in clover: God speaks to you and me!

That was Little c's line in the church children's musical, Oh Jonah!  Ten years ago, Big C was in the very same musical and he spoke the very same line.  (Thank you Michael R., for giving me that gift...so precious to a mother!)

Last year, Michael and I began rehabbing the small 1940’s cape cod style house that we moved to not long before Big C was born.  We no longer live there but we still own the house as rental property.  I remember that there were many (scary) exciting things about making the transition from renter to owner. The thing I found most exciting was the freedom...freedom to dig up (most of) the grass out back and plant a (huge) flower and vegetable garden...freedom to rip up the carpet and expose the (mostly) lovely hardwood...freedom to remove the (hideous) dining room light fixture.  All that freedom was pretty intoxicating. 

The most intoxicating bit, as I recall, was the freedom to live without white walls.  Most landlords don’t mind if you paint but they usually ask that you stick to a neutral palette...you are good to go as long as the paint you choose is called bright white, soft white or off white.

As new homeowners, we gave ourselves permission to go, as my grandmother used to say, "hog wild and pig crazy" with color. The names of the paints were as interesting as the colors themselves....”Lemon Meringue” yellow on the living room walls, “Miss Scarlett” raspberry in the dining room, “Hydrangea” periwinkle in our bedroom, “Moss” green on the walls of the nursery and “Robin’s Egg” blue on the ceiling.  The only room that remained white was the kitchen.  White was the necessary and perfect backdrop for the riot of color displayed in our Fiestaware pottery collection.

We lived in that house for eight years and we never tired of the colors...we touched up the walls from time to time but we never went “neutral” even when color, according to decorating magazines, seemed to go "out" for a time and neutrals definitely in.  

And then we moved.  The home we moved to (and still live in today) had been prepared for the market by being freshly painted various shades of bright white, soft white, and something called “antique” white, aka “off white.”  I was getting my import antique business up and running and was traveling a great deal.  Michael and I were both working very long hours. Big C began kindergarten and all the activities that come with it and we found ourselves very short of time and, looking back, perhaps a little short on imagination.  We left most of the white walls alone except for slapping a neutral shade on the walls of the living room, dining room, stairwell and upstairs hallway. 

One day, not long after we moved in, a friend/client was visiting and she made an offhand remark...something about our colorful collection of Fiestaware “not going” with our new house.  She suggested we replace it with a set of plain white pottery for every day.   So we moved the colorful Fiesta, collected over many years, to a cupboard in the basement and bought a lovely but decidedly plain white ironstone.

Fast forward nearly a decade to last summer.  Friends from the spiritual direction training program I am participating in are coming for a visit.  Having broken our plain white tea pitcher and lacking time to shop for a replacement, I unearthed one of the Fiestaware pitchers stored in the basement even though in my mind, it still really “doesn’t go.” 

When my friend saw the pitcher, she gasped.  “Oh, look at your Fiesta!  That color has been retired!”  she exclaimed.  Really?  I had no idea.  I asked if she’d like to see the rest of it.  I remember escorting her down the steps to my old house basement (mind your head!), opening the cabinet doors and standing with her...staring at the stacks and stacks of colorful pottery.  “Why is it down here?”  she asked.

“I thought it didn’t go....”

“Why did you think that?”

 “I have no idea....”

Something happened that day.  I am not sure exactly what or why but something began to shift for me. 

Color began to return to our home, beginning with the Fiesta dishes.  Here they are...happy in our kitchen cabinet...ready for everyday use.  When Big C saw them, he exclaimed, “Oh, I remember these bowls!  We had these when I was little!  I LOVE these bowls.”  

A few days later, we were sitting in our living room with the neutral walls.  Michael looked around and asked, “What is the name of this color?” 

“Beige Chiffon.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes.”

“Seriously?” 

“Yes.”

“Is that who we are?  Are we Beige Chiffon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think we should paint this room Lemon Meringue!” 

“Sounds great.”

“I think we should do it...today!” 

The shift continued....color began finding it’s way back into our home through many avenues. 

The front door got a makeover...Moss Green #5 replaced Beige Chiffon.  (Yes, Beige Chiffon had also overtaken the OUTSIDE of our home!) 

I loved my shower curtain at the time but still...it went from this (Ballard Designs): 

to this (Garnet Hill): 

We replaced our worn, brown couch with a bright blue one and 
when we discovered this fun, vintage RED easy chair at a local thrift shop, we relocated our vintage brown French club chair to Michael's work space. 

Life has certainly become more colorful.  Certain there is an important spiritual lesson in play, I have mentioned it to a few close friends.  Something’s shifting...something’s changing...I don’t know exactly what it is and I sure don’t know what it means but I am aware of it. 

And then a few weeks ago, in a big hurry, I ran into our local Target to grab some warm weather clothes for little C and was stopped in my tracks by this banner.

Yes, God speaks to you and me!

As I reflect on this year long “return to color” I believe it is ripe with spiritual lessons and insights and I know that, if I am mindful and pay attention, in good time...in God’s time...they will be revealed to me. 


