The following is a post I wrote for Preston Yancey’s blog. He’s hosting a series of over 50 posts from varying authors about the beautiful, mangled Church. He’s calling it #ATLT or At the Lord’s Table: A Conversation. The posts will continue until February 22. Feel free to join the conversation in the comments on Preston’s blog.

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“Believing that traditional religion failed to address and soothe the trials of modern life, he [Vincent] regarded art as a potential source of faith and enlightenment. He thought that, if artists assumed a missionary role in society and that if they joined together in a compassionate fraternity, they could bring hope and consolation to a troubled world…Art had now replaced Vincent’s traditional religious beliefs.”

- The Art Institute of Chicago’s Van Gogh and Gaugin

Late last year I was speaking to one of my artist friends about community. She shared with me that she is going through a Bible study on the book of Acts. Now normally, the Bible is causing a bit of a cringe in me right now. I tip-toe towards its mention because I’m not in a place of being able to read it without feeling the weight of legalism within the commands to obey each and every rule. I just don’t have ears to hear it as life-giving lately. But hearing it through a trusted friend’s perspective is very helpful.

A couple weeks after hearing about Acts from my friend, I was sitting in a coffee shop on date nite with my husband, and we were both reading and journaling. I decided to read a bit of Acts myself, and test the waters. If I got too frustrated, I could just stop reading, I told myself. {continue reading}

There are things we’ll never see unless you show us. We wait unknowingly for art created by you. Will you let it spring forth? Will you have the patience to be you?

I changed a tab on this blog to read Art Store instead of Bookstore. About a year and a half ago, I thought for sure I needed to devote my life solely to the art of writing words. But as this last year played out, I’ve felt pulled, as many artists do, to dabble here and there in other mediums. Photography, mixed-media collage, painting, art-journaling to name a few. So I’m letting the Muse take me where it must, and I’m trying not to build a box with walls so high I can’t scale them when necessary. I think my gypsy artist heart is prone to wander and needs the thrill of wide open spaces at times.

In the Messy Canvas Art Store you can still find my four e-Books.

In addition I have included a link to all the digital scrapbooking products I design for Scrap Girls. My latest product is a set of digital papers in both 8.5×11 and 12×12 sizes, called, Vulnerable. I feel like a part of my soul kind of bled out in creating these. I look at them and feel a bit exposed.

I have also include links for my products at Etsy. I re-opened my Etsy store this past weekend with a line of 5×7 #secretmessage art pieces. Maybe they’ll be a secret message hidden for you somewhere in there!

This morning I spent some time working on a #secretmessage art journal I’m creating for someone special. As I pushed my brush across the pages of an old book and listened to a familiar Anna Nalick song, my heart welled up for an instant because I truly felt in my element.

I’ve been a scared person the last 24 hours, scared at all I am attempting, hiding in my closet so I didn’t have to face myself. Wide open spaces, though thrilling, can be entirely daunting as well. But this morning in those moments of brush strokes and #secretmessage circling I felt certain I have to keep pressing on.

This dream living business is certainly not for sissies. I’m thankful for a husband that doesn’t balk at my hiding. For a neighbor that doesn’t flinch at my inability to answer the door. For a anam cara that calls me braveheart. May we all be bravehearts as we try to let the person out that lives inside us. And have grace for ourselves on the days when we hug the carpet of dark rooms, shaking and breathing shallow gulps of air.

Once upon a time I sat with my husband and some of his friends in a packed bar listening to a couple called Over the Rhine intermingle their music with the cigarette fog in the air.

Once upon another time I sat in a little 2-story coffee shop, the upper story being more balcony than floor, and I listened to this same Over the Rhine, the woman tossing me in the waves of her vocal ocean and the man pulling my heart strings in and out and in and out with the motions of his accordion.

Once upon yet another time I reunited with a band called Over the Rhine and I let them play their random selections on Pandora as I soaked a tired body in hot water by candlelight.

And when the lyrics shown above fogged up my mirror with their truth and mystery, I pushed a soggy wrinkled finger onto the image of a thumbs-up icon on my iPhone screen, because I wanted to remember to return to these lyrics on a later date (that date is today) so they could “Remind Us.”

“Twenty minutes each. I’ll set the timer. We’ll go in birth order, youngest first. Be thinking about what you want to do together.”

Once upon a time I had a conversation with a friend who mentioned that while my newsletter blast of blog posts that reach “the masses” are nice and all, it’s pretty special to get a piece of my time dedicated soul-ly and solely to her.

Really? You want some of me just for yourself? I was honored.

This was followed by a worrisome thought of, “I wonder how many people want a small piece of my time all to themselves? I wonder how many pieces of my time I have to give?”

