Done = Art

I am hiding. Hiding from ideas. Hiding from writing. You might see me posting daily paintings and that might look like I'm doing something and not being afraid. But I am still just as afraid as I was yesterday. But when I decide to do something, I do it. If I say that I'm going to post a painting a day, I'll post a painting a day, even if I hate the painting. I should probably have a blog month too, where I have to post every day even if it's terrible.

Everything feels terrible. That's not even the slightest bit true. I actually love life so much right now. It is cold and rainy. Positivity weather for me. I love it! I have a new job. It's an adjustment to my life but I love that too. Everything is pretty fantastic so why did I say it feels terrible?

Because no matter how much I am loving life I still think that my writing and painting is no good. Which is just ridiculous. Because guess what, I am painting and I wasn't before. That is good. I am writing. I wasn't before. That is good. My paintings today are not Monet or van Gogh. But they are mine and they are better than they were a year ago. And they are better than nothing.

The paintings are mine and I take great joy and pride in my paintings. Let me tell you something, I love paint! I love the way it feels when I get it on my hands. I love watching something fluid go smoothly on and how it layers and dries.

But I hide from all of these joys because I am not yet da Vinci. It is scary to share mediocre work and pretend that it is good. But I have to remember that it is not pretending. Of course it's not master work. But it is work. And I love it. I care a lot that other people like it too, but I am trying to not value my paintings on the amount of likes they get. I am allowed to love a painting that got 3 likes even if another got 53. I am allowed to love my work and that is not vanity.

People talk about artists gifts. They call certain artists "gifted."

But I have another secret for you, it is true that some things come more naturally to some than to others, but sometimes to call what someone does "a gift" negates the hours of work they put in to get to that level. The artists true gift is the gift of perseverance. Not giving up even when they feel blocked and uninspired.

And that is the gift that I am struggling with. I may not be a gifted writer or a gifted painter, but the Lord gave me perseverance and dedication. I can be pretty bad at motivating myself, but if I set myself a task I will do it. Which is why I often set myself small tasks, because they are attainable. I can't set myself a task that I might not be able to achieve, not because I'm a perfectionist but because I have to believe it is doable. Setting a goal of a painting a day is achievable because I can put a splat of paint on a canvas and call it done. Done = Art.

But if I set myself the goal of becoming something, or achieving some level of skill then I don't know that I can do that and I will stop before I begin. Art is attainable. Writing is attainable. It doesn't have to be good; it has to be done.

"I will take care of the quantity; He will take care of the quality." - Julia Cameron

Under The Bridge Where I Used To Sit

Under the bridge where I used to sit,

It flowed so loudly, and now I hear its quietness.

I hear the same familiar sounds, but there are new ones too.

I hear the quiet whispers of gentler waters.

Was it always this quiet, but I just couldn't hear it?

I am listening now.



I took a few moments to try to write rhymes

But the words want to flow like the waters beside me.

There is structure in a creek, but sometimes it cuts a wider path,

Never minding if it’s doing things right.

I want to mind. I want to get things right.

But I also want to be the water that is so full it can’t be contained by a mere creek bed.



Under the bridge where I used to sit.

There is so much more for me than the mud under my feet.

The creek has more than the mud it glides over.

I am full of that life, but only if I choose it.

Instead I sit in my troubles, unable to hear.

I am listening now.



I am reminded of a song,

but the waters weren’t the ones who were troubled,

I was.

I was on the bridge looking down at calm waters.

But I could not hear them over the pounding of my heart.

Now I am still. I am closer.



Under the bridge where I used to sit

I hear the quietest sounds of the water as well as the loud.

Who knew a creek of barely a few feet could hold so much depth?

The water is truth, cutting its way, raging - now flowing gently.

I am listening now. I am listening.

Speak Lord.

My Life Is Based On A True Story

Well, that would be how things happened. I've been kinda keeping an eye on my blog and noticing that I'm nearing my 100th post. But of course, somehow I managed to un-publish one. I don't even know how one does that! So apparently I'm not very blog savvy.

