A Daughter's Eulogy

Here is a picture of my dad: Bundled in dark plaid, hunter orange toque, whiskers and hair slightly unkempt because "it's warmer fer ma ears that way!" driving Garf the Tractor to the woods to cut logs and drag them home. Snow everywhere, breath fogging, he and the dog warm themselves by the wood stove.
Here is another picture of my dad: Christmas morning sleeping in just to drive us kids crazy, instant coffee and sweets for breakfast and he was almost, if not more, excited for presents than we were. I remember him being so delighted and proud to haul all the gifts from their hiding places to put them under the tree on Christmas Eve, the pure excitement and joy on my daughter's face, and the feeling of complete family love and belonging on all those Christmas mornings.
Dad showed his love in different ways. Ours was not a house with a lot of hugging or verbal "I love you"s and actually, he spent a lot of the time away for work or in the garage fixing small engines, building something, watching the hockey game or listening to music. In fact, the garage was his home as well as in the house with us. Lazy boy chair, TV, radio, cold beer, warm fire - what more could you want?
He showed his love by doing. My father was a doer. It took me a long time to figure out his language, but here is a page from our book: a personal alarm system when I first moved to Toronto at 18 years old meant "You are my baby girl and I know what a scary world this can be. If anything happens to you, I will blame myself." A fire extinguisher and smoke alarms for birthday presents told me "I love you and want to protect you." And when my daughter Georgia was born child proofing and safety precautions were taken to an all new level because now he had two important girls to look after.
The relationship between my father and daughter has been a very special and beautiful one. Georgia has no biological father figure in her life and so my dad naturally stepped up to fill those shoes. Their love for each other is so obvious and so joyous to anyone who saw them together; she was like a second daughter to him and he was more than a grandfather to her. He taught her how to gut fish, rank wood, tend a garden, drive a truck and tractor, paint, build and fix anything and I can see how his guidance has helped shape her into the little person she is. The loss of my father Charles will be profound for my baby G.
For my brother Cory I can see clearly how our dad is living on through him. My brother's quiet strength, willingness to work hard and step up to help take care of us are traits he learned from our father, whether he likes it or not. I imagine the father/son relationship to be not as easy as it looks. Two strong opinionated men with the common goal of loving their people and making a good life - but often with very different ways of making that happen.
I want to be honest in this account of my father's life and by doing so, honour him. He was definitely not perfect and perhaps being the daughter he fiercely protected has coloured the mark he's made on me. But isn't that how lives are lived? Many men contained in one - father, brother, partner, friend.
Each of you knew him in a special and unique way. Each of you has been impacted and shaped by your experience of him as we bump and grind and jostle our way through relationships daily, that over time make us who we are.
Dad was somebody I looked up to without even knowing it. He was my measuring stick - be it some aspect of him I aspired to or one I wanted to avoid. We had a rocky relationship through my teen years and early adulthood, but I always knew I could count on him to rescue me, I could always count on him to keep me safe.

Thank you to everyone who loved him so hard, especially my mother, brother and his sisters, Lois and Hazel. You have wrapped our family in your arms and cared for us. And now, I guess, we say goodbye and see ya later Charlie.

Here is a memory from my dad: six years old and learning to swim, his big steady hands under my belly as I paddle my arms and kick my feet. He gently takes his hands away and I am on my own.

This Love Business

Should I feel ashamed of my strength, my toughness, the tenacity that has saved my life again and again? Should I be embarrassed of the events and circumstances that have brought me to this place in my life? Should I feel less than beautiful because other people have told me that's what I am?
The trouble with being tough is this: how exactly has it damaged me? I know the benefits of being one tough bitch with a generous shot of dyke thrown in: I've survived mental illness, I'm raising a wonderful and well adjusted child, I have incredible friends and a good relationship with my family. I'm smart and sensitive, empathetic and understanding. I've lifted the weight of the world and not broken in half completely.
The damage, however, is the utter pain I make myself feel when someone else disappoints me. The damage, perhaps, is expecting others to be as tough and awesome as me. And the damage that is done to my heart when I finally let go of the toughness and trust another to love me is like a hot knife in the chest. Fear and pain corrupt me.

