Heart-Work

The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.

Rainer Maria Rilke from Wendung (Turning Point) as translated by Stephen Mitchell

To Know the Dark

The holiday season has been very busy here and I can't help but think of myself as one of Santa's elves as I walk to the Post Office with great bags of parcels. The past few days have been quiet and I've been enjoying the silence and the darkness of this time of year. I've been thinking about this past year and the year ahead; what I would like to focus on and what I would be glad to let go. I've been collecting books and supplies that I haven't been using to gift to local charities and am delighted to find that I now have empty boxes and shelves and drawers. I've come across lots of odd inspiration that I've collected and stashed over the past year as well: postcards, articles, notes to self, poems. I came across one bit of poem that I'd like to share here because it seems so perfect for the season.

To Know the Dark by Wendell Berry

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

Winter Wandering

Earlier this week there was a big storm along the coast. A Hurricane Force Gale Wind Warning was in effect, with winds measured at 90 mph. Mobile phone service went down first, then the electricity. The nighttime was the worst for me - the noise kept me on the edge of sleep throughout the night and I awoke unrested and on the edge of patience. Fortunately we had nowhere to be, so we stayed inside until it passed, doing our best to stay cozy.

Personally, I like to live in a place where the weather gets the final say. I like an excuse to stay indoors with a blanket and hot tea, watching the storms roll in. I like to slip into my rainboots and raincoat and tromp around outside when most everyone else is indoors. But the best thing about living on the coast year-round, is that I'm always here on those rare days when the winds die down and the sun peeks out. Those are the days you have to drop your plans and go wandering, or else you will regret it, because more likely than not, the weather won't hold. Today, I went wandering. The air was warm, and the wind had calmed, but the sea was wild and the beach was strewn with wood and seaweed and these marvelous mountains of foam that skittered across the surf. I pretended that they were chasing me much to the amusement of the gulls (oh, I doubt they even noticed!).

At the beach that I visit most often, the woods come right down to the sea and there are marvelous trails from in the forest. I ducked into the woods to breathe the pine breath and feel the thrum of the forest pushing up through my feet. 

I met the most marvelous fungi. Here is the most handsome little red-capped Fly Agaric mushroom of the many I came across, some of them as wide as your face!

Amanita Muscaria (Fly Agaric)

I've never actually met this one in person - but I believe it is named Purple Fairy Club (doesn't that just sound like fun?). This one is a bit faded with age, but still astonishing. I couldn't resist lying down next to it and tickling  it's sweet little fingers.

Clavaria purpurea (Purple Fairy Club)

Work Days

I always like to read about how other people go about their work, especially creative people who work for themselves, so I thought I'd share a bit about my own work days. I also like to see real photos of artist's studios - not the kind that have been arranged to perfection. Stylish interior photos are great, but here are a couple of shots I took last week.

in front of me: Poupette work

behind me: an oil pastel in progress.

I've drafted a lot of schedules for myself, but I seem to enjoy rebelling against my own schedules even more than I enjoy drafting them. Drafting schedules is one of my favorite procrastination techniques and whenever I start itching to draft a new one I know for certain that I am avoiding something that makes me anxious (like a new painting or figurine I've never made before).

I do try to take weekends 'off' just for myself, to daydream, snooze or have an adventure, but honestly most days are work days at the moment. Weekends are just a bit more laid back.

I've had to shift my idea of 'work' to accommodate my current way of life. I've always had to work to support myself, and have held a wildly diverse range of jobs over the years. Indeed, I earned money milking goats for a while, and a decade later I was flying around the country giving presentations to mayors (I'd prefer a nanny goat to a mayor any day!). No matter where I worked, or how much money I made, I just wasn't content. I had an astrological reading a few years ago and was told that I would always be unhappy working for anyone else, no matter what I was doing for a living, and that I would have to find independent means before I could make peace with my work. Independence, especially in relation to work, was intrinsic to my nature. For so many years, I had just been avoiding the inevitable. 