She gently suggested that it was possible that I might get something out of the time I spend with others. That it might not just be a pouring out, but also a filling up. “I mean, it’s quite possible you might actually like it,” she said.

This spurred some texts and emails and phone calls where I asked friends, “Hey, how many people are in your inner circle? How many people to do you give your time away to on a regular basis?”

And their answers spurred some list-making of my own where I tried to figure out who in my life has priority. Who gets my time? Because, apparently, my one-on-one time is valuable. What a vulnerable thing to realize, and even more vulnerable to decide to intentionally give away pieces of my time. I want to be sure I’m giving it to those I want to give it to.

I’m finding this list shifts as it needs to. The inner-circle can widen a bit or shrink a bit depending on the week, depending on my grace and energy levels. But there is a pretty solid core there, and my kids are in that core.

I did an experiment one Sunday morning. Twenty minutes with each child, in which we would do whatever they desired. I added up the minutes and realized with four kids that’s a lot of minutes to give, and I felt vulnerable committing me to them and their desires. But it felt good. It felt good to care intentionally. To give something away for once not because I was being pawed at but because I had willed it so. And let me tell you, the time flew by.

I played ice-man superheroes with Luther. We wore capes and ran through the house shooting ice out of our fingertips and freezing everything in sight.

I played secret spies with Nehemiah. We were being attacked by evil bad guys. We went into separate rooms and talked in hushed tones over FaceTime, trying to outsmart the enemies while flying our ships.

I played little people with Charis, and we set up shop and created a fantastical story about a husband that loved candy and a wife that wanted to sew a hat and bossed her husband around. They drove a semi-truck and had five dogs and stepped in dog poop and fought a lot, but they loved each other.

I took Zoe shopping so she could spend her Christmas money, and we scoured the entire Toys-R-Us and she explained to me why everything single thing she picked up was junk and a waste of money and how they just made it look fun so kids would buy it. Then she saw the karaoke microphone stand, and she gave me puppy dog eyes to spot her the money she was short on, and I texted Tony and we both buckled hard.

The twenty minute experiment was a success, and that night we made a family dance floor and had open mic night where we sang and danced and fought over whose turn it was to sing. And we laughed.

It was my time, my time to do with as I saw fit, and it was eye-opening to think people might actually desire time alone with me.

Me.

Worth something.

Worth something worth giving away.

Who gets me? Who gets my time?

I feel so vulnerable.

But I want to tell my friend, I think I do like this.

I wonder if we know we are all Charlottes.

Have you read Charlotte’s Web? I almost have the beginning chapter memorized. Not word for word of course, but I can see the line-drawings of Fern fighting her daddy with his ax, desperately needing to save the runt pig. And I can see her pushing the pig in a baby stroller, and I can see her feeding that pig a bottle. And at first, you think the book is about Fern.

But then you meet Charlotte. She’s quiet and mellow and talks elegantly and calmly, even when she speaks of wrapping up flies and biting them and eating them. She’s brave and smart and confident. She’s undaunted and unafraid, like a friends of mine. So then you think the book is about Charlotte. And really it is. I mean, the book is named after her right?

But then you see that Charlotte sort of falls in love with Wilbur, the pig. Wilbur, the ordinary runt of a pig that eats slop and sleeps in poop and is so petrified of being butchered he can’t even think straight. Charlotte sees Wilbur. I mean REALLY sees him. She sees a life worth saving. She sees a life worth celebrating, and so she creates art to try and make everyone see what she sees. She spins a web, and with her silver threads she writes the words, “Some Pig,” Suddenly the book becomes all about Wilbur because Charlotte has made it so.

And the people take notice. And the people start to believe. And the people crowd around to see the T-E-R-R-I-F-I-C pig. All because Charlotte saw something nobody else did, and she wasn’t afraid to stand behind that vision and share it.

I met a couple amazing artists in the Oklahoma City area. They have all sorts of creative plates spinning, but one plate in particular caught my attention. They use the app Instagram and a hashtag of #treecult to document with photographs a local tree they fell in love with.

One solitary OKC tree that sits on the corner of a piece of fenced in spacious farmland. These artists, they took notice. They got a vision. They wrote “Some Tree” in the inner-webs of Instagram. People started believing it was a magical tree. Why not?

I ventured out to take my own pictures of the tree, and as I stood there with my car hazards on and my kids sitting in the car cheering me on, and cars zooming by with drivers staring, I snapped my own photos of this T-E-R-R-I-F-I-C tree. I romantically imagine some day we okc instagramers will all convene there, under that tree, climbing the barb-wire fence to get to it and sit beneath its tiny branches and eat a picnic lunch, all because someone believed.

I wonder if we know we are all Charlottes, creating ways to attribute great worth to the people and places and things surrounding us. Creating ways to make someone, some place, something, larger than life.