I believe God speaks to us in many different ways....through our dreams...in conversations with strangers...junk mail....nature, song lyrics and banners hanging in discount department stores.  

God speaks to you and me.

And sometimes, God uses colorful language! 

Namaste, 

Lisa 

in clover: courage, in color

Brene Brown has this to say about courage: 

The root of the word courage is cor -- the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage had a very different definition than it does today. Courage originally meant to speak one's mind by telling all one's heart.

Over time, this definition has changed, and, today, courage is more synonymous with being heroic. Heroics are important and we certainly need heroes, but I think we've lost touch with the idea that speaking honestly and openly about who we are, about what we're feeling, and about our experiences (good and bad) is the definition of courage.

Heroics are often about putting our life on the line. Courage is about putting our vulnerability on the line. If we want to live and love with our whole hearts and engage in the world from a place of worthiness, our first step is practicing the courage it takes to own our stories and tell the truth about who we are. It doesn't get braver than that.

Recently I had the pleasure of shopping for art supplies.  They have been sitting in a bag in our breakfast nook, tempting Little C (and me) almost beyond comprehension but we’ve managed to restrain ourselves and tonight we break out the pristine paper and fresh markers, pencils and pastels.  Tonight the ChristCare group I lead will begin a Lenten practice inspired by the book “Praying in Color” by Sybil Macbeth.  Those who show up for Cultivating Mindfulness tonight will meditatively pray for friends and loved ones, through drawing and coloring.

We’ll express these prayers visually and in vivid color.  No words required.   In the weeks that follow we will intentionally focus on portions of our lives that we wish to pray for…in color.  We will pay attention to and acknowledge personal challenges, our growing edges...we'll even draw the whiny, stinky, childish parts of our lives that the author says calls for compost prayers.  We will name our gifts.  We will express our gratitude.   We will chronicle our spiritual histories.  In the end we will hold prayer filled visual images…icons, if you will…that not only represent the prayer that guided their creation but will also serve as a visual reminder to remain in or return to prayer. 

Some in the group are very excited.  Some have bought their own sketch books and markers and colored pencils, anticipating this particular prayer practice might just stick.  Some are quite anxious. They are concerned because they do not consider themselves “creative” or “artistic.”  Some are both excited and anxious. Some are afraid.  In her book, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter, Sue Monk Kidd says, “I cannot tell you how many women I meet who say, ‘Oh, I’m just not creative.’   It breaks my heart, because every woman IS creative in some way, and every woman’s creativity is valuable.” 

It breaks my heart, too.  Over and over again, I have heard it.  Many times it has been my own voice, ringing in my ears.  

I have a couple of cameras and I truly love using them.  I know that material things can’t bring true happiness but there a few things I would really, really miss if I lost them.  My camera would top the list.  I can remember, as a pre-teen, watching my Dad use his Minolta SLR.  I wanted that camera.  Bad.  I had a Kodak Instamatic but to me, that small instamatic was not a REAL camera.  My Dad’s camera was REAL.  I wanted to thread film and change lenses.   I wanted the bag full of gear and I wanted that big, bulky camera hanging by a strap around my neck.  I took a photography class my senior year of high school and had access to a real camera, a Nikon, and a darkroom but it wasn’t until Michael and I were engaged that I graduated from owning an instamatic to a more real point and shoot 35 mm…a gift from his folks.  And it wasn’t until Little C was born that I finally splurged and bought a really real digital slr camera and a couple of lenses.  And a bag for all the stuff.  And a tripod.  It came with the strap. 

Once I saw a status on FaceBook that read, “Buying a camera does not make you a photographer.  Just sayin.”   

As someone who had finally acquired a real camera and was enjoying taking what I felt like were, for the first time in my life, real photographs, this really pissed me off.   I sat and stewed for a good long time.  And then I realized that as much as I hated to admit it, this person is correct.  Buying a camera does not make you a photographer.  But buying a camera and using it to capture images sure does.  Using that camera, no matter the results, absolutely makes you a photographer.  Just sayin. 

No one has an exclusive claim on creativity.  NO ONE. But it does take courage, the kind of of courage Brene Brown speaks of, to claim your creativity.  It takes a willingness to lean into, rather than run from, feelings of extreme vulnerability.  It takes turning a deaf ear to those voices in your head that whisper or perhaps shout, “You are not a REAL artist.”  

In her book, "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter," Sue Monk Kidd says that we must begin by acknowledging our creativity and then “Second, we must explore it.  Ask yourself, “What is my deepest passion, really?  What moves me profoundly?”  And let the answer float up from the truest, most vulnerable place in your heart.  Greet this answer like it is your newborn self being placed in your arms.  Love it.  Bond with it.  Feed it.  Don’t push it aside, minimize, make excuses, and starve this thing of beauty, because this answer is a window into your creative life.” 