I had great plans that my 100th blog post would be something clever and epic, but it wasn't. It wasn't at all. It might have been one of the most bland things I wrote!

This post however represents the start of my next 100 blog posts!

I started a blog in July. It's been somewhat steady. This year the posts have been slower in coming because I also started a daily hand written journal and so a lot of my stuff just gets written there and I don't come on my blog as often as I used to. Maybe I will write up some of my handwritten ramblings some day.

I recently was looking at some magnets with twippy sayings on them and one jumped out at me: "My life is based on a true story."

Well, as if that isn't the most obvious thing in the world! But then, think about it! Life is for real. And depending on how you wanna think about it, you are writing your own story. Or maybe you prefer to think that the Lord is writing your story. He is of course, but maybe it's kind of a choose your own adventure? We are in freedom to take any path He offers us, or to stray completely from any path at all. We can turn to page 34 or 426, depending on what we choose, or we can forge out own path, burn the book, write a different ending.

But I'm pretty sure that no matter what we choose the Lord foresaw it. So He is writing our story. Or at least righting it. No matter what we choose He will do His best to turn our choices toward use and Him.

Maybe I'm rambling. I know that I am, but I'm just too excited to slow down and organize my thoughts.

I started a blog in July. I've written over 100 posts and I am grateful for the encouragement and feedback that I have received. I really do hope that my blog is inspirational to others and is useful to someone other than me, but I also know that it is useful to me whether others get it or not.

I love to write. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I REALLY wish that I could find the story of Toodles and Cindle that I wrote when I was like 4 or something.

I have been writing.

When I was 12 I wrote some never-ending, excessively long story about some royal families and all the people falling in love. It was over 300 pages, typed, single-spaced. It was called "The Story" and it got too big to fit on one floppy disk so I had to split the file so that I could back it up. I have so many partial stories sitting in files on my computer waiting for something to happen.

Seriously the only story I ever finished (other than Toodles and Cindles when I was around 5) was a sorta Frog Prince parody called "The Invisible Prince".

I thought it was cute and okay but had some serious problems. This summer one of my friends read it aloud to me and another friend and that moment changed the way I view my writing. It was one of the scariest things to sit there, crimson-faced while my story was being read out loud! I still cringe a little thinking about it. But they were laughing and enjoying something I had written, and I had a little epiphany that maybe my writing was okay. Maybe people would actually enjoy reading stuff I write!

So, through these friends I developed the courage to at least start a blog. It took me a few more months to start sharing posts on facebook and actually letting people read it! But it has been a great outlet for me.

I love a lot of things, but I didn't realize that I could actually be good at any of them. Painting took me completely my surprise! I'm no da Vinci... yet. But I found that I could never become a good writer or a great painter without trying. Practice is necessary, frustrating, and fun.

I enjoy painting, even when the end result looks like a 2 year old painted it. I enjoy writing, even if I misuse "it's".

I enjoy it, so I do it, and I progress.

My life is based on a true story. It's the story that I make it to be. I get to choose my own adventure. And by golly, I'm gonna choose it!

Turn and Live

You know when you accidentally hurt someone? Like this past summer at the shore, I asked my nephew to ring the supper bell. This bright eyed, chipper little boy had excitement in his eyes as his high pitched voice lisped out "Otay!" and he went skipping away.

My father picked up the child so that the little one could reach the bell. But before he could ring it I turned and slammed the swinging door full into the nephew's head.

I watched the look on his face. He felt betrayed. His little face got pinker and more wrinkled before he let out the wail of pain.

My heart split. I had caused this sweet little nephew pain. I had JUST told him to ring the bell, and two seconds later I had forgotten and thoughtlessly swung the door right into him (I hate swinging doors!)

Luckily my dad was holding the distraught child and was able to comfort him and return him to his mother, but I followed apologizing profusely and feeling horrible.

If it had merely been an accident, and I hadn't known he was there, I'm sure I would have felt pretty bad about it, but I had set him up to be hurt, and one second more of thought would have prevented it from happening in the first place.