All it takes is a little soul thread and some passionate gumption to scale the barbed-wire and make something T-E-R-R-I-F-I-C.

Sometimes the Ego part of me wants a chance to explain. I want to explain my actions, my words, my choices, because I surely don’t want to be misunderstood. I don’t want to be questioned. To be disagreed with. To be challenged. And if I am, my Ego begs me to defend it.

Sometimes to appease the Ego, or the little scared girl inside me that just wants to be liked, I unload with a list onto the lines of my journal. It makes me feel heard, valued, expressed. And it helps me do a little less defending in my actual conversations, because I know that at least I understand my intentions. Sometimes it’s enough to listen to yourself.

Other times the list helps me realize there are somethings I can’t explain, no matter how badly I want to because somehow when words get involved something gets dropped in translation. In this case the list is a visual for the things I simply know innately, on a soul level, and though I’d like to explain them, chances are it would take something away from the magic to force it into a nice, neat little explainable package.

Here’s an example of what my list might look like:

I Want to Explain:

• Why I want a break from the box of church
• Why I want to see options I’ve never seen.
• Why I don’t “serve”
• Why enough is enough
• Why I’m tired and limited and slow to commit
• Why I live and die by both/and paradoxes
• Why it’s important I love on myself
• My spiritual beliefs
• The proper time for hugs doesn’t occur to me until much, much later, and truthfully sometimes never. And yet, I love you.
• That I believe in magic enough to doubt it.
• I say yes, but I also say “as you wish” or “it is so.”
• That I am awakened enough to know there is much I do not know.
• That I get messages from God, but I could be making it all up so I can like my life and myself. And I guess I’m okay with that.
• My homeschool philosophy
• My current read
• My book
• My dreams
• My truths
• My messes
• Literature
• My art passion

A few months ago my kids and I volunteered at an art festival in the Plaza District. Zoe made balloon animals, and the kids and I manned a table of one long sheet of white paper for kids to draw on with crayons outside The Society building.

I’d like to say that it was a powerful experience. That I felt validated in my artistry. That we were a glorious example of a creative family spreading a love for art to others. That we inspired someone.

Hardly.

It was hot that day. Like wicked hot. And my kids had head colds and maybe even a touch of a fever before the morning was over. Zoe didn’t even have a voice. Zoe my people-person, couldn’t even talk. Luther, my 3-year-old, but gosh, I guess he was 2 at the time, spent most of his time under the art table, the only cool spot, whining about how he was hungry and hot and when could we go home.

People came to our table and gave us a look like, crayons and paper? That’s it? You’re kidding right? You’re supposed to entertain us. Apparently crayons and paper don’t hold a kid’s attention anymore. And the parents, you would have thought I had asked them to sell their home and live on a park bench, the way they stared at me when I asked them to draw something. Only one adult drew the whole day.

I felt like a wanna-be artist that day. The real artists were in the building. In the studios. Maybe the real artists didn’t have kids. They had freedom. They smoked cigarettes and drew nudes and grew up making art and teaching art and being integrated in an artist community. The real artists were on the stage in the same parking lot with us, strumming their guitar and singing the songs they had written.

And then, something interesting happened. The eclectic guy on the stage, singing his songs with powerful lyrics, he paused. He paused and he came out of his performance bubble and he said, sarcastically, into the microphone in a half-whisper, almost like we were hearing his inner-dialogue, “Wow, big crowd here today. So many people to play my songs for.  ” He chuckled nervously. For one split-second he was real and vulnerable, and I heard it. And then he went into another song. His lyrics were stellar. Was anyone hearing them?

His performance was followed by a girl songstress. She was a little less mellow, had some real energy and charisma. A real crowd pleaser and confident. She was confident.

During her performance one of the guys from The Society brought out some puppies he was fostering. Five puppies to be exact. 5 black puppies, each with a different colored collar. My kids went running to hold them and follow them. Others were pulled in by the puppies. Their attention diverted from songstress stage to wagging tails.

And then, something interesting happened. The eclectic girl on the stage, singing her songs with energetic chords, she paused. She paused and she came out of her performance bubble and she said, sarcastically, into the microphone in a half-whisper, almost like we were hearing her inner-dialogue, “Apparently the puppies are more exciting than my music. I am singing here people. Hard to compete with puppies.” She giggled nervously. For one split-second she was real and vulnerable, and I heard it. And then she went into another song. Her stage presence was stellar. Was anyone noticing her?

I left that day raw from the expectations that weren’t met. Raw from feeling like I was piece of sandpaper rubbing along the walls of the artistic community, scraping instead of breaking through. I left that day raw from a sense of failure that crayons and paper aren’t the tools that will free creative spirits, not even my own kids’ creative spirits, no matter how hard I try to sell them.