Today, I work at home and share a studio with my partner. My work is also my passion. If it wasn't my means of income, it would still fill up the rest of my hours. My work is not in competition with other facets of my life, but quite integrated... and if I didn't have to make money to support myself, my life would look pretty much the same - I just wouldn't take commissions. At this time in my life,  there is nothing I desire more than to go deeper into my creative work. It took literally four years to carve out a lifestyle that supports this path.

My work day schedule is pretty flexible, but usually spans twelve hours, including a nice long lunch and dinner, as well as a walk to the post office and/or grocery store if necessary. I begin 9-ish AM and end 9-ish PM, and probably work for about nine hours (lucky number nine!). I currently run every facet of my business, which includes: making custom orders, working on paintings-in-progress, communicate with clients, boxing sold items for shipping, making Poupettes for the shop, taking photos of new work and editing, uploading new listings to shop, researching and developing new ideas, ordering supplies, marketing (social media, SEO, etc.), and accounting.

Some days I focus on one thing, and other days I'll dabble in them all. I have a big calendar on my wall, make a new list on a post-it note each day, and trust my instinct as to where I should focus next. I also tend to prioritize the raw creative work for early in the day and save the computer-based work for later in the afternoon.

This schedule feels very natural and has been working well for me, but I know I'll need to revisit my goals soon and adjust my days accordingly. There are a lot of unfinished projects that I want to complete and the business end of my work needs to be better contained. It seems like a day-to-day schedule does not always suffice when it comes to larger projects.

A Delightful Suprise

Last week I was delighted to discover that the Poupettes were featured on a beautiful design blog called My Paradissi. I was even more excited to discover the blog, which belongs to Eleni, an architect from Crete. As much as I love my stormy northern coastline... I often dream of the Mediterranean Sea.

The Things You Do Not Have to Say

The things you do not have to say make you rich.
Saying the things you do not have to say weakens your talk.
Hearing the things you do not have to hear dulls your hearing.
And the things you know before you hear them, these are you, and this is the reason you are in the world.

- from Crossing Unmarked Snow by William Stafford

Goodnight Sun

We often walk down to the bay to watch the sun set beyond the mountain to the west, but just beyond the mountain, less than five minutes by car, is the ocean. 

Tonight we packed sandwiches and potato chips and bundled ourselves against the ferocious wind. Inland, it was mild - light jacket weather - but along the coast there is usually a strong, cold wind that seems to blow against you no matter which direction you are walking, north or south.

It was hard to avoid looking at the sun as it began to turn red along the horizon. When I looked away and blinked  I saw hundreds of tiny suns in jagged rows, like notes of music along a staff. I wondered out loud if it would be possible to play the music on a piano, if only I knew how to read music. You would have to play very quickly before the notes faded to pink. You would have to know your stuff.

I said, "Goodnight Sun" as the last rays disappeared below the edge of the horizon. I felt authoritative, as though I was saying "goodnight" on behalf of the entire continent of North America. I thought about friends who lived to the east, already nestled into the darkness. I thought about the earth turning in that direction, turning away from the sun just for now. I thought about the story the astronaut told about watching the sun rise or set within seconds, in forty-five minute intervals as he orbited the earth, and how he was plunged into utter darkness and blinding light without the grace of twilight. (I listened to this story here). I thought about how the sun wouldn't know what I meant by 'night' and tried to imagine how it might feel to be the sun.

Something Very Beautiful

N. came across this video recently and I found it so moving that I had to share it here. I think there are some ideas and emotions that can only be expressed through motion. With the song it is perfect, like a dance.

It's an animation by Michael Dudok de Wit titled: Father and Daughter. The song is Among Angels by Kate Bush (from Chronicles of the Snow Globe - Chapter Seven 50 Words For Snow). 

From what I understand, the animation won an Academy Award in 2000, but the song wasn't released until last year. 

