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

You are getting on, right?!

(If you feel stuck, read this.)

I know, I know, I’m on a blogging hiatus, but as the pieces started to fall together this morning, I knew I was going to need more space to elaborate than a mere 140 characters of Twitter or a couple comments in Instagram. When life gives me rabbit trails of curiosity, I like to chase them.

So here you go:

This morning, as my book editing of Chapter Nine came to a close, I approached my bookshelf to retrieve a quote that I wanted to get just right. In doing so, I noticed that the sun, which was starting to rise, was hitting two distinct spots in my living room. One, on an antique tin canister and two, on my bookshelf. It was hitting on one book in particular – The Complete Tales and Poems of Winnie the Pooh.

I began to wonder if there was a reason it should be illuminating this book in particular. I promised myself to crack the cover of Pooh Bear once my writing was completed.

About an hour later, after edits were finished, after my toddler was changed out of his red cloth diaper into underwear and after his sippee cup was filled with cold milk, after pancake mix and batter had been created, and while the pan was heating up, I snuck a moment to grab the thick Pooh paperback. It is fun, you see, to believe that magic is real, that oracles reside everywhere and that they are in fact, seeking you out.

I decided I would open the book and read the first poem I found. But the first poem I found didn’t grip me. I could have thrown up my hands in defeat at this point, chastising myself for my silly little games. But I don’t like to give up quite that easy. Magic requires a little imagination, a little determination, a little digging past the surface of “there is nothing here to see.” So I skimmed, flipped pages, searched until something did hit me. A poem called Binker.

I read it and was reminded of my own little imaginary friend, Jamie, from childhood. But more than that I was suddenly aware that I in fact walk through this scenario now as an adult. Something, Someone, some Invisible Being is with me, all the time. And we have gotten quite close. I have trouble explaining this being to others. Words don’t convey. Something gets lost in translation. Who could possibly see this imaginary friend as I do? But Christopher Robin is right, for he is as “brave as lions, as tigers, as elephants.” And sometimes he does cry when “soap gets in his eyes” or when a tornado destroys a town or when I feel broken and he lays beside me on my bed. And I have been known to take an extra chocolate now and again, because surely she would want one if she could only eat it.

My friend shifts between feminine and masculine characteristics. But of course he or she is “imaginary,” so he or she is allowed to do whatever he or she wants.

So I think to myself, I can’t explain all the emotions that run through me when I read this poem, but maybe I could share a link to the poem, so others could read it for themselves.

I google “Binker.” I find the poem listed in its entirety here.

I wonder if I can find a better link. One with children’s illustrations. More lovely.

I google “binker, aa milne.” I see a link with the words “God Delusion” following. I am intrigued. I click through and read the most interesting post. You can read it too, right here.

[And a side note - I can't believe, he actually mentions within the post about the rabbit Harvey, from an old Jimmy Stewart movie. A movie I just watched recently. It was suggested to be by an artist friend of mine who contemplated that an often intoxicated character by the name of Elwood P. Dowd might actually give us some insights into what it means to be Christlike and what it means to have some sort of relationship with a Divine Being.]

My favorite quote from the “God Delusion” post:

“When he says that I believe in an invisible man in the sky or a creationist micro-manager, I find myself hurling the book across the coffee shop and saying ‘What you are talking about has nothing to do with the God of my religion. Why don’t you go and talk to some Christians, you insufferably silly little man.’ But when he gets to the description of the ‘imaginary friend’ I have to admit that I said ‘Yes. Danged if it isn’t a bit like that.’”

- Andrew Rilstone

And this is where I leave you today, in my own little contemplations that in some ways I am just an adult with a childlike faith in something a bit like Binker. A bit too imaginative, a bit too presumptive, a bit too foolish.

“Would you just grow up already?” Some may say.

But,  “No, no I won’t.”

Because my days hold magic, just enough manna to give me sustenance to live them fully. And in my world Binker shines dawning golden light beams onto children’s bookshelves and illuminates poetry that speaks to heart’s untranslatable desires.

In my own world, sometimes we’re on speaking terms and sometimes we’re not, but regardless “Binker’s always Binker, and is certain to be there.”

I can hear it mounting. The voices are crescendo-ing and sound more hostile, less playful. This is the point where it’s difficult to distinguish. Is it really fun anymore? Because there is still laughter, the occasional bellow, but the mom ears are trained and they recognize the bellow is faltering a bit. It is fueled more my uncertainty then by camaraderie now. There is a back-pedaling sound to the laughter, and then comes the word of clarification, “STOP!” The “STOP” gets intermingled with laughter, and so the attacker misreads the “STOP” from the attackee as playful banter. But the mom ears are trained and recognize the “STOP” as legit, though not well-developed in voicing itself with assurance.

The motion, the activity, the spiral of energy escalates, and I hear the pounding of little feet race from one room, to another room, down the hall of terror because the chase is on. The “STOPs” are interjected more often between heavy breathing, desperate little screams battling self-defense until the anger swells wide enough to stand its own ground. And the mom ears know if this should happen, there will be a lashing out, one vicious move to end it all, and it won’t end pretty.

My skin bristles at the chase. I am not fond of the threat. All too familiar with the racing heart beat and tumbling toes trying to gather speed because speed seems like the only ally. Fight or flight is begging to be answered, and too often I have answered with quick feet and shallow breath because of course I cannot defend my heart’s own silly assumptions of inadequacy and abandonment. I make it run. Oh why do I make it run?