Finally Monk Kidd acknowledges that we need to commit to our creative path. She says she meets many women “with books inside them they never write down….women with all kinds of dazzling projects their souls have concocted that for some reason they never get around to manifesting.”  She talks about the difference between “sacred dawdling” and “resistance to act” but in the end, she says, “The main thing is to stop struggling and nourish yourself.  When you nourish yourself, your creative energy is renewed.  You are able to pick up your lyre again and sing.”

And so tonight I look forward to being nourished.  I look forward to being with a group willing to abide to a covenant of vulnerability.  I look forward to connecting with God…to telling my story and listening to theirs.  We will be praying and meditating and drawing and coloring.  This group of creative and courageous women, despite their anxiety and discomfort and fear, will show up to pray for others…maybe for you.  And they will be praying in color.  

Namaste, 

Lisa

in clover: the fairly odd summer and zinnias

If I had a name for this summer, I would call it The Fairly Odd Summer.  It has definitely not gone as expected or planned.  The first half was pretty uncomfortable.  The second half is feeling pretty darn good.  I would like to  explain it to you but I find my experience difficult to put into words and I think I am still processing it. 


In fact, for the past few weeks,  I've been pondering the profound and  insightful post I was sure I should be writing. I've had several false starts involving me sitting and staring at a blank computer screen,  eventually wandering off in search of something "more productive" to do.   A few days ago I was absolutely determined to write something meaningful...inspiring...spiritual.  I had lots of ideas but they just weren't coming together. 


Couldn't get going so I decided to do "something productive" and read my horoscope instead...




"Instead of talking about yourself today, process your emotions on your own and then share your inner journey once you've had time to think about it for a while."


Good enough.  Thought to myself, "Just share some shots of your zinnias." But as I began to write just a bit of narrative to tie the photos together, I realized a story was emerging and it wasn't just about zinnias...I realized that The Fairly Odd Summer has a bit of a theme. 


The first thing that I noticed about The Fairly Odd Summer was the return of color in my life.  Mike and I have lived in exactly two houses together.  The first was a post WWII Cape Cod.  Quite small and cozy and pretty darn cute. Despite the small size, we threw lots of big parties there.  That house was a bit kitschy.  And full of color. Inside and out.  I had a ball decorating it.  I remember thinking of it as a "doll house." 


When we moved to our current home, we toned down the kitsch a bit and we definitely toned down our wall colors but there was still some color.  And then, a few years back, I don't know exactly why, but color left the building.  We moved our collection of Fiesta pottery to the basement and bought solid white for every day use.  I remember the year I began limiting the garden palette to pinks and white.  Bath linens were replaced with solid white, shower curtain and all. We bought a brown couch. It wasn't a conscious thing. It just was.


But The Fairly Odd Summer has harkened the return of color.  Starting with the garden.  The riotous colors of zinnias reappeared in our garden this year. I never actually thought, "I'm going to bring color back to the garden."  It was more like, "I should plant some zinnias.  Why haven't I planted zinnias in ten years?"  


The year that I was pregnant with Big C (who will be 15 in a less than a month), my neighbor taught me how to plant zinnia seeds.  Yes, that's right...intellectually I knew that flowers grow from seed but I didn't truly believe it. Flowers came in flats and pots from the gardening center.  I also didn't know much about flowers other than the petunias, geraniums and impatiens my mother favored.


Although I loved my mothers beautiful containers and annual beds, I developed a longing for what I learned was called a "cutting garden."  I could see myself standing in my garden.  I'd wear a big floppy straw hat and tall wellies.  In my hands I would carry a vintage floral basket and a pair of shears.  I'd wander about, carefully selecting only the most perfect blooms, before taking them inside to fashion a lovely cut flower arrangement in a unique antique container. 


Anyway, even though I wasn't wearing a big hat or wellies, I DID manage to wander into my neighbor's beautiful garden one evening.  It was awash in a riot of colors and blossoms of different shapes. Zinnias. I could hardly breathe.   "What are THEY?"  I remember asking.  "Where did you buy them?  Are they expensive?  They ARE expensive, aren't they?"  She looked amused and said, "Honey, just throw down a few packages of seeds." 


So the next spring I did. Our small home had a very large garden and there was lots of room to throw down more than a FEW packages of seeds.  I went a bit zinnia crazy.  And when Big C was born right in the middle of the summer dog days, my garden was in full, glorious bloom. 


It was fantastic! I remember that as the roses and lilies and carnations that  arrived in celebration of C's birth began to fade in their vases, my mother in law removed them and refilled the vases with armloads of colorful zinnias.  It was definitely a case of "having your zinnias and cutting them too." 


I'm not quite sure what this Return is all about but I am going to pay attention.  I'm just going to watch it and see what happens.


Meanwhile, here are a few shots of my zinnias.  They are planted right outside my sunroom window...I can see them easily just over the top of the computer monitor while I work.   Last year that bed was dominated by a pretty but overly large clump of French lavender.  I was sad when it developed some kind of blight and quickly turned brown and died but I have to say, it was really nice to have a spot for zinnias again.

 
More later on The Fairly Odd Summer. 

Here's to color. 

Peace,

Lisa