Technology and Grief

On the couch at the hospital, clutching my cell phone, mp3 player blasting sad piano notes into my ears, still can't block out the world, still reaching out for comfort but only able to handle it through technological means. What does this say about me and my defenses? I am already crying, if someone touches me tenderly I may dissolve. Reach out only through technological means: can only handle the comfort, removed.

How, how is it that life is so incredible? Mountain highs and valley lows, all in one epic hike. One moment the trail kicks the shit out of you, the next someone is helping you up that steep incline. How can life begin and end simultaneously? How can I feel searing grief and giddy hope at the same moment in my time? So many associations are filing into my head now - the simple act of walking: one foot forward into hope, one foot left back in grief. Same body, same direction, same intent for life.

Pretty ladies, boys and ice cream

Dylan Thomas, Emily Dickinson, The Black Keys, pencil and pen, sketchbook, pretty ladies, boys and ice cream - all my friends today as I tried to soothe myself after visiting my father this afternoon in the hospital. And surprisingly, I was able to make a drawing, a good one. What a sweet, small gift! Maybe my hands remember how after all. I've been so critical and discouraging of those hands. When they don't perform, I get angry - even though I know I haven't exercised my drawing muscles in ages. It's certainly a skill that must be used and used and used, in order to maintain and hopefully, improve drawing skill.

I know this blog has fallen by the way side, but I'm not feeling guilty over it. It serves its purpose when need be. And hey, who reads this stuff anyway?

i carry your heart with me

ee cummings:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world (for beautiful, you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope, or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

F Bombs Ahead

STRANGE. That is how I feel...all this existential, uncharted territory, unsure human feelings crap is all so damn strange, considering the attempt at routine lives we all make. Then again, there are stories of those trapped within their routines, struggling to get out of it, to feel passionately about something, anything...then there's me, who feels so much goddamn passion it's enough to make me want to stick my head in the sand sometimes. It seems I do nothing by the book. I am not straight forward, I am not boring, I am not bored. Fantastic, wonderful, you say. Gee, sure sounds romantic, Marsh! Well, fuck romance. This bullshit is hard.

I am empathy, incarnate. I am love, alive. I am a raw bloody heart just asking for more road burn. Please kind sir, please family, please God, drag me along the fucking diamond road of sharp pain to the gut. Fill up my capacity for human sorrow. Throw me from the tree tops in a whirlwind of joy and ecstasy. Then, make me feel small and ashamed, or, expansive and beautiful. It's all in there. I've got it all, maxed up. Mind you, I am so thankfully not of the subset that has these feelings to an unbearable degree (such as those with Bipolar disorder) but, Jesus, why did you make me this way???? Fuck.

My detail oriented, obsessive digestive digressive self seeks endlessly. For what? Meaning? My life is over crowded with meaning. If I see even a fraction of the lives around me, a part of people's love, loss, triumph, sorrow, struggle -- I am blessed. I am also overwhelmed. This job of being an empathetic, seeing-eye human, whose self proclaimed* mission it is to 'love and serve. serve and love' --this job is harrrrrrrrrrrrd. Man, the times I have just wanted to tell people to fuck off and check their bull shit at the door...but nope. I attempt grace. God must be looking at me, saying 'Aw, aint that sweet? Little kitten thinks she's a dog! Watch out kitty, you gonna be devoured.' No Marsha. He's probably more likely saying 'Aw. My baby's trying so hard. She's got it so backasswards, but she is so fuckin' sweet. I love that kid.' Thanks God. Love you too.

Fight the negativity! Fight the thought traps you lay for yourself. And for fucksakes, quit over thinking everything...just try to feel the wind in your face, unfettered, as your bike careens down York, knowing full well your brakes are a little iffy. Feel your muscles tighten when you paddle that kayak, knowing full well the current could sweep you off and you could end up in a bad way. Don't be afraid of feeling good, knowing full well you could end up sad and afraid. It's ok to love. It's good to love. It's crazy to love...it's so damn human to love imperfectly.

aHEM. Sorry for the delay. It's been busy!

Since I have recently directed someone to this very spot, I figured I should check in and write a little something something (what's the onomatopoeia for THAT?)

Up close and personal

I'm thinking about my father and why it is I am so afraid. I'm wondering why he is sad, what makes him afraid. "Because he's dying, duh." Go behind that blanket phrase and what do you find? I wish I could ask him. Our relationship is one that doesn't really encourage real questions or honest answers (although since he's been sick a lot of rules have changed).

