I love this quote from William Carlos Williams, “It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.”

THIN PLACES

So I’ve been in an unpredictable frame of mind lately. Disappointed in myself. Lacking gratitude. Wanting more than I already have. More of what? That’s what gets confusing. Feeling like I need what I don’t already have but what is it I don’t have? I have everything. I have love, family, health. I’m afraid of being so serious I’ll scare others away, wanting to be jovial, light-hearted, hopeful and carefree but feeling scared, controlling and unloveable. At the same time, I’m trying to write about the “thin places,” trying to explain what the term means. I’ve thought back to my time in Paris and various “thin places” I encountered there but wanting to have something more current, something in the here and now, not the “back then” and faraway. And then today I stepped out in the middle of a “thin place” and wobbled there on the brim of tears and am still echoing in astonishment. It happened like this. Last night I left Brett Lott’s new book, “Letters & Life: on being a writer, on being a Christian,” open, on its back. When Randy got up this morning, he saw it laying like that and snapped it shut, thinking he would save the book. I picked it up a short time later, I didn’t bother to try and figure out where I had been. This is very often how entering a “thin place” happens – one is often lost, disoriented or thinking they are somewhere other than they are, not even knowing they are lost but most of the time they believe they are alone. So when I flipped the book open, I was too rushed to try to figure out where I had left off, I just started reading in the middle of the page I opened. This takes a certain kind of intentional randomness that doesn’t really take you very far in corporate America, but as you will see it can take you so much further. These were the words I read: “Because writing is a very lonely thing, you do it, and do it, always alone at a desk somewhere, always just spilling words on the page, hoping they will work….” I immediately identified with these words and kept reading. Lot went on to tell the story of how he had the audacity to ask God for clear indication on a certain day that his writing was making a difference in anyone’s life. “I know I was being impudent and presumptuous, giving God a deadline. But, I reasoned, I wasn’t asking for anything big or for any prize or recognition – just word from somewhere that somehow I might be making a difference.” Lott’s request gripped me and I thought how dangerous and wonderful and tempting. I also assumed that what was about to unfold before me was a story I was also living and wanting to know the end of. For whether I was going to find out that God actually did give Lott a clear sign or whether he didn’t I was going to discover how to respond to my own impudent wants. In short order, Lott details how he went to bed empty-handed on the day he’d asked for a sign. AND YET, he somehow had this amazing “peace that passes understanding” – just like scripture promises. And so, to me, that peace was the sign and I was satisfied for a moment, already, while I continued to read, I planned on making the same request of God and seeing how He might answer me. But Lott’s story wasn’t over. The next morning when he woke up he opened an email from a stranger giving him the evidence he so badly needed the day before. The clincher? The email arrived at 11:59 PM on the very day he’d asked God to answer him. And that’s not all. Two days later Lott received a letter postmarked the same date as his request. Again, the sender gave him a second “testimony” that his work as a writer had, indeed, made a remarkable impact on her life. Lott’s two examples amaze me. Through tears, I thought, “wouldn’t that be something to know that God was so intimately involved in my life?” I sat there with the book in my hands full of yearning, borrowing hope from a man I only knew through words and as I turned the page, my eyes fell on the bold letters announcing the next chapter. Writing With So Great A Cloud of Witnesses. Lott had ¾ of a page left to make his final point and conclude the chapter, but I stopped reading. The next chapter’s title was far too jolting: I was/am speechless. I haven’t yet read the chapter. I’m still stuck on the title. And hear me on this, I had not looked ahead to see what was coming. I had no warning. I could not have predicted this “thin place.” To explain it I’ll have to back up a bit. Several weeks ago I finished the painting “The Great Cloud of Witnesses.” I just had it framed and got it on the wall last night. I painted “The Great Cloud of Witnesses” to illustrate what I couldn’t see, wasn’t feeling and wanting to believe: We are not alone. We are being upheld, applauded, encouraged and observed by a host of admirers in the heavenly realms. Brett Lott’s words ushered me into this “thin place.” I got a glimpse of God’s grace, his mystery and His lavish love as he returned me to a place that so struggles with language and how to write truthfully, artfully in order to make a difference in my life and the life of others. After painting “The Great Cloud of Witnesses,” it seemed to make perfect sense to use the painting to promote an upcoming series of writing workshops called, Bearing Witness. As far as explaining the “thin places” – this was one. A “thin place” is a hairline moment that comes on us unexpectedly when we take the risk to stop and listen, stare and wait – with no possible guarantee of what will speak or appear or be made known to our souls as we dare to give the possibilities space. P.S. Oh, by the way, this is the second time Brett Lott’s writing has taken me unawares into one of those “thin places.” The other one is too long for now. But remind me later and I’ll tell you about it.

In The Thin Places

In the thin places Love's lunge takes you one step into the moonlight while your other leg flails in the dark. Pay attention to your tears, to your anger, to your joy. When the light permits shod your feet with the gospel of peace and go forward. If the darkness persists take off your shoes. Wait quietly for the words. Holy holy is the ground.