So there are two ways I want to go with this story. One: just spending a second more thinking before speaking or acting would save me so many blunders. Why must I be in such a hurry that I don't pay attention?

And 2: I felt horrible. Obviously the following would not occur with a two year old child, but what if I had followed the injured party looking for forgiveness for my blunder and instead of giving him the comfort and apology, he had had to turn around and assure me repeatedly that he was okay and that I shouldn't feel bad and that it wasn't that big a deal and not to worry, and he had spent the next ten minutes comforting me instead of the other way around?

So when I say something thoughtless to a friend, at least two things happen. I wish that I had taken the time to consider before speaking, and I end up needing lots of reassurance that it wasn't so bad and I shouldn't feel guilty about it.

I definitely overthink and overanalyze which is why I wonder if blogging is even healthy for me. I should stop thinking and just spew thoughts on to my blog without thinking. Wait! That's what gets me in to trouble, not thinking before speaking.

So I get caught in this vicious cycle of wishing that I would think before acting, overanalyzing bad choices, wishing I didn't think so much, wishing I was more thoughtful, and on and on it goes.

It's right back to my previous post about turning everything to me. You have a problem? Let me make this about me. "What I do?" "Your pain is making me hurt." Every. Single. Thing. I can make it about me.

I need repentance. But then I need to get out of this dark hole and stop dwelling in sin. The Lord wants us to repent of our evils, but he doesn't want us to live in crippling regrets about our past evils or even mistakes. He wants us to have new hearts and to live!

"Cast from you all your transgressions, whereby you have transgressed, and make you a new heart and a new spirit; for why will you die, O house of Israel? For I have no delight in the death of him who dies, says the Lord Jehovih; wherefore turn back, and live ye." Ezekiel 18:31-32

A dream that brought understanding

I had the craziest dream last night. Actually, it probably wasn't that crazy, but it felt super intense when I was dreaming it.

I was wandering around New York with friends. I've never been to New York City, but have always wanted to go. Apparently not enough to make it happen, but that's beside the point. I was in NY with a big group of people. It got to be night and I was determined to go to Time Square because I wanted to see if it really was as bright as day.

But we never got there. We started wandering, and I got lost in a parking garage in the city at night. I have had other nightmares about just such things. Nighttime can be a bit worrisome. Cities scare me a little, but parking garages are downright creepy! So this is a recurring theme in my nightmares.

I got separated from the group and was going up or down some stairs and ran into a black man who started pulling a gun from inside his coat. I started running and crying. And I ran past several other black people, all pulling guns. I was so terrified that when I got out on the street I wasn't looking where I was going and ran straight into someone.

"Hey, there," he said. I looked up at his dark skin and wondered if I was safe. Now that I was out in the street and not in a dark garage I felt a little safer. There were at least more people around.

"Welcome to Harlem, little lady." The man said, and I decided I trusted him. I wrapped my arms around him, buried my head in his shoulder, and sobbed.

The men who had been chasing me had disappeared.

I started talking to the man. I don't remember what we talked about.

Then the crowd of friends I had been with showed up again. They were all heading toward center city for something. I grabbed one of their hands and was like "Don't leave without me!" and I wouldn't let her go. But I wanted to say goodbye to the gentleman who had made me feel safe when I had been lost.

"Shouldn't go wandering around Harlem alone, white girl," he said to me. And I don't know if I said it or just felt it, but I was thinking about how outnumbered and unsafe I felt: one white girl alone.

And I looked into his eyes and asked him: "Is this how you feel in your day to day life? Unsafe?" His soft brown eyes were kind as he looked at me and answered, "Yes."

My eyes filled with tears as I hugged him and then let my friend pull me away.



Sometimes I analyze my dreams. I think dreams hold meaning, but I think that you get out of them what you choose to get.

So my thoughts as I woke up this morning were something like this:

I don't think of myself as racist. I'm not color blind, as some people claim we ought to be and others claim is just as offensive. But all growing up I noticed skin color, yes, but I don't remember feeling any different about people because of it. Only as an adult, living in a world that is highly sensitive and apt to take offense to literally everything, I over analyze my thinking.