Instead I think about our collective fear of death. It seems to be that a huge amount of money, time and effort are spent trying to fight off the one thing that is guaranteed to happen to every one of us. Rich or poor, gay or straight, young or old, no one can escape death. One Man transcended death, but as far as I know, we're stuck with a bum rap.

So is it fear of pain? Fear of what happens after we die - blackness, worm food, purgatory, Heaven, Hell, reincarnation? Is he afraid he'll miss me or that I'll miss him? Sad he will miss watching my daughter grow up, that he will only be a memory and a pretty fuzzy one too - she is only 5 after all. Sad he didn't get to do the things he always wanted to do and the things he is used to doing. The friends and family of the deceased lose so much when their loved one dies...but what I haven't thought much about is the kind of loss my dad is experiencing right now.

i'm afraid of that creeping, brainless disease that is consuming his body and life. An entity that isn't capable of thought, or compassion or reason - but knows all about motive, purpose and need. Fuck cancer and fuck the horse it rode in on. It's so fucking unfair. That's my dad you have, you godless bastard! Leave him alone, go away, let us be! What did we ever do to you!

Walls

It's a defense mechanism, a coping strategy, a shield, an out - to intellectualize, to think poetically, to turn the reality of the situation into an abstract concept so as to distance myself from it. Today at my father's side in the hospital, feeding him ice chips and watching his body shake uncontrollably from pain, it occurred to me that I have long thought I understood suffering. Political suffering in the misrepresentation of people's values in our government system; social suffering in the stigma and judgment surrounding mental illness and homosexuality; relational suffering in the countless breakups and small deaths of friendships I've mourned. But this, this physical suffering, I do not understand. In political, social and relational forms of suffering I can understand the abstract concept of growth, the linear reasoning behind the answer to the question "Why did this have to happen, goddammit?" However, all reasoning is thrown out the window in the face of my sick dad, who does not look like my well dad. I don't know how to control this at all, and that scares me to hell.

"This is very important -- to take leisure time. Pace is the essence. Without stopping entirely and doing nothing at all for great periods, you're gonna lose everything...just to do nothing at all, very, very important. And how many people do this in modern society? Very few. That's why they're all totally mad, frustrated, angry and hateful."
— Charles Bukowski

Don't Walk There At Night

I have the passing of Easter to thank, and some bad news from my father's oncologist for the latest idea forming in my head.
I've been thinking of maybe trying to let inspiration get through my 'nope, i don't wanna do a damn thing right now and that's ok' filter. I live next door to an old cemetery with some very elaborate, architectural stone markers. The place is filled with monuments and ceremony, homage and humility. I know the hardest part of anything is just to start, and my drawing abilities are deplorable now (just like a muscle - you don't use it, you gonna lose it). So, when the weather cooperates, I will go with my three legged stool and cop a squat next to some 'short dead dude' (Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure reference there...) Actually, I'd like to take some rubbings of the stones first; my hands first need to feel the thing before they can understand how to draw it. Do other artists operate this way? Hmm. Honestly the thought of drawing terrifies me, because I've tried and failed recently....but I could do it once, so I can do it again.

Rollercoaster

Edit and re-edit. Final edit? Never.

poet: Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Time does not bring relief..."

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year's bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go,--so with his memory they brim!

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, "There is no memory of him here!"

And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

Warning: Bad Writing Meets EvangelicSpeak Meets Gay. Disaster Imminent

This post is a very personal one. This month marks the one year anniversary of my split with The Meeting Place Church due to conflicting views on the issue of being gay and Christian. When I first started attending the church in 2007, it's true I didn't walk in with rainbow flag flying...well, I just wanted to be known and treated as Marsha, not as a controversial issue. As well, I was still working out my own understanding of myself, for myself. So for lots of reasons I kept my sexuality hidden (those of you who've ever been in the closet know I don't need to explain the reasons why I was in there). However, as I grew up through a devastating bout of depression, as I grew in my faith, as I grew to love myself it was clear that it was time to come out. I first approached the head pastor with whom I had a pretty strong relationship. We had one meeting in which I came out with the truth...there were lots of questions on both sides and lots of talking on both sides...and at that point communication was still flowing (albeit painfully). I went home and thought a lot, prayed a lot...and wrote a letter to the pastor. I would like to share it here, mainly because I think it has some relevant points that other people share, and hopefully this will spark conversation. I was seriously hurt and let down by the human side of Christianity...and it's ok for me to not bury it. (Please forgive the bad writing and lack of all that wonderful essay detail stuff) So, here goes:

Dear Pastor,
A couple of things concern me about our conversation last week:
1. The de-emphasis of sexuality as a core part of my identity;
2. The implied assumption that my past negative experiences with men have somehow contributed to my sexuality;
3. The assumption that I "struggle with feelings of homosexuality".

