ The pivotal points in my own pilgrimage have occurred when I crossed the thresholds of change-from inherited beliefs to intense questioning, from intense questioning to discovering what I truly believed and disbelieved.” As I too, passed through these thresholds of change, I have had to learn to live with ambiguity, uncertainty…and a few hot flashes. But I have also learned to appreciate this view of life expressed by Theubten Chodron, “I believe that spiritual practice is more about holding questions than finding answers. Seeking one correct answer often comes from a wish to make life which is basically fluid, into something certain and fixed. This often leads to rigidity, close-mindedness, and intolerance. On the other hand, holding a question—exploring its many facets over time-puts us in touch with the mystery of life. Holding questions accustoms us to the ungraspable nature of life and enables us to understand things from a range of perspectives.”

I loved “holding questions” as a child. I found peace in our school library and joy in my makeshift “laundry room lab,” as I got a little older. I enjoyed our naive discussions in my high school political science class. And now, as an adult, even without my “Ranger Rick Nature Kit”, I enjoy analyzing the “ungraspable nature of life.” I love discussing philosophy late into the night with Steve and often wish for the days of the Paris Salon. Most importantly, I have experienced fulfillment of the promise “Seek and ye shall find, ask and it shall be given….and always what I have received is more questions—just like Mrs. Simmerman used to do in American History!! No wonder she was everyone’s favorite teacher.

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With this post, I have decided to close my “Seeking Peace” blog. Perhaps,“seeking peace” includes not posting the “innermost thoughts and feelings” of one’s heart in such a public forum. I will continue to post the ubiquitous vacation and birthday pictures on my other blog and I will continue to write the thoughts of my heart in a journal for my grandchildren. I have learned that being a writer, even a mediocre one, requires thick skin or a pseudonym, neither of which I have. So adieu my loyal readers!

Coincidentally, my amaryllis bloomed the same week as Amy Chua released her new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom. My flower remained in bloom for a week, approximately the same amount of time it took for Ms. Chua to make her rounds of the talk shows and guilt moms across the country into making their kids get off FaceBook and finish their homework. Thank goodness that is behind us. Watching her expound her child rearing philosophies on The Today Show, The View and even the Wall Street Journal, I felt inadequate, but I also felt a pang of sympathy for what may lie ahead, as her darling girls, piano virtuosos and National Honor Society scholars, someday write their own books, like Amy Tan of Joy Luck Club fame, questioning their Chinese mother’s methods in a western world. Putting yourself out to the public as a parenting expert is risky business. In a very small way, I know.

I have realized over the years that my garden is a much safer arena in which to hone my parenting skills and my blooming Christmas flower encapsulates everything I have learned about motherhood. The week of Thanksgiving, I planted a rather large, uncomely bulb. I put it in a good soil, watered the bulb, put it in the sunlight, kept it way from the pets during its tall, gangly stage and then I waited. I was hoping for a Christmas bloom, instead, it burst out in crimson during the dark, cold days of mid-January. Children and flowers bloom on their own schedule—they will not be rushed. Like Mr. Wilson in Dennis the Mennis, I waited patiently. What I didn’t do was plant an amaryllis bulb and then pray and beg, plead and cajole it everyday… to be a tulip. When the bud began to open, I didn’t threaten to quit watering it, unless it put forth the fragrance of a hyacinth.  I was not disappointed when its deep red petals were not the pure white of an Easter lily. And I didn’t curse my lot in life to have been given an amaryllis bulb to tend indoors, when I really only like planting daffodils outdoors. I have learned that a gardener’s joy is rejoicing in the uniqueness of each plant. Gardeners are nurturers not manufacturers. Each bulb and each child comes with an inherent genetic code uniquely its own. I believe that too many mothers, Tiger Mom included, see their job as producers and their homes as factories. They want to “turn out” well-behaved, smart, successful offspring. When they produce what they perceive to be a “defective” product or the child does not fit the mold they have chosen, much unnecessary grief, tears and hand wringing are the result. Lost is the joy of the growing season.  Overlooked is the beauty of the blossom.