Sure, as a white person I guess I am somewhat racist. So this dream was interesting to me because it felt like I was actually empathizing with this man. Now that I'm fully awake and aware of the criticism I will invariably get if anyone reads this I can picture the responses: "You don't understand at all!" "How dare you think that you understand!" "There's no such thing as reverse racism!"

But in that moment in my dream it felt significant to feel like I understood.

We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.

Sharing is scary. I think it's the fear that someone will try to piece together who I am from the things I share.

"What's wrong with that?" you ask? Good question. Because I get to choose what I share, just as I get to choose what I share in a face to face conversation, just as I choose how to present myself with my clothing and hair and everything.

So what is the fear? There is always vulnerability in sharing anything with anyone, but that is the only way we are to be known. And we want to be known, don't we? Is it that we want to craft exactly how we share ourselves with others? So that we don't let some false notion of who we are creep in to the other person's understanding of us? Cause that's totally possible (insert sarcastic voice)!

Therefore writing should be a safer way of letting people in than a conversation. Because you have the ability to stop writing... and think for a moment about how you want to put out an idea from your mind. You can stop in conversations too, but when you write something to share you can stop for days and no one will ever know how long it was between this word.... and the next.

In writing you have the ability to really craft yourself and look at just how you want to present yourself and your ideas to others. So is it really fear than that I'm fighting? Or is it something else? Could it be shame?

Conversations should hold plenty of meaning, but the idea of an article is a well crafted and informed opinion. It's like in college when I would sit down to an exam and the teacher would have a list of essay questions to write down in one of those little blue books. You weren't expected to have your argument fully crafted and beautifully written. But if the teacher gave you the questions ahead of time, then if you didn't do well that was your own fault and you should have spent more time on the questions before the exam.

In college I never cared about my grades, but I did care that my teachers respected me and my work. I was lucky enough to go to a college where the teachers cared so much about their students. My favorite day was when I was walking through the hallways and my professor stopped me, ran back into his office and came back with my paper, flipped open to the last page and showed me that I had gotten an A!

I cared so little for the A, but it meant the world to me that he liked my work and not only that, but also that he was so excited to show me. He wanted to be there.

So why the shame or fear? I think it is the worry that nothing is perfect. I can have a conversation because that's still working through ideas. It's the point of conversing. But in an article I feel like I'm supposed to come to a conclusion. I am supposed to have accomplished something. And I only feel ready to share it if it is perfect.

This touches all areas of my life. For 2017, I created a resolution to learn ukulele.  And to record and share a song at least once a month. So far I've posted at least twice a month. In the summer I started a blog (Hello readers!). I believe that this is my 27th post. For September I decided to paint every day. And to share every day. I've never done oil painting before!

This creativity, I believe, is all in order to get over this ridiculous notion that everything I share ought to be perfect. I post ukulele songs where I make mistakes, or just aren't very polished. I share unfinished paintings and free flowing thought. I have this blog, but I have yet to share any posts with more than a few people because it feels like too big a window into mind.

But so often my writing is an exploration of my thoughts. It isn't usually explaining something to others, it's explaining something to myself. It's exploring a topic so that I can understand my own failings and do better. I just came across this quote and I really like it:

I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand. ― Cecil Day-Lewis

I think that's the crux of it. I have a hard time trying to write something in order to prove a point to someone or to enlighten my reader. I write to sharpen my own thoughts. Convincing others of something seldom works anyway. So I just like to share my ideas and I hope that others get something out of it too.

Crying: Is it secret? Is it safe?

Ah ha! Writing the crap was useful. I just want to write all the things. I want to work on my stalled out story, I want to write more blog posts and feel all the feels.

I don't know what I want to write about, but it's through writing that I get inspired to write. I just start rambling about life and sometimes it continues to ramble and sometimes it becomes something.

I am a super supressor. Of tears, of emotions. And I want to let them out. I want to cry for nearly no reason right now. I cried twice in the last two days which is a lot for me, and I want to cry more. It's like writing. Writing inspires more writing, crying inspires more crying.