I am so inspired by the expressive minimalism of the drawings and the essential human experience that is conveyed. I need to remind myself of the things that inspire me, the things that I admire and look to as signposts in my own creative work. I hope that they will inspire you as well.

This Volcanic Activity

I was hiking with friends through a lava field in the high Cascades on a path that appeared and disappeared as we traveled. Often, the path would spur into two and if we took an incorrect path it might lead to a dead end and we would have to backtrack. We were hiking out and it was growing dark. The others had gone ahead against my request and there were only two of us on the path. Ashes began to fall from the sky, like snow, and I realized that the volcano was erupting. My friend and I sat down on the path, afraid of losing our way, and realized that we would  have to spend the night. We could see wolves in the shadows, watching us, and we held hands to comfort one another.

Ladder (encaustic on wood - 2008)

I awoke trembling and asked N., who knows about wolves, and he reassured me that wolves do not attack people. Still, it is frightening to be watched by shadows, to feel exposed and blind - ignorant and defenseless. Of course it is frightening, but it was beautiful too, and very true.

There are rumblings beneath the surface of my life. The path is undefined; sometimes it seems misleading or non-existant. Others, whom I thought were my companions, have gone their own way. I often feel afraid and unclear as to how to proceed, yet I show up anyway - to my practice, to my easel, to my work. Sometimes you are going to feel exposed no matter what. Sometimes you just have to wait it out.

My First Bowl

My First Bowl

I'd like to introduce you to my very first bowl. It's made of stoneware clay. I formed it on a wheel in the spring. I think it was in March. I was very lucky because it was my first time and I centered it.  I didn't have a form in mind, I just did my best to create a vessel and not destroy it. Later, I trimmed it and let it dry. After it was bisque-fired I decided that I would wait until late July to fire it in a Raku kiln that was set up by one of the volunteers at the pottery studio. This bowl not only survived my total inexperience by not cracking or breaking, it took on the colors of flame as it smoked itself out in a nest of pine needles that I had formed in the sand pit while it cooled.

I drive up the coast to the pottery studio once a week to play with the clay. The studio is run by a group of volunteers. There are no teachers and no professional potters. Some of the retired members took classes in college, thirty years ago, but most of us are self-taught. The woman who showed me how to throw had learned from a man who had taught himself by watching DVDs. A teacher or a professional would be most welcome, but they are hard to come by in this rural area. 

I didn't set out to start a new hobby as my schedule is no doubt full to the brim. I initially visited the studio to find out more about the community, shortly after moving to the area. The volunteer in charge asked if I would like to do hand-building or throw on the wheel and to my surprise I told her I would like to learn how to use the wheel. She gave me a half pound of clay and walked me through the steps. When I left I had thrown my very first bowl. I love how it fits in my hands. It is heavy-bottomed and thick-walled and a bit lopsided, but to me it is a kind of perfection that I'll never again be able to attain. I'll never know as little as I did about working with clay as I did on that day. It is a reminder to me of how I want to live each day: as a complete beginner, with an open mind and an open heart.

Crybaby

She said she usually cried once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful and life was so short.

-Brian Andreas

My mother told me that when I was a child my teachers consistently had two things to report: I made wonderful drawings, and I was too sensitive. It was a polite way of saying that I was easily provoked to tears. I have always been such a crybaby.

Our Lady of Perpetual Tears by Sofie Skein 2012

I cried often as a child with a terrible grief over misunderstandings that were beyond my control. I dreaded the tears which only alienated me further from my peers. I understood that crying was a shameful thing that marked me as a weak link in the cruel hierarchy of my elementary school classroom, but I was incapable of controlling it.

Yet, I didn't just cry in public, when I was hurting. I cried alone, in my bedroom, listening to symphonies on the classical radio station that I played on my clock radio after I had gone to bed. The music was so foreign, yet it made my body ache and my eyes well up and spill over. I couldn't comprehend what was happening to me, but I cried in ecstasy, not shame. Nonetheless, I would turn the dial to the classical station and listen like a thief, in the red glare of the clock display, urgently moving the dial back to its original position before I slept so that no one would find out.