But I left that day hopeful, that maybe, just maybe, we’re all a bit nervous from time to time that what we have to offer isn’t enough. And we’re all a bit nervous that we aren’t going to break through the noise to draw attention to the message that burns within us. And we’re all a bit nervous that the crowd won’t have ears to hear or eyes to see. And maybe that’s just part of being an artist.

Sometimes we’ll blurt out sarcastically a half-whisper of our inner-dialogue into the microphone of life and then we’ll laugh our nervous vulnerable laugh and then with that out in the open, we’ll quick tune our guitar and just get on with our next song.

My friend Paige works in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital. As long as I’ve known her she has had hospital stories. Her dad is a surgeon. Hospital life was part of her childhood.

She has stories of visiting the burn unit and seeing the aching of those who have played with fire. She has stories of suicide attempts that didn’t end in the relief the person was hoping for. She has stories of college students that drank one too many at that party only to wake up shook up from seeing their parents standing at the end of their bed in an ICU room. She is my in real life connection to Grey’s Anatomy, minus a few love triangles.

Recently she shared with me a hospital story that encapsulated my word VULNERABLE in ways this whole year might never reveal to me. Here I am still in January, and I feel as though this story might be enough to reflect on for the entire year. I asked Paige if I could share her words directly, so you could feel the potency of the message from her perspective. She graciously agreed.

“I have taken care of this woman at work this week who had elective knee surgery, got a clot in her leg that broke off and ended up causing a stroke in her brainstem. She is 50. And her brain is perfect. Perfect. But cannot communicate with her body except with blinks. That’s it. Literally trapped in a broken body. And Mandy, she just cries and cries. Sobs.

And we bathe her. Turn her. Read to her. Brainstorm ways her eyes can talk. And when I sit and stare at her eyes, huge big wide-open eyes, I feel vulnerable. Me. Because somehow in that rawness…. I feel everything fall away. She has nothing to hide behind anymore. Nothing with which to fake or look away, no nervous laughter, no flirting, no avoiding. Vulnerable. Stripped raw. And when I spend my days with her, so am I. And I try to hold on to that…. For all the same reasons this is your word this year.”

Back in December I connected with Sam Mahlstadt over Twitter and email where he shared with me his new book entitled Creative Theology. I read it as an e-book, but it is also available on his blog for pre-order as a book.

My first response when I opened the PDF file? This is no ordinary book. This is because the design of the book is an artform in and of itself. Each page crafted to convey the message of the words with added visual touches.

I read the book in one setting.

The book reminds me a bit of Frederick Buechner’s Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale and John Eldredge and Brent Curtis’ The Sacred Romance. It is certainly a Christian book, but it also zeroes in on creativity as central to who we all are, ingrained in our humanity. And of course this rings true to me because I believe we are all artists.

Last weekend when I met Laura, she mentioned to me that she was teaching a knitting class. She said,”I feel like if I can just get people to re-connect in one small way with the potential of their creative self, then that will open up doors for them to see God.”

I think this is what Sam is doing with his book. I think Creative Theology is a way for us to brush up against God through the avenue of beauty. I went on a solitude retreat at a monastery with Benedictine Sisters last winter. The nun I felt the most kindred towards left me to myself to wander the grounds with this comment, ““Look for God. You’ll find Him. He’s in everything.”

Am I looking for God or is God finding me?

Yes.

And I think it is this sort of paradoxical creative theology that is the only thing that has helped me personally to maintain any sort of belief in a God at all.

I know there are artists that feel no connection to God, that don’t believe in a Divine Being’s existence. I’m friends with some of them. But I do believe when we hold onto beauty (even beauty in the ugly) we are holding onto a piece of what matters, and sometimes in the darkness, the beauty is all any of us have.

My favorite line from the whole book is this:

“When you begin to live as one who ushers in the future, there is a beautiful transition that takes place. You stop waiting for things to happen to you and begin to actively create a new reality.”

-Sam Mahlstadt, Creative Theology

This is Sabrina Ward Harrison’s, “Create what you most need to find.”

And this is the reason I believe in #secretmessages.

And this is the reason my artist commune(ity) feels other-wordly. Like my 5-year-old told his 3-year-old brother recently, “We live in a different dimension. A dimension is a world we make up because we can make up any world we want.”

This is my faith lately. It is about what I give myself permission to create just as much as it is about what God has and is creating. It’s both/and movement. Check out Sam’s book. See if it moves you too.

If you like this post you might also like:

The Life We’ve Been Creating

A Week of Wonder – Part 5: Mystery

Beauty Does Matter!

TODAY ONLY they’re selling dream tickets at the train station. ALL ABOARD!

You are getting on, right?!

(If you feel stuck, read this.)

Once upon a time I was asked to hang some art in a gallery, and that blew me away.