I'm not sure what your opinion is on the origin of sexuality...whether you personally think it is biological or chosen, natural or sinful.
I'm not sure what your opinion is on me bringing my future girlfriend to church either...if I would still be welcome as an openly lesbian person. I know you think there is a danger of me depersonalizing this issue and blowing it up as a 'me-against-them' attitude by asking these questions of the church, but I hope you understand why I'm asking the broad questions as well as the specific ones. I'm hoping that my church will stand beside me and support me as a whole, as I go through this process of learning to love myself as Christ does. That's the thing...I believe my sexuality is natural and biological and therefore, given to me by God. If He knows every hair on my head and knew me as I was knit together in my mother's womb, then He surely knew I would grow up gay. He knew that in puberty my sexual feelings were awakened for both sexes and strongly for females. I do not believe my Father created me wrongly...I don't struggle with feelings of homosexuality. I struggle with the church's lack of acceptance of my choice of whom to love.

I have been thinking and praying about his for many weeks now. One thing that God has impressed upon my heart is the assurance that firstly, I am His beautiful daughter and that He loves me just the way I am. He has given me the gift of faith in the last few weeks, the rock hard certainty of His existence and His acceptance. When speaking with a friend awhile ago about this gift of rest she warned me that since God had taken the worry from me, be careful not to take the worry back. Also, a book called "Taking a Chance on God: Liberating Theology for Gays and Lesbians" by John McNeill has helped articulate and clarify my thoughts. In his book, McNeill points out that gay people struggle with an impossible dilemma "...to believe in God necessarily seemed to involve hating their own gayness and accepting their gayness seemed to involve rejecting their faith in God" and later saying that only a sadistic God would create millions of of people a different way and expect them to deny their sexuality and lead loveless celibate lives, or repress and think an integral part of themselves so wrong and ugly that they could slide into such internal conflict that they become deeply troubled, unhappy and even suicidal.

I've spent a lot of my life troubled and unhappy. The past few weeks I have been feeling pretty good, I've had moments and minutes of passionate happiness that I recognize as a gift from God, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize it. The thought of having to leave The Meeting Place in order to protect my mental health seems ludicrous because the people there have been so loving and supportive...except about this. The trauma I've suffered at the hands of men hasn't made me hate men, hasn't made me switch my sexual preference to women because I feel ill when a man comes near me. It has made me hate betrayal. It has made me hate conditional love.

I came out to a congregational member on the weekend and it didn't go very well. It wasn't a heated argument, but we obviously disagreed. I expressed that I didn't want people praying for me to change my sexuality; it feels like a slap in the face, like praying for my black skin to turn white. Pray for God's will to be done in my life, absolutely. But she prayed out loud that I would just meet the right man and fall in love and have more babies so God would heap blessings on our joyous, righteous life. That hurt me so deeply I can't even tell you...I don't fit into that mold. I don't want more babies and I want to fall in love with a beautiful woman who wears her hair back and damn near swaggers with confidence and self love. Dos that put me outside my Father's love? Will He only love me and bless me if I fit into that cookie cutter nuclear family shape? If so, I don't think I want to be part of this anymore. But that's the thing...He has assured me that I am not outside His love and I am not outside His blessing. I am sure of our relationship growing in love and I know He knows what's in my heart. It's the human church that is getting it so wrong.
So it would seem we are at an impasse. My mental health cannot withstand teaching that is hurtful and hopeless, and that is what I feel is happening. If i am counselled to repress my sexuality and pray for a change in my orientation, or if I am counseled to lead a celibate life on this earth, I don't feel God is in that and I will have to leave The Meeting Place.

Tough Broad

How do I get tough? How do I grow a thick skin? How do I harness that fine edge of cynicism and doubt to do my job better? Do I have to?