There have been monsoon seasons of grief when I cried myself to sleep and woke up crying and feared that I would eventually dissolve into a river of tears. These dark seasons have come and gone and come again, but even in my brightest seasons I remain easily provoked to tears, not by suffering, but by the beauty and implacable sweetness that is, for me, the essence of life.

Tears are no longer a source of shame, no matter what provokes them. The world I live in today is far less cruel than the world of my childhood, and I hold no grudge against myself for tears that, in retrospect, seem a healthy and sane response to an unnecessarily harsh world. Tears always come from an honest place and I'm convinced that if everyone cried more often the world would be a far more gentle place.

I think tears are the real holy water; a blessing. Perhaps that is why most of us go silent instinctively in the presence of tears. I have no doubt that the floods of tears that I have known were the force that washed me up on brighter shores and carried away the nonessentials so that I could know what really mattered.
 

Haywire

Haywire. That's how my schedule has gone these past few weeks. When I say haywire I see a pile of hay and a bunch of crazy wires sticking out in all directions. That's haywire for real. I don't think they even use haywire for binding hay anymore, but I remember it from my childhood. Haywire is 14 gauge steel, also known as baling wire. There's a machine called a baler that sucks up the loose grass or alfalfa and spits a solid rectangular bale out it's other end. Haywire compacts a pile of loose grasses into something you carry and ship.

Hay Bales in My Family's Haybarn

The baler binds a bale strong and tight, until you snap the wire with a pair of wire-cutters. Suddenly, what was secure and stable is unleashed into chaos, sort of like loosing a hose at full blast, but just for a moment. The hay bale, which a moment ago was tight and sturdy as a brick, slides apart into soft sheaves. After you cut haywire, it's an awkward, ungainly thing that will trip you and stab at you with it's blind cut ends when you bend down to gather up the hay. You can't remove the haywire without scattering the hay, so you're more likely to just leave it where it lies and wrestle it as needed for the first few days. Eventually, you'll have had enough and decide to do something about it. It's not easy. You'll need to put on a pair of thick leather work gloves to protect your hands, because it's hard to bend, but eventually you'll have bent it into a thick bundle and tossed it aside.

That's haywire. It's annoying to the point of stressful. It's harmless, yet somewhat menacing. It's something that has served it's purpose and is ready to become something else, but it's going to take more effort than you want to give at this time. It's going to be an awkward process no matter what, but once it's done, your daily chores will seem effortless... until you need to cut open a new bale of hay!

For me, this cycle is seasonal. My schedule goes haywire shortly after the transition to a new season, and my routines need to be adjusted. This time around the haywire was triggered by my hard drive failing. I came up against my stubborn streak. I wouldn't ask for the help that I needed and the haywire began springing out in all directions until I was overwhelmed. I had to slow down and retreat. I had to ask for help.

The help that arrived was more generous than I had hoped for and I'm so grateful. I'm reminded that there is kindness and generosity that endures in this world whether or not I am too distracted to notice it. My haywire is a hassle, but without it, I wouldn't have my hay.

Hay is Sweet

Gratitude for the Sparrows

I've been waking to the song of a Chipping Sparrow perched on the roof outside my window. One of the sweetest parts of summer is sleeping with the windows open and waking to birdsong.

Some days it's not the songbirds but the Crows enthusiastically calling in recruits to raid the dumpster that was left open behind the tavern down the road. I don't mind the Crows, they make me laugh, but the Sparrows are sweeter. Their simple song is the essence of a question mark bubbling up quietly from a deep place. It's a quiet song that I hold my breath to hear.

I finally bought a book about birds. I never knew there was such a variety of Sparrows in the world. I've long delighted in the English Sparrow, that adorable immigrant who thrives in the cities, but I never knew the name of the Song Sparrow until last week, although I've been touched by his dear song throughout my life.