Motherhood will continue to be a job fraught with challenges. A changing society will always call for new ideas and new ways of relating with our children. Different cultures have different values for what is required by parenthood. As an older and wiser mother, I have many regrets for mistakes made. I believe that Amy Chua may cringe ten years from now when someone asks, “Oh, aren’t you the lady that wrote the book?” Fortunately, flowers and children are very forgiving; with each new season we get a do-over.  With the wisdom of age, I understand what the Buddha meant when he said, “If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly-our whole life would change.” I do and it has!

Behold the lilies of the field how they grow-they neither toil nor spin and yet I tell you even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these….lilies do not need to do anything to make themselves more glorious or cherished—-Anne Lamott

I began raising my family in the age of BIG. Everything was big. Our hair was big. Our cell phones were big. Tom Hanks was BIG. Our car was big. Our family was big.  (Oh my gosh, look at this picture-I was big!) We read “The Magic of Thinking Big” and “Think and Grow Rich.” We quoted Goethe, “Dream no small dreams, for they have not power to move the hearts of man.” Now as my family is beginning to shrink it coincides with a world that is also downsizing. Less is more, simpler is greener and smaller is moraler—or so we are told.

On a recent segment on the Today Show, the realtor expert rolled her eyes at the thought of anyone wanting one of those monstrous four bedroom homes sitting empty in markets across this county. I could only imagine her reaction at being asked to list my house. When everyone comes home, with spouses, I have enough toilets for each person to have their own (toilets yes, toilet paper iffy).  Could I live with one toilet-of course and I have. (In fact we do, no one uses the other eight.) In some circles, our porcelain thrones would be considered excessive—perhaps even immoral. Toilets, acres, cars, clothes, children… when is too much, too much or too many, too many or too big, too big? This is a question many others and I seem to be pondering a lot lately. A question with as many answers as there are people.

With each generation, the pendulum swings one-way and then the other.  Booms are followed by busts, war by peace and those with all the answers are followed by those questioning everything. What worked for two Baby Boomers will most likely not be the solution for the next Millennial Generation. In this volley between generations and between ideologies, somehow this big blue ball has always remained in play and life has moved forward.

We all embrace the ideologies that work for us. From early in our married life even when we were poor starving students we tried to “live abundantly.” We lived the law of the fish and the loaves-there was “enough and to spare” even when that “to spare” was a cup of soup when a friend dropped in. Somehow the cupboards remained full, the babies kept coming and we always had enough. Simplifying is good. Scaling back is often necessary.  And, there are some of our “big” decisions that I regret. (Egads, how many perm rods does it take to create that hair.) We have done without and at times totally screwed up, but then life comes back “pressed down and overflowing.” Abundance comes from the heart, scarcity from our place of fear.

Besides believing in abundance, I also am a closet claustrophobic. (Is that an oxymoron?)  I think in their hearts all “westerners” are claustrophobic. We love breathing room; we love wide-open spaces. We love big skies, open plains and towering mountains. Why is it “moral” for horses to have lots of room, but “immoral” for people?

So Ms. East Coast Multiple Listing Service, I understand that you hate big houses, but I love my big house (most of the time). I love my big family (all of the time). I love having neighbors on a “wave as you pass” relationship. I love the fact that I have enough lawn chairs to host reunions, recitals and Trevor’s Open Mics. I love stemware, silverware and holiday plates—enough for everyone. I love having a guestroom or two—and I love being able to be a crashing pad for the “sick and afflicted” (occasionally). I like having two dishwashers and two washing machines—a necessity no, a convenience yes. I love having a place for all my books-I love books! I love flowers—who can ever have too many- and flower gardens. And I love trees—all kinds of trees; redwoods and maples, aspens and birches, Japanese maples and dwarf apples—I don’t think God rolls his eyes when out of a little acorn the might oak grows –in fact a God who created Mt. Everest and the Sahara Desert, ants and forget-me-nots— probably doesn’t even care about stature or size.