This past weekend, I took another baby step in that direction. I vulnerably requested access to show my art in what the owners call a “Community Living Room.” It’s a local venue in Edmond, Oklahoma called Conversations.

A friend of mine heard they were looking for local artists to display their art on consignment, and she texted me, thinking I might be interested.

I sat on that text for a few months, but after Christmas, I splurged on some art supplies needed to make three product lines for Messy Canvas. I worked over the course of 2-3 weeks on getting everything ready to present. Then last weekend I had the vulnerable meeting with Laura, a kindred spirit and fellow artist who said with great enthusiasm that she would love to display my work. Whew.

I decided to display a few of my paintings, some 5×7 #secretmessage photo art and one solitary #secretmessage art journal.

The art journal took a long time to create, but I was so pleased with it when it was done. How fun to create my own journal line. I included writing prompts, and all sorts of messy pages awaiting someone’s words. It is a goal of mine to work on the local aspect of my networking as an artist, in addition to my on-line networking. My plan over the next few months is to create additional items both for local shops and for my on-line people.

Messy Canvas #SecretMessage Journals will be $50, #secretmessage 5×7 photo art will be $6 and paintings will start at $50 (plus shipping). If you are interested in pre-ordering, send me an email at mandy.steward@gmail.com. Some pre-orders would be good incentive. Oh, but yes, I should say that I am trying to edit a book too, and there is only so much set-aside art time in my day, so maybe I’ll be running this race more like the tortoise than the hare. Hence the banner I keep waving that has big black embroidered letters that say – BABY STEPS.

One more thing…wouldn’t it be fun to have an on-line and local art journaling class? Don’t worry, I’m writing this all down on a dream list.

How’s your dream list coming?

I had always said I would never get a tattoo. I had always told my tattooed friends that I had the ability to get completely naked, while they were claustrophobic-ally stuck behind their tattoo forever.

OK, maybe I was also a bit scared to commit to the artwork. I mean, what if I changed my mind?

But a friend of ours convinced me that a tattoo is not about your whole life, it’s about one milestone in your life. It’s about recognizing who you are at a distinct moment in time. I suppose in that way it’s kind of like sticking a stake in the ground. (It reminded me a bit of when I went to do this.)

Then I went and wrote a book. A book in which the sole purpose was to give me (and consequently others) permission to hear my own artistic voice and not just hear it, but trust it, believe in it, follow it where it wanted to take me.

There are times (almost daily I’ll have you know) where I have sudden lapses into fear, and I think, surely I must be out of my mind to listen to what is calling within me. To attempt big things. To rebel against convention to give my soul some breathing room. And so I decided it would be nice to have the ever present reminder close that though there is indeed freedom granted to me from a bigger Someone, if I don’t free myself to travel where I need to travel, then I will remain enslaved.

As I was looking for a way to celebrate my artistic voice and my book contract and my daily choice of self-evoked freedom, I came across these words that one of my favorite artists, Sabrina Ward Harrison, wrote in a personal message to me on the inside front cover of her book in 2008. The word “free” was really important to me then because it was my first time at picking a word for my year. Seeing Sabrina’s words made me realize how far I have come, and how much truth there is to that statement, “Free Yourself.” And I knew instantly I must celebrate my book contract with my first tattoo.

You can watch a short video here.

And so I did it. Quickly. Because I think you can over-think these sorts of things, and my soul was screaming yes, and I’m learning to listen to that. My favorite part is that the red is colored outside the lines.

The artist I used was Gage at Beauty from Pain. He did Tony’s tattoo as well, and I highly recommend him.

(The above photo is of a painting he altered.)

A side story to getting my tattoo is that my kids and Tony went with me to get it and while Gage was creating the stencil, my youngest son choked on a piece of hard candy and then puked it out. Gage helped me clean up puke off myself and my son and the floor without even balking. I told him if the tattoo wasn’t enough to bond us for life, the puking definitely was. Never a dull moment.

If you have tattoos, I want to see them. Stories behind them? I want to hear them. Leave links or stories in the comments please!

{*in honor of a friend who is doing something brave today.}

“The mystery only intrigued her; the magic trapped her.”
– From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

Although this revelation is golden, it’s not enough to know who my people are. I then must go the next step and figure out how to have some semblance of peace with who my people aren’t, because I don’t want my creative energy wasted on hating.

But once I’ve raged so hard to find my wings, it can be difficult to fly back down to earth every now and then to water the cracking soil of disagreement. I think a brave artist pays attention to the cracked soil from time to time and throws fistfuls of grace-water at it just for good measure.