I am learning about the birds of the Oregon coast now, but the birds that thrive in cities remain sacred to me. I never saw Pigeons as 'dirty', or Crows as 'pests'. In my eyes, the English Sparrows graced the street cafe's and Starlings (winged gangsters) never failed to amuse me with their antics.

In my eyes, the city birds were angels who blessed the air that I breathed, the trees, the sidewalks, dumpsters and discarded things.

No matter how difficult things were, the birds were there to remind me of the possibility of lightness and flight, if only I could have the patience to look for them, if only I would look up. A feather found was a sign that I was moving in the right direction, it was also a reminder that I was not alone.

I no longer live in the city, but birds continue to bless my days in so many ways: the House Finches who built a nest outside my studio window, the Crows that make me laugh, the Swallows flight which may be the essence of joy in motion, the Pelicans, the Terns, the Gulls, the Ravens, the Herons, Loons and so many other other birds whose names and stories I am learning by heart.

However, for this season, it is the Chipping Sparrow who awakens me each morning along with a question mark buoyed up by tiny bubbles from deep within. It is a welcome, and a gentle question. I know that now is the time to be very quiet and very still, and to listen with all my heart for the answer: "Hello, dear one. You are here now, you're awake. What is next?"

A Story About My Mother

My mother is a horsewoman. You could call her an accomplished and gifted veterinarian (and you would be correct), a mother of two (as well as a single, working mom for most of our childhood), a good citizen who leaves every place she goes better than she found it, and a kind-hearted and generous neighbor and friend; but when all is said and done, her heart belongs to her horses.

She's loved horses for as long as she can remember, and talked her own mother into riding lessons at a local ranch when she was just a small girl. It was the beginning of a lifetime of horsemanship and she's never not had a horse, or horses, to call her own. There are people who have horses, out back in the field, but they don't usually have them for very long. Then, there are people who don't just keep horses, but love horses. If you love horses, you know that you need to tend to them and ride them every day. It takes an uncommon level of committment, effort and devotion to do right by horses. It takes real passion. My mother is the sort of person who has this passion and so is my sister.

My family is not what you might call religious, but I grew up in a community where 'being religious' came down to choosing between a handful of protestant churches or the local bar. My family just had other priorities. Weekends were spent going to riding lessons, trail riding, competing in equestrian events or, in the summertime, rodeo. At the end of every summer, our family would make a pilgrimage into the High Cascades on horseback. The adults rode horses, the kids rode ponies, and we always had a few packhorses besides. We could ride deeper into the wilderness and higher into the mountains than most hikers would go.

When I grew up and sought my own place in the world, I visited churches, monestaries and sactuaries far from home. I was looking for something that I thought was missing from my childhood and I envied others who had traditions of faith. What I came to understand, was that my mother's church is deep in the wilderness itself, on horseback. I didn't grow up learning the prayers that my friends know, but I learned how to communicate with horses, which is a sacrament in it's own right.

Long ago, when I was a child, I asked my mother if she believed in Heaven. She told me that Heaven was high up in the mountains, higher than you can imagine, a pristine alpine meadow on a late summer day. 

Portrait of a Pet as a Poupette

I've been making quite a few pet portraits lately and I've been so happy to receive photos of the figurines with their muses. The cuteness is too much to endure on my own so I just had to share them here.

The rabbit above and his miniature rabbit live in Finland. They are both most fond of bananas (if you couldn't tell!). You can see more pictures of these two here. [edited July 17, 2012]

This is a beautiful Cornish Rex with her miniature portrait. I've made a number of Cornish Rex and Sphynx cats, as my style is quite evocative of those statuesque breeds.

I never set out to make pet portraits. Every single one has been a special request. Some of them are memorials for pets who have died, and some are simply portraits, but all are for cherished creatures. I get to see photos and hear stories about each animal and every one is remarkable. The process of making them can be very emotional as I study the photos and do my best to re-create all the precious details. Something like a tiny mark on the chin is of utmost importance when you love someone. It is an honor to sculpt each one.