A french hospital showing the close relationship of hospital and cathedral

The sun was just beginning to crest over the red rock hills of St. George, as we entered the Dixie Regional Medical Center. A kind, silver-haired gentleman greeted us at the door, his nametag indicating that, even at this early morning hour, “volunteers” are filling their golden years with good works. He directed us to a waiting area where I got a cup of coffee and settled into a corner chair, in anticipation of a long day of reading and catching up on emails. Meanwhile, my parents filled out some last minute paperwork for my stepfather’s surgery. As I looked around the room, filled  mostly with older men and women, a perceptible feeling of anxiety filled the air. Clutching overnight bags and talking in nervous loud whispers, all seemed extremely humble. One by one, the room emptied as nurses called out their names, Frank, Hilda, Robert, names that betrayed the years of their birth.  The hours wore on, and Glenn Beck blared in the background (I think old people like Glenn Beck because they figure if it is almost the end of the world for them it might as well be for everyone).  Eventually, doctors began to come into the room, looking for anxious relatives to report on surgeries that had gone as planned. A collective sigh of relief could be heard from the whole group who had been brought together by a Tuesday morning schedule. As I watched the confidence and carriage of these young doctors, doctors who had spent years studying and learning the skills of a surgeon, it was hard to not note the contrast. Once again I heard the small voice that has become my constant companion whisper, “God is in the paradox.” The Greek Orthodox theologians teach any statement of God must be paradoxical, to remind us that the divine cannot fit into our limited human categories. God did indeed seem to be in the paradox of this hospital/cathedral. Spending a few days visiting in a hospital, I could understand how healing happens with the skill of a surgeon, but also with the soothing voice of a recovery nurse. The high tech of the hospital was balanced with the peace of the healing gardens. The brusqueness of the focused doctors was eased by the kindness and comfort of  “Rose” the nurse. The prayers of relatives were answered with skills gained from years of study by the medical staff.  Knowledge was balanced by humility.

The word hospital comes for the Latin word hospus meaning stranger or foreigner. Other similar words are hospitality, hotel, hostel, and hospice. In Medieval times, a hospital was the work of the church to provide a place of shelter for the visitor, the stranger and the infirm. Each town with a cathedral also had a hospital The French word for hospital is Hotel-Dieu meaning “hostel of God.” Today, architects design hospitals as a “hotel” of sorts. Emphasis is now given to both the technology and the aesthetics of the building. Dixie Regional Medical center serves as an art gallery as many of Southern Utah’s finest artists display their work in the halls. The gardens surrounding the hospital, gifts from philanthropists, are peaceful and beautiful; the staff seemed unusually kind, trained to be “hospitable”.

A few days sitting in the hospital, away from the everyday cares of life became a Sabbath. I realized that I have found God in the paradox of faith and reason. Healing requires both body and spirit. Spirituality consists of seeking and finding; wisdom is a product of joy and pain and life is found in birth and death. The paradox insures that I cannot ever create God in my image

So in continuing with my art lessons—One evening as we sat around drawing, our teacher asked us what our favorite new tool to draw with was? This alone has been an eye opening experience as, previous to this class, I always thought that there was only one tool—a pencil. My favorite has been vine charcoal, made from a burnt piece of grapevine, and “smooth as butter” as our teacher says. Others liked the pens and the compressed charcoal. When she asked the girl, who was drawing next to me, what her favorite medium was, without hesitating she replied, “the eraser.” I chuckled to myself; yes an eraser had become a very good friend to me too. Then Annie, our teacher, began to expound on how critical our eraser is to “letting in the light in our pictures.” I stopped and glanced at the landscape of the “eraser girl.” It was beautiful and she was drawing with her eraser! Annie then explained that the painter, Jan Vermeer, was famous for his works of light. He created his paintings by first putting down a layer of paint and then going back and removing the paint where he wanted the light to shine through. A quick question to the Google god reveals many examples of “subtractive” drawing where layers of charcoal are then removed with an eraser, letting the light shine through the drawings.

Driving home from the University of Utah that night in my “pondermobile,” I began to think of how important erasing is in other areas of my life. Just like my drawings which are total “works in progress” so is my life. There are few mistakes that cannot be erased, no lines that cannot be removed and even in the most dark times we can find ways to let the light shine through. Especially in my motherhood career, I wish that I had the opportunity for “do overs.” But, instead of wadding up “the paper” and starting again, we can get out our magic eraser and redraw the lines. As I have learned in class, the smudges add “richness, texture and layers” to our finished drawings. It is comforting to draw knowing that I can fix mistakes. It removes some of the fear. It is comforting to live knowing that a wad of love can be used to clean up the myriad blunders I make in the “art of being human.”  As I continue to forge forward on the self- portrait called “ME,” I will erase, redraw, stand back, try again, and be satisfied if it still remains slightly off-balance.