The In-Between

This is the edge of what is soon to be – an in-between place like a dock with sea warped boards jutting out across an eddy that might be salt water or it might be fresh. What I know is that the depths below are as descending as the sky is ascending. There is an absence of bottom here, a wedge of blue and green that laps at the air and tunnels into the undiscovered. The dock shift-shapes into a house and the tide lifts the whole of all I imagine to possess. Everything once moored finds freedom in the surf. It wasn’t supposed to last as long as it did. It was supposed to last longer. But the melting truth managed to flood the banks. The sky remains fixed. But the flood refuses bounds. I’m a good swimmer but the press of land assures my feet: I am still here. There's still enough land to sit down without sinking in. And God is here.

Disturb us, Lord, when We are too pleased with ourselves, When our dreams have come true Because we dreamed too little, When we arrived safely Because we sailed too close to the shore. Disturb us, Lord, when with the abundance of things we possess We have lost our thirst For the waters of life; Having fallen in love with life, We have ceased to dream of eternity. -Sir Frances Drake

The Great Cloud of Witnesses

Last year in Puerto Rico, author Mayra Santos-Fibros talked about the practice of setting out a meal for the dead. I was surprised at the practice and wasn't tempted to follow it, but it did bring to mind the Hebrews 12 reference of “being surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.” When I mentioned this scripture to her we found common ground between her work and mine. Since then I've been wanting to paint that unseen realm. Since we have all experienced some kind of marginalization, gross misunderstandings or heartache, I wanted the central figure to reflect internationally "eclectic" features. Remembering the "great cloud of witnesses" turns my focus to the larger life and reminds me I am not alone.

Delphiniums - Well-Structured Support

Delphiniums, those glorious petals in a gardner's crown are not easily won. When small they can be devoured in a singl evening by a snail the size of a thumbnail. If they live past infancy, they require considerable water. They must be fertilized and protected from weeds. Once mature they boast such robust blossoms, staking is required. The supports of a delphinium are nothing of which to be ashamed. In fact, the grander the bloom, the more necessary becomes a well-structured support. The density of her blues makes the delphinium unable to stand alone. The weight of such a hue can send her crestfallen into the mud. The very process of lifting a fallen bloom can cause her to snap. A delphinium will grow improperly supported. Its color will be vivid, its scent sweet, its nectar rich. But its petals will be stained with mud.

Why the Tree Grew on the Roof

What's not in the picture is Mama. But she's here just beyond the rise. The reason we know this is the shape of the tracks. They go round and round. You see, Mama doesn't like backing up. she said so herself - more than once. And just to make sure we all got it she looped the house in a dirt drive and kept down the weeds by gunning the engine of the old black rumble-seat, taking it for a spin every time her and Pops argued. Their circular rants got to be a habit. Even when Pops wasn't home she'd find herself climbing in behind the wheel and gunning the engine. Next thing she knew she'd be moving with simulated progress even though her forward momentum curved back on itself the moment it could have left the old track. Once she wearied, we'd hear her skid to a halt and yank the protesting emergency brake. Nothing grew where those tires spun and that wasfinewith all of us because we'd already ran out of hose for the plants thriving on the rest of our hill. The daily jaunts around the driveway kept her occupied and unable to stick anymore plants in the ground. Even so, you need to know Mama like we know Mama and once you hear the story about the tree she planted on the roof, you'll know Mama. The idea evolved like this - it happened on the day the old car died of old age but Mama was still young. And it was a hot day and every garden hose was occupied and the white pine she'd purchased on sale at the WalMart in the 5-gal tub was busting out its tin seams. Mama took a look at that hot roof, she knew she could toss a pot of water up there with the muscles she'd developed yanking on that brake - without the hassle of tangled hoses - so she went for it. Gota load of dirt, hauled it up a ladder, one rung at a time, and planted that pine. That's our Mama. We think she's brilliant and now you know she's brilliant too.

Words from a Button

I am a button of bone - hewn from the tibia of a dead donkey, sanded smooth between the thumb and index finger of a woman the age of time. After smoothing me she bore me through with an awl slivered from an anvil of desire. The anchor was imperative. As far as I can gather the woman lived in a world of wind, a turning world - going, spinning unhitched to solitude or contemplation. When she began her threading I was still hot from the piercing but curious about the garment to which I would be married. Would it be a bustled affair, pride-starched and florid, or would it be something hospitable and pattern-free that might give my curves a chance to be seen? The garment surprised us both. She took the skin of a dead jack ass and burnished its hide to a shine, then soaked it in a brine of salted honey, rolled it smooth with almond hulls and ironed it with stones warmed over cedar bark flames. When I first felt the touch of that old jack ass, I thought, Dear Jesus what wonders come from your hand. Look how you've coverted that old beast. And then my throat caught in surprise as I was reminded of that old dry bone from which I impossibly hailed.

Evening Primrose (Proving My Mother Right)

When I first brought them from my mother's garden, they were limp, weedlike. She called them Evening Primrose. She said they would multiply, be lovely in the Spring. I was septical. I waited. Watched. By the end of March, their tall, spindly stalks grew hips. April wrapped the hips in pink skirts. Through the afternoons and into the moonlit evenings, the pink blossoms glow. Waiting at the base of each open blossom is another, still sleeping. It springs open the moment the current blossom wilts. The performance lasts for several weeks. Each fall I give many away. I repeat my mother's assuring speech as cynical eyes scrutinize those gaunt, bare stalks. To those who guard and weed them through the fall and winter, these early spring performers wait, once more to prove my mother right. (Excerpted from The Color of Grace:Thoughts from a Garden in a Dry Land)