If you would like to see more of my custom pet portraits go to my flickr photostream.

If you are interested in finding out more about my pet portraits and figurines, go visit my Etsy shop.

A Letter From Home

Four years ago, I was done with the city, and I wanted to go home. I was heartbroken by my efforts to live someone else's dreams. I no longer knew who I was, or what I loved. I longed for the landscape of my past, a small town, or someplace rural, someplace on the edge of wildness, where the landscape would hold me as well as put me in my proper place. It wasn't just a matter of picking up and moving. I didn't have any money to do so. I didn't even have a car. But even if I had, I knew better than to run away. I knew I had to change everything but I didn't know where to begin.

Two years ago, I began to build the life that would support me, to live wherever I would like, and to become whomever I was born to be. The world I had been living in, the city world and the constellation of superficial values that were never true to my heart, began to dim as my inner world grew brighter. I built an imaginary home around me, like a cocoon. It was a place where I could work and rest and heal and dream. It was a home I could take with me anywhere, but it had no relationship to the city around me. I didn't know why I was there, except that I had ended up there. It wasn't such a bad place to be, but I had no sense of connection.

Last year, I began to look for my new home. I felt called to both the coast, a landscape where my family lived for generations and I was born, as well as the high desert of my childhood and youth. It was a long, wearying process. Every time I found a place that could be a possibility, I would begin to inhabit it in my imagination – i couldn’t help it – my soul would just slip into those landscapes without asking and begin to ‘play house’ there. Every time a place fell through i would grieve a little. It seemed as though I had slipped out of my cocoon and began to unfold a little, only to be forced back inside by practical matters.

A couple months ago, I found my new home and left the city. It wasn't exactly what I had been looking for, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed. I'm so in love with it that I hardly know where to begin, but I want to begin, so I'm sharing a couple photos of my new neighborhood tonight.

The estuary where I live.

Hello from the north coast of Oregon!

A Simple Lovesong in Pictures

When I walk into the studio in the morning, this is who I find basking in sunbeams. His name is Mr. Burnside and he is my constant companion. He even accompanies me into my dreams at night.

This is the side of the table where I do not work (Nicolas works here), but those are, in fact, my fingerpaints. I love fingerpaints.

This is The Smokebush. I see her three times a week on my walk to the Post Office. I always stop and gaze into her dizzying pink fluff with my jaw hanging open.

I have been painting watercolors in the morning for a few months now. I drink white tea with coconut (see my cute little tea cup?) and paint.

I often paint upside-down when I am painting from photographs. This painting is from the 1940's - four generations of my father's maternal family. The photograph is fading to white. The painting remains unfinished for now.

You can see a small entourage of Poupettes watching my progress. They are also waiting for their photoshoot, which takes place in my makeshift 'lightbox' in the upper right-hand corner.

I just love crows, and in Portland, Oregon there are many opportunities to love.

I also love my customers because they ask for custom orders such as this precious little terrier carrying his favorite blanket. This one was sent to England as a gift and memorial for a beloved pet.

It is an honor to make such things and I love every moment of it.

When I am not painting or making Poupettes I like to make pizza. Okay, I like to cook just about anything, but pizza has been a special challenge to me since I had to stop eating gluten. This pizza was so beautiful but the crust was bitter and crunchy. I am determined to create a brilliant crust with various mixes of flour and starch but I have a lot to learn. 

The Liturgy of My Hours

The most difficult part of working for myself has been establishing a structure for my work days. It has been almost three years since I had a job working for someone else but it has only been in the past few months that I have found a daily routine that really supports me: body, heart and mind.

In the beginning, I was horrified by how quickly my days seemed to disappear. I bemoaned that there was not enough time in the day. The more I said this, the more I felt crushed by the tasks at hand. I felt hunted by time and I was suffering.