Sometimes this job weighs on me. I find myself burdened by empathy rather than empowered by it...I feel so closely the pain and need that comes through our doors every day - the struggling single mothers, the wandering homeless, the lonely elderly. I want to help them all, help them completely, solve their problems. I understand I cannot, nor am I expected to, be the fixer of the situation - that is God's domain. I am a small part in a big story. It's just very hard to remember that when she's looking at you with tears in her eyes, begging for money for diapers and milk...When he's got multiple disabilities and is frustrated with not being able to work and having to beg for food money...When she has no family left and has nothing left to do with the days. Several days ago I helped a couple who said they were trying to find work but had no transportation or decent clothes...I gave them all the bus tickets I had, called around the city trying to find a store that would donate them clothes, and gave them a drive to the store. Later I found out their story was not reliable. I felt foolish and confused, embarrassed and a little angry, but my sympathy still was there. Was I taken for a ride? I don't honestly know. I lack the experience and the hardness to size up the situation and make a judgment not based on emotion.

Sometimes this job weighs on me.

Hired to clean the toilets? Sure. What do I really do at St. Paul's? Whatever God asks me to. He asks me to serve Him every day, see Him in the people that come here, honour Him through them. He doesn't ask me to save the world, or even save a life directly. He'd never do that, I can trust Him on that one. He asks me to love, to keep on loving even through my struggles...to serve His purpose by listening and being kind, and doing what I can at the right time. What I need is help discerning this 'what I can' and 'at the right time' business.

The Great Dilemma

I find myself at a turning point today.

Last year I became aware of the EMERGE group of artists' collective here in Fredericton. Through this collective, you meet once a month for discussion and encouragement, schedule group shows and the like. Most likely a step in the right direction, art career-wise. Through my own absentmindedness, I have also become aware that today is the last day for application into the collective. They hold juries once a year.

I also have a meeting with Peter Short tomorrow to discuss the non profit initiative we'd like to make in our community, through St. Paul's, via a used clothing bank/grocery store/cafe to foster fellowship and mission here at home. I don't have time to do both - today, and in the next year.

So which do I choose?
But I think I've already made a choice.
At the risk of sounding Christian - y and preachy, I think I'm deciding to follow God's call... Dang, it always surprises me when I end up being obedient! And for that reason, I know it's a good decision - that our actions will bear fruit, and that my art career won't wither and die simply because I didn't have time to apply to this one collective for this one year. Relax, Marsh. Bigger things await.

5 Lessons on How to Treat People - Author Unknown

1. First Important Lesson - "Know The Cleaning Lady"

During my second month of college, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions, until I read the last one: "What is the first name of the woman who cleans the school?"

Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her 50s, but how would I know her name? I handed in my paper, leaving the last question blank. Just before class ended, one student asked if the last question would count toward our quiz grade.

"Absolutely," said the professor. "In your careers, you will meet many people. All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say "hello."

I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.


2. Second Important Lesson - "Pickup In The Rain"

One night, at 11:30 p.m., an older African American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rainstorm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car.

A young white man stopped to help her, generally unheard of in those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxicab.

She seemed to be in a big hurry, but wrote down his address and thanked him. Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant console color TV was delivered to his home.

A special note was attached. It read: "Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes, but also my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others."

Sincerely, Mrs. Nat King Cole.


3. Third Important Lesson - "Remember Those Who Serve"

In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10 year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him. "How much is an ice cream sundae?" he asked. "50¢," replied the waitress.

The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied the coins in it.

"Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?" he inquired. By now more people were waiting for a table and the waitress was growing impatient. "35¢!" she brusquely replied.

The little boy again counted his coins. "I'll have the plain ice cream," he said. The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and left.

When the waitress came back, she began to cry as she wiped down the table. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies. You see, he couldn't have the sundae, because he had to have enough left to leave her a tip.


4. Fourth Important Lesson - "The Obstacles In Our Path"

In ancient times, a King had a boulder placed on a roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the king's wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply walked around it. Many loudly blamed the King for not keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about getting the stone out of the way.

Then a peasant came along carrying a load of vegetables. Upon approaching the boulder, the peasant laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to the side of the road. After much pushing and straining, he finally succeeded. After the peasant picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse lying in the road where the boulder had been. The purse contained many gold coins and a note from the King indicating that the gold was for the person who removed the boulder from the roadway. The peasant learned what many of us never understand - "Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve our condition."