Does the writing have to mean anything for it to be worth it? Does the crying have to mean anything to be worth it? I want to cry because my shoulder hurts. Not badly. Not the kind of pain that really induces aching tears, but it hurts a fraction and that should be enough to let me cry. Haha.

I've always wondered why crying is so hard for me. As a child I cried a lot. My Daddy let me cry. I never felt suppressed in my childhood. I cried a lot. I think because a) I was an emotional child and the feelings were real and valid and b) I was a manipulative child (like all children?) and used tears to get my way. Thinking back on it, I can't ever remember fake crying (but that certainly doesn't mean I didn't do it) but I think I most often used real sad feelings to get my way.

So, I wasn't stunted as a child. 

Or was I?

I think one of the things that prevents me from crying most often is worrying about what other people will think of me. I don't want people to pity me and I don't want people to worry about me or maybe even care about me. That's strong, but I really don't like manipulating people with my emotions. I want people to care about me because I've logically convinced them that I'm worth caring about. I am always worried that people will agree to things that they don't actually want to.

Setting aside tears, when I ask someone for something or if they want to do something, I am of course afraid of rejection. It's human to fear rejection. But I'm also really afraid that they will say "yes" to something that they wish they could say no to. I live in fear of people agreeing to things they don't want.

So back to tears, I am afraid of other people reacting to my tears. Here I sit, across from another human. If I were to start crying while writing I assume that he would notice, probably even stop what he was doing and ask if I was okay. I don't want him to stop his work to deal with me. But I'd probably feel worse if I sat here crying and he didn't react at all. And so my only option is to sit here, suppressing the tears that want to squish out of my eyes. I can feel them. I don't have any idea what they're doing there or what they mean. My little Inside Out people in my brain didn't tell me why anything should be sad right now. I don't feel sad. I don't feel neglected or anything. I just really like crying. But I also hate it.

And while it might seem ridiculous to hold back the silly unlabeled tears, I honestly FEEL like I will FEEL better if I just hold them in and don't let them disrupt other peoples' lives. And yet, I bet a lot of people would actually feel like their day held more meaning if they comforted a friend.

If I trade places with my friend how would I feel? Would I feel happy to give up on this journal entry to help a friend? Of course I would! So why can't I treat myself the same way?

Do I feel the same way about other emotions? If I were writing something else and started laughing, would I feel disruptive? Would I feel bad? No, I think that it is much easier to ignore a slight laugh than the silent trickling tears. A friend might ask what is funny, but they certainly wouldn't be remiss if they didn't ask. If I couldn't stop laughing then sure, some conversation might ensue. But it is definitely a different type of thing. Partly because I wouldn't mind getting someone out of their mood to laugh with me or to enjoy something fun or funny that I could share.

But I have been in the opposite place of being with friends, laughing and having a good time and then having someone show up in tears and killing the mood. Did I want to comfort this crying man? Not particularly, I did feel jarred into a completely different mood. Was it wrong of him to kill the atmosphere that we had created with laughter and fun? Is it wrong of me to think that perhaps he could have chosen a different way to enter? I know that if I were coming to a party and felt like crying I wouldn't have showed up, or I would have come, pulled aside a friend and asked for some support.

And of course I have been in situations with friends where through conversation or whatever they begin to cry and that doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. I just want to hug them and love them and care for them and I don't feel like I am being manipulated or any such nonsense. 

I don't have the answers. I just know that I am afraid. Far too often I am afraid. Are my feelings valid? Does valid have anything to do with it? Ah yes, I will write another post on whether or not feelings are valid and what I think about that! But for now, I will end this somewhat sad entry and maybe go work on my story.

Self expression and fear

Turns out that I'm afraid of everything.

Music choices, clothing choices, hair choices, makeup choices, food choices, movie choices, writing choices, ALL choices. Why must I be so afraid of having an opinion?