I had no idea what a dramatic and fundamental shift I was undertaking by making a total commitment to my creative life.

I had never worked for myself before. I had worked in restaurants and painted theater sets for a number of years before attending University. Although most of the painting I was responsible for was independently executed, my job description was very specific and I knew exactly what was expected of me.



University was not so different from a job: assignments were met, credits fulfilled, and eventually it all added up to a degree. My evenings, days off and vacations were mostly my own. Also, I was younger then, and heartier. I could stay up all night if I needed to and get by on erratic meals.

After University I landed a job with a design consulting firm. Working late nights and weekends was common and expected. My free time was spent recovering from the stress of work. Eventually, my enthusiasm wore thin and every hour spent at work felt utterly lost. I daydreamed about returning to my painting full-time. I imagined how productive I would be if only I didn't have to go to a job each day.

I erroneously imagined that I could spend ten hours a day painting. I began to plot my escape. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

View from the Studio at Dawn

I quickly learned that there was a definite limit to my daily productivity, especially in the studio. My muse was rigid and demanding: afternoons were no good, I had to get into the studio early in the morning, every single day, and stay until lunchtime. My mind had to be fresh and not yet caught up in tasks and worries; I noticed that the computer seemed to focus my mind in a way that was anathema to my creativity.

I was fascinated by the business aspects of artmaking, but I had no idea that it would require at least as much time as artmaking itself. I was lucky to already possess a number of helpful skills, but there was still so much to learn. My biggest challenge came when, after so many years of stressful living, numerous health issues presented themselves and I had to take extra time to care for my body so that I would be well enough to work. 

"There is not enough time in the day!" I wailed (until the lie began to hurt). 

"So, there is not enough time in the day, you say? Does the Earth rotate too quickly? Would it be better for everyone if it just slowed itself down?"

It's like saying that the sun shines too brightly, or that Nature is somehow wrong, simply because it doesn't suit me.

I knew that Nature was not wrong and that the Earth was not defective. Something had to change, and of course it had to be me.

My complaint was a denial of responsibility for the choices I was making, or not making. I didn't want to have to choose between creative projects - I wished to do them all. I wanted to keep up with all of the blogs that caught my fancy. I wanted to continue my volunteer work even though it took hours from every week. I wanted to take extension classes at the art school. I wanted to make elaborate meals. I wanted to do everything, and I wanted to do it today. 

However, there was one thing that I wanted more than everything else - and that was an independent creative life. Specifically, a life that was an expression of my love for this mysterious and beautiful world. The time had come for me to assess all of my desires in terms of that particular vision and begin to choose. 

The choices became very simple once I realized that each one either moved me toward my vision or away from it. I came to understand that pursuing your heart's desire is a devotional path that requires all of one's effort, and every facet of who you know yourself to be.

I recently picked up a book by Kathleen Norris called The Cloister Walk. She is a poet and Benedictine oblate from South Dakota who writes about rural America and monastic life. In the preface of the book Norris refers to the Liturgy of the Hours as "the sanctification of time":

"Gradually my perspective on time had changed. In our culture, time can seem like an enemy: it chews us up and spits us out with appalling ease. But the monastic perspective welcomes time as a gift from God, and seeks to put it to good use rather than allowing us to be used up by it. A friend who was educated by the Benedictines has told me that she owes to them her sanity with regard to time. "You'll never really finish anything in life," she says, "and while that's humbling, and frustrating, it's all right. The Benedictines, more than any other people I know, insist that there is time in each day for prayer, for work, for study, and for play." Liturgical time is essentially poetic time, oriented toward process rather than productivity, willing to wait attentively in stillness rather than always pushing to "get the job done." [Emphasis is mine]

The poetry of these words inspire me to take a broader view of the hours of each day.

What if, instead of bemoaning that there aren't enough hours in the day, I could step back and see that each day is a gift and an opportunity?

It is a dramatic paradigm shift that I would have found laughable a year ago, but today I am beginning to grasp the possibility.