In classic Messy Canvas form, I give you, a vulnerable list…

Those For Whom I Must Find Grace:

• The apologetics people
• The theological debators
• The black and whiters
• Those who roll their eyes at answer-less just because tears
• The know without a doubters
• The I’m sorry but you can not get to my God-ers
• The grace AND truth clingers
• The memorized answer-ers
• Those who ignore
• The uninterested and unmoved
• The I could care less-ers
• Those who have no eyes to see or ears to hear.

So here’s something I am learning about being vulnerable:

Some things are easier said in a spin.

The other day Tony was doing his normal get ready to leave for work routine. He was just about to walk up the stairs to our bedroom to get one last thing, when Luther called to him, “Daddy!”

Tony paused, turning around on the bottom step to look at him.

Luther, upon receiving his daddy’s full attention, became a bit shy, turning his head to the side and flipping his body into a full 360 degree jump twist while simultaneously saying, “You see my new shoes?!”

Tony responded, “I do my dude, and I love them.”

Then he proceeded to walk up stairs saying to no one in particular, “He had to tell that to me in a spin.”

I immediately resonated with that phrase and wrote it down on a scrap piece of paper that was laying on my art table.

There are things I am finding that I want to share with friends. Things that I know my close circle of friends would appreciate knowing about me. But once you’ve gone to the trouble of getting a friend’s attention, and his or her eyes are on you, suddenly it feels a little silly that you should be saying something about yourself out loud. Or maybe it’s not even saying something about yourself. Maybe it’s uttering the words “I love you” out loud. Maybe it’s telling them how much they mean to you. Maybe it’s making verbal affirmation of what you both having been thinking about your relationship in your heads.

You can insert the words yourself…the point is, you have something that needs to be said, and saying it makes you feel vulnerable.

I’m learning that it is better to say it, even if you can’t maintain eye contact while doing it. Even if you have to rush through it. Even if it feels awkward, unnatural, sloppy. Even if it makes your palms sweat and your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth. The point is to just say it, even if you have to let the motion of the vulnerability carry you into a tailspin.

Because once the words are out there your spinning has set other things into motion, like the deepening of a friendship, the building of a bridge from one heart to another, or simply the widening of your personal courage reservoir.

Blurred words are better than no words, especially if you concur with John Mayer’s philosophy of saying what you need to say.

Over the weekend I had the opportunity to write my future self a letter. This was suggested to me by my friend, who also offered to send the letter to me at a later date of my choosing. I picked to have the letter sent to me mid-year, June 1, 2012.

Here are some of the things that will have happened in my life by June 2012:

• Our lease will be up in our current home and we will have decided if we are staying put or moving elsewhere in the Oklahoma City area.
• Tony will have launched a bike shop with partners.
• We will be living solely on self-employed income for the first time in a few years.
• I will have completed my first manuscript with David C. Cook publishing.

I wrote things in that letter that I didn’t know I had in me. Little challenges for myself that I expected to be living out by the time June rolls around. (Apparently I’m going to do some brave things in the next few months. Eek!) And I wrote encouragement, because I know future Mandy will need encouragement. (I always need encouragement.) I also wrote about my “vulnerable” word a bit, knowing it will have changed me tremendously by this time.

Given too much thought, this sort of exercise could have totally paralyzed me, but I was among friends when it happened, and the paper to write the letter was ripped off and put before me so quickly, I didn’t even have time to think. I just started writing a #secretmessage to my future self, trusting that whatever I wrote on that half-sheet of notebook paper would be precisely what I needed to hear in June.

Yesterday I was perusing some of the blogs I read, and I came across a different spin on this letter writing idea. You can read about it here. I especially love the parts where the older version suggests to the younger version to take risks, even those that seem foolish at the time and to give great meaning and value to things like bracelets, because really, I do believe we have the power to create the magic we most need to find. I love that the older version of me can calm my fears about the future, because she’s already living there and thriving.

I find it fascinating that with the letter writing creations we can throw #secretmessages to our future selves and that our future selves can fling #secretmessages back to our current selves.

We are time travelers.

The following is a post I wrote for the Deeper Story Blog:

I know we are told there is a price for sin. There is a cost. But the exchange rate feels a bit like the restaurant Chuck E. Cheese where on this game you pay out one golden token and get two tickets in return, but on this other game you pay out one golden token and the tickets roll out of the machine so fast they fold over themselves into a paper circle on the floor.

I don’t know what to make of sin and how quickly we link it to the words describing God, like wrath and judgement. And we especially link these words if the sinner, as we call them, has put in their golden token (which I suppose is a metaphor for life choices) and racked up an unending stream of tickets that pour out so quickly they wrap around ankles and wrists like some sort of man-eating vine in a moist jungle.