5. Fifth Important Lesson - "Giving When It Counts"

Many years ago, when I worked as a volunteer at a hospital, I got to know a little girl named Liz who was suffering from a rare and serious disease. Her only chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion from her 5-year-old brother, who had miraculously survived the same disease and had developed the antibodies needed to combat the illness. The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the little boy if he would be willing to give his blood to his sister. I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, "Yes, I'll do it if it will save her."

As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color returning to her cheeks. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded. He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will I start to die right away?".

Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his blood in order to save her.

The Stories We Lose When Not Looking

Discouragement is such an obstacle in life. It's everywhere; it's in my lazy fingers not willing to write the stories that pulse through my head. Try to overcome it, try to be connected, just try.

Some stories I have neglected to relate over the holidays. I made an old man cry. He is the last surviving Elder For Life at St. Paul's, elected in '60-something, and was in to make a donation to his beloved traditional church. I was kind to him, served him tea while he waited for Cathy, the office administrator, to return from her lunch break. I sat and talked with him, asked him questions about his life, answered his. It was December 31 and the office was closing down early that day. I could easily have pushed him on his way; don't bother me, I'm going on vacation. However, I find value in these encounters with people, real people who have lived a long and worthwhile life. I left him in Cathy's capable hands to take care of his business, but passed him on his way out the door a few minutes later. He had a big smile on his face and told me 'Happy New Year, dear. Thank you. I have never been treated so well at this church!' Then he hugged me and when he pulled back, there was actually a tear on his cheek. That moment made me realize that we are important. We all have a precious gift to give to each other: respect.
It makes me think of another woman in the congregation. Some of our members are alone now. Due to age or life circumstances, a few are without close family and seemingly without purpose anymore. This woman has the classic name of a queen, or some proud heroine in a novel about women changing history, but she comes nearly every day for companionship and purpose. Out there in the world she has a very small ripple effect, but inside the walls of St. Paul's she is important and respected and I feel privileged to play a role in that transformation. That's what Jesus does for us too - transforms us from paupers to queens in an instant, through no act of our own. I embrace her because I'm embraced as well.
Don't be fooled by my appearance. I may look like I'm just pushing a mop or repeating the same chores day after day, but in reality, I am important. I help others any way I can. I take pride in my work. I make a special effort to be humble and reverent when talking to you. I love and respect as much as I can.

The Great Divorce

C.S. Lewis is the writer who has influenced my thinking the most. His humbleness, his imagination and his understanding of the Divine resonate with me profoundly. The questions that arise from reading his texts further my journey with God - contemplation of Hell, Heaven and human desire are brought into focus when I read his work. In reading The Great Divorce I see myself in each of the Ghosts and Lewis' vision of Hell is chilling...

Learning about myself, my world

I find my creativity is cyclical and goes something like this (starting at a random point in the circle - since it is cyclical there is no beginning step): curiosity about the world, followed by observation of the world and the inherent beauty all around me - the buildings, the colours, the crows scrambling in their flying cities...I feel tuned in and intimate with life. I feel connected and special and energetic. I wouldn't say I'm 'channeling' the energy around me because that implies some kind of harnessing, or focusing when really I feel as if I'm caught up in a current that is flowing through me, lighting up my dim bulb perspective again. I begin to read meaningful books; books about questions, theology, philosophy and sometimes motorcycle mechanics come my way and I learn. Learning is intoxicating. Once I begin I don't want to stop, but that desire is also cyclical. And through this learning stage, ideas pop up about subject or material and usually I have several false starts and nothing feels right at the drawing table. Sometimes I give up, sometimes I persist (depends when the deadline is!) but when I hit upon something that works it is like finding the key to the treasure room and I can't get the gold out fast enough. That eureka! moment is precious. I work like crazy, the images consume my thoughts and even as I'm working on one thing I'll have another quick fire 'wonder if I do this...' and the image will take another twist. Because of this method of working, that is - being driven by the material, I can't guarantee what will happen and I can't even guarantee the subject will be as originally intended. After this intense period of creation *read: deadline has been narrowly met*, I don't want to look at that drawing table for a long time. I hibernate, watch tv, give my brain a rest. Slowly I'll come back to life to the life around me, but it's any one's guess how long that will take. Soon enough though, I become curious again, and start noticing again, and the cycle repeats itself....gratefully.