But it's not even having an opinion that scares me. I used to have all the opinions in college. I would engage in Facebook debates. I would engage in discussions and arguments with people in college. I still like to toss opinions into a mix, usually they're detached opinions though.

The other day someone pointed out to me that though I have some strong opinions I don't hold on to them with my feelings. We were having a discussion about what is and is not working for us with the church as an organization. I have plenty of opinions, but I just sorta pull the pin, chuck a small grenade and don't have emotion attached to it. This is just my description of what this person was trying to express about what I had to offer. She was complimenting me, and I appreciated it.

But thinking on it now, I think that it's a defense mechanism. I have opinions, but if they're detached from my feelings then I don't have to care about if people reject or accept them. I just let them be. This can be a useful thing, but I think for me it is a wall I put up to protect myself from hurt.

I fear judgment. I guess? Is that it?

I have long been afraid of sharing a playlist. Why? I'm worried that people will not like the music I picked? Or worried that they will judge me by my musical tastes? I have mostly gotten over this fear.

For the most part I don't care if people like my clothes or not. I also got over this one a long time ago. I am fairly used to not caring what people think of my attire. Skirts are not always appreciated. I no longer care. That isn't to say that I'm not touched when people compliment me. I do appreciate that. And I'm hurt if people are unkind too. But the assumed negative judgments are gone. I don't know why I have these assumed negative judgments in the first place.

Why is there so much fear?!?

I am reflecting on a private journal entry I wrote in November 2014. Here are a few excerpts:

"You are being selfish." 

"You're taking the truth and twisting it till it becomes falsity." 

These are words that were spoken to me today. I think it may be the best relationship advice anyone has ever given to me.

And another:

I told a friend that I always want to hear someone elses opinion first, and he called me selfish. Because I'm forcing the other person to be vulnerable first. It IS selfish, and this is where the falsity comes in too. All falsities are linked to some truth, and what I'm doing is taking a truth (that manipulation is bad) and twisting it as an excuse to not really let my emotions engage. I can talk up a huge strom about things I care about, but showing that I care? That's vulnerable and scary, and it is NOT maniuplation. THAT is the falstity!

I can't actually tell at this moment if this makes sense out of context. But it's making sense to me so I'm leaving it in. The point is that I am afraid. And my fear is making me selfish. Am afraid of being vulnerable so I let someone else be vulnerable (even on a minuscule level) and then I shut them down.

An easy, and entirely stupid example is anytime we go to choose a movie. Do I have an opinion? Almost for sure, but I don't often share it because I'd rather get my second choice than deprive someone of their first. Does that make sense? See, it makes sense to me, and it seems noble. And that's where hell comes in. Swooping in, using a true idea and twisting it into something false.

This is why it's stupid, because I let the hells disturb even the simplest of tasks. Choosing a movie should not be a battle between heaven and hell. Or should it? Is everything? No, see, this is the thing: it's taking a small idea and blowing it out of proportion. But sometimes we must magnify the issue in order to see it for what it is. In this instance I can laugh and realize that declaring a decided movie preference is not going to make or break any friendships. And if it were to... those wouldn't be friendships worth keeping if a simple movie choice could bring it down.

See? See how insane my mind is? It's even terrifying letting anyone into this little piece of it. Because it seems so insane when I write an entire journal entry about it. Fear is crushing! So so crushing. So I hide away in a ridiculous little hole and let hell make me feel smaller and smaller until I am nothing. And in being so crushed I become paralyzed by fear and I have to remember to let the Lord flow through me. It is not I who need be afraid. Be still my soul, the Lord is on my side. It is hell that need fear the wrath that I am unleashing. Fear no more! I shall conquer!

One step at a time. Wonderful friends are encouraging me. I created a blog. These posts are public! That's one step. Sharing this post to Facebook? Alerting all the people to it? That is a step I shall one day be able to make, but for now, writing this at all is a step. One step at a time.

To quote a lyric from my dear friend's song:

One drop at a time with patience, trust, and hope
Let the water of life build my strength again

Working on it. One step at a time. Why is it so hard to trust the Lord's own words?

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." Matthew 5:16