This is quite the opposite of what appeared to happen to her though. Her with her soft skin, delicate features, blond hair and warm coral smile. Her with her quiet confidence. She got pregnant young, young and unmarried and her daddy was a pastor of a church, and in our Christian world it is hard to lead a church if you can’t lead your own offspring in the way they should go. At least this is what people whispered, as they tried to make sense of it. {continue reading}

Here’s a list I found in my journal from last year sometime. In an overwhelming moment, sometimes it helps me to list out all the things I do not have to do. Upon completion of writing a list like this, I always feel like I’ve gained some sense of control back. Like I do own my life and my choices, and I’m not being swept away by some chaotic wave.

Right now I do not need to:

• Pick up my phone.
• Check on the world.
• Clean the toilets.
• Wash my spaghetti string tank tops.
• Re-do my toe-nail polish.
• Read the new book that came in the mail.
• Watch a movie.
• Pack for the bike race.
• Brush my hair.
• Share this list on twitter.
• Consume sugar.
• Be on anyone else’s time frame.
• Stay awake.
• Shove one more thing into this already full day.

What would go on your “to not to do” list right now?

So I have this love/hate relationship with rules. I have come to hate them in religion and as an artist. We artists are mavericks, right? We see a rule, we break it. We get a bit squeamish at the word discipline.

And yet, AND YET…

I am finding myself in need of a few of these rules if I am to accomplish some of the goals I’ve been listing out in my journal pages.

I don’t think it’s coincidence that I am slowly reading through The Artist’s Rule and Radical Hospitality, both which make mention of the Rule of Benedict. Are there healthy, necessary rules as means to a certain end?

Maybe the rules I need are similar to what I learned about with mysticism, where we create rules only so we might better experience where we are in life. And when life moves on, so do the rules. The rules have to shift as needed. They have to be both hard-nosed and flexible. Both non-negotiable and sustainable. They have to be rules I’m okay with keeping because I know why I am keeping them, and that “why” matters tremendously to me.

Tony said recently, “If I create too many rules for myself, then I rebel against my own system.” And this, I guess, is what I’m trying to avoid.

How can I create just enough rules to sustain my goals, but not enough rules to suffocate? Just enough rules to create forward momentum, but not enough to make me arch my back and go stiff in defiance?

This is what I’m questioning as I try to put together a weekly plan for how to get the most out of my time.

How have you learned to dance with rules? What signs are you posting on the walls and fences of your life to keep moving you in the direction of your dreams? We can always change out the signs when we need to, right?

*In which I share a vulnerable moment.

“Oh sweet girl – the lessons that come with tears and snagged pantyhose. The times you stand in the barrage of angry words slamming you with wave upon wave of the evidence of your fucked up regrets. You will not cower in this moment. Puff up chest to the onslaught and let it pound your fierceness. There will be no head turned to the side to avoid eye contact, or to hide tears. This is no call for shame. This is life and this is learning and you love the both of those, so bring it on without flinching.

The tears just assure soft soil for the planting of this lesson seed and you are the better for it. Mark my words this just makes deeper roots and everything tastes better after a good cry. The raw makes the inhales more crisp, and this despite whether there is ever an apology.

I own my life and I can use this hurt to my benefit.”

I’ve been attending a figure drawing session periodically with my artist friend Rebekah. In the last class we went to, we did a series of drawings where the model posed for 1-2 minutes before changing positions. This was incredibly challenging for me, because I haven’t gotten the knack for quick sketches yet. I can see how this training would help me to get over the fear of a blank page, as well as teach me how to quickly assess the basic shape and angle of shoulders, spine and hips, so I can scratch my pencil about freely. But to a newbie, it’s a bit frightening.

It reminds me though of what we used to do in creative writing class in high school. Free-writing on a topic for 1 minute, 3 minute, 5 minute, 10 minute increments. Recently I cut out the beginnings of sentences I found in books or magazines, so I could use them as writing prompts. This exercise again helps me to get over the fear of a blank page and teaches me how to throw words about freely.

Why not use one of the journal prompts above and time yourself to leave a 1 min, 3 min or 5 min comment? Don’t edit the words, just let them come out as they will. And if you get distracted, just type, I’m distracted until you get your words back.

Sometimes using a timer to place a limitation on our creating opens us up to a reservoir we didn’t know existed, because if we don’t have all the time in the world, we better just get busy.

I’ll play along too:

1 min:

Growing up I heard the story about how my mom was captured by pirates. I can still remember the white t-shirt with the pirate on it that they gave her as a souvenir. I am not sure if this was a joke or not. I always mean to ask my mom to tell me the story again, so I can get the details firmer in my head.

3 min: After two decades of wrestling with how I look, you’d think I’d have this figured out by now. But just yesterday I was staring into the mirror and thinking, what a mess I was. I should have never dreaded my hair I suppose. And why am I still breaking out with pimples like I’m a teenager? And should I pluck out the grays or leave them for character? And why is my nose so red around my nose-piercing? My bangs feel oily against my skin. I wish I was smooth. That’s the word that always comes to mind. Smooth, like that Megan girl in high school who had this complexion that was creamy and glass-like. Why can’t I look like a porcelain doll with the blush properly applied and the features chiseled into perfection. I don’t want much, I just don’t want my leg-warmers to flop, or my boobs to sag or my eyes to look so tired sometimes. Is this too much to ask?

5 min: I grow up watching my older neighbor play soccer in my front yard. He comes over alone. Just him and the ball and the wide expanse of grass. My house sits on a lot with an extra empty lot beside it. We own all that land, and I push mow it often as my chore. My dad used to say, if I mow it they will come. I walk in lines, thinking about life and what I’ll be when I grow up, if I grow up. When my friend comes over to play soccer, I don’t play with him. At least not often. I think this is because I am not a soccer player, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I still remember that one time at summer camp where the first kick of the game saw me grabbing the ball in my hands to protect my face. And then the whistle blew and they said, you can’t use your hands in soccer, and I knew this must be the most horrible game in the world. My feet have no chance of doing what I ask them to do. But me being bad at soccer isn’t the only reason I don’t play with my older neighbor when he comes into my yard. I also don’t play because I don’t want to interrupt him. I know the magic of playing by yourself. Of having a chance to escape into your own world. And so I let him do that. Alone. But I still watch, from a distance.

When I can carve out a chunk of time to sit still and listen, this is two places I like to go. I always walk away with something inspirational and stirring from these podcasts. I consider these a goldmine, and wanted to share them with you.

APM: On Being

Sounds True: Insights at the Edge

Do you have any goldmines you’d share with us?

This weekend I went to the art store to spend my investment capital.

The money my grandparents sent me for Christmas, well the money that was left after I bought Indian princess moccasins and a feather necklace for my gypsy heart, this money I decided needed to be used to put some dreams in motion.

Recently Tony and I had a somewhat difficult conversation in which I realized some truths about myself that were hard to face. By the end of that conversation, which happened in the car on the way to a bike race, I had come around from wanting to strangle his neck to wanting to kiss him. Love is a strange thing this way because love sometimes says the hard things, and if you’re open to really getting to the bottom of those hard things, you might find some treasure.

Essentially what I learned is that there are deeply buried dreams inside me that keep resurfacing. Some of these dreams don’t logically make sense to me, and since they don’t, I find it easier to 1.) ignore them or 2.) convince someone else to champion them for me, so I don’t have to take the risk. My conversation with Tony was basically an awakening to the fact that I need to own my own dreams. Own the possible failure. Own the possible foolishness. And own the hard work, sacrifice and plan-making that it takes to really go after them.

As I’m talking to Mandy about this recently (sometimes Mandy and I believe that since we have the same first name, we are actually the same person, just alter-egos. We are each other’s Tyler Durden, if you will. And if you don’t know Tyler Durden, perhaps it’s time to watch Fight Club). Anyway, as I’m talking to Mandy about this dream-owning debacle, she laughs and says, “Maybe you need to read your own book. I mean, you practically yelled at us. No, you DID yell at us. You YELLED at us in your book about not making excuses. Maybe you should read it.”

Shortly after I got off the phone with her I took my investment capital to the art store and spent it. I spent it all. And I could not believe how gingerly I had to walk myself through that process of spending all my cash on something that might be a total flop. I kept waiting for someone else to show up and say, “Oh yes, you are doing the exact right thing with this money,” but that person never materialized. Or rather, I had to be that person for myself. And the way the cashier took my money, with an odd little gleam in her eye, well, I’d say she was onto me, and she was laughing as she tucked those bills under the money clips in the register drawer, because they were hers now and no longer mine.

Then I came home and spent the last of my other money I had socked away on a few other supplies I needed off of Amazon. And I nearly hyperventilated, because I’m the person that plays Monopoly and hides the golden $500 bills under my leg, so no ones knows I have them, so when everyone else has bet the farm and gambled their money away, I still have my goose-egg to live on. I’m so responsible that way. I feel so secure. And buying these art supplies did not feel responsible or secure.

How timely that I wake-up this morning to write this post, and my friend Paige has sent me this helpful little article about art being pointless crap.

This isn’t easy for any of us. But we can still do it, even with that lump in our throat.

My plan is to keep up a baby steps list (I think the Right-Brained Planner woud approve), so I can make sure that I’ve done everything in my ability to own this dream, propelling it forward, so it doesn’t stall out.

Here’s to creating risky pointless crap because we must. And here’s to bigger-over-arching dreams that beckon us into foolishness. And here’s to vulnerably admitting, I may just need to read my own book.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be up in this tree. Living my life in thin air, with my head in the clouds. *gulp*