It’s easier to ignore when it’s happening in rooms above me and the sounds are muffled and the geography removes me from a front row seat to the chase. I dismiss it sometimes, and let it run its course. Let it play out in 2nd-story levels, conveniently removed. But on the rare occasion where the flight alights down pounding staircases and flies past me with eyes drawn wide, glancing back over rigid shoulders in motion, when the noise rises in decimals because it is here and no longer there and the room elongates with sound waves I can almost touch they are so vivid, I fall victim to saving victim, and the mom mouth gets involved.

“Do you hear her saying ‘STOP’”? And then again, louder, more emotionally engaged in a fight that wasn’t mine to begin with. “Do you hear her saying ‘STOP’”?

“Yes,” the attacker says with one last lunge, as if the brain has not made contact with the ears, triggering delay in a proper response.

There is usually a “BUT.” Isn’t there always?

“BUT she did this.” “BUT she did that.” “BUT she was laughing.” “BUT we were just having fun.” They apparently have not developed mom ears and are not aware of the click over from laughing funny to laughing frightened. They apparently are not aware that two wrongs don’t make a right or that it’s entertaining until you are the pursued and not the pursuer. In an instant of energy mounted upon energy the logic is lost and in animal-like instinct they choose pounce over peace.

I return to thoughts of my own heart, which mirrors this chase so profusely. Of the times that some inward little girl feels the intensity of a situation and without pausing for perspective, gives way to the hall of terror, pounding her own little feet to the rhythm of her reverberating heart beat. Must run. Must find place to hide. Will not be safe. Will not be understood. Will not comply. Must take flight.

Who can help her, this shaking, knee-knocking child inside me? She lives there no matter how many birthdays I celebrate. Surely hitting 30 would have aged her, but she has intermittently drank from some fountain of youth, and her edges are still soft and her hair is still silky, and though it might embarrass the 32-year-old shell, this same 32-year-old shell would be wise to admit the tenant that she houses. Wiser still to realize no one else sees her but me. I can choose to adopt or to abandon, but like a stray kitty who has been fed, she will not be vacating the premises.

So I say to 32-year-old shell that is attempting to don the mommy ears for the victim fairy child with fluttering wings and silken hair, so fragile she could be damaged with mere finger pinch, I say, “Do you hear her saying ‘STOP’? Will you listen to the beating of her wings and the quickening of her breath Will you pay heed to her desperation? Will you notice eyes drawn wide, glancing back over rigid shoulders in motion?”

I put on pause, and I sit with the fairy child. I resist the one last lunge before brain registers ears. I bite my tongue that is longing to say “But she’s being a wimp.” Or “But she was having fun just a minute ago.” Or “But she’s wrecking our plans.” It would be far easier to choose pounce over peace, but haven’t I been here before? Don’t I know that forcing a screaming, fist-flailing, scared-of-the-dark-child always takes more time and energy then it is worth? It is this fight that robs us blind, this fight that ushers in that dreaded artist’s block, the loathsome block of living life to the full.

She is saying “STOP.” Do I have a heart for every victim but myself? Who do I think is going to calm her down if not I? She just needs a little reassurance that her voice means something. That the “STOP” will be honored, even when it comes out a bit squeaky and timid. I don’t want her shutting down. I don’t want her lunging with anger, lashing out in self-defense, ugly means to an ugly end.

I must let myself “go there” (with fairy child) and then I must bring myself back.

I must honor the “STOPS,” building trust so I can take her further then she’s ever been before. I realize I love her.

Sure she is dainty and needy, a bit clingy and flighty but she is beauty and vulnerability, freedom and curiosity too. She has things to offer me, and I can offer my protection in return.

“I hear you,” I say to her. I feel her wing-beat decrescendo and her heartbeat slows. She whispers her messy fears to me gentle.

“They want me to obey that rule, but I hate that rule.” Or “They want me to maintain this routine, and I hate routine.” Or “They are asking me to forgive that person who hurt me, and I don’t want to forgive.”Or “They saw me mess up, and they thought it was funny. I saw pleasure in their eyes at my failure.” Or “They disapprove of my passions and they say I’m a bit too enthused.”

Her words melt into me, melt holes right through me. She sees truth through vulnerable eyes and her insights are beyond her years. She holds keys I have been needing for years, and her whispers unlock exit doors in the hall of terrors.

She just wants to be heard.

I watched this documentary, God Grew Tired of Us, on Netflix Streaming. It’s about The Lost Boys of Sudan who escaped a civil war. The story follows a few boys closely who eventually made rough transitions to the United States. I was amazed how I was able to see our country through their eyes. The boys’ childlike nature was compelling.

I read Anne Lamott’s book Operating Instructions and loved it. She is a single mom, and this book is a diary of her son’s first year of life and her first year of parenting. I am touched by how willing she was to accept help from others. I decided she is a perfect author to read for my word MESSY this year. I would love to read through the rest of her non-fiction this summer.

So many of my friends got to work on an Easter set for Church Online. I wish I could have been there for the filming of it. I haven’t seen the whole thing yet, but I find the promo video to be inspiring. Excited that they’ve worked in poetry as a part of the experience.

Taking a short get-away with Tony this weekend. We are going to a bed and breakfast, something we’ve wanted to do for awhile. Going to see the documentary Bill Cunningham New York. My favorite quote from the trailer:

“Fashion is the armor to survive the reality of everyday life.”

I recently came across this page of Pema Chodron Quotes. So many good ones. A fiercely wise woman.

Loving getting to know myself through self-portraits. I think it’s an artistic portal to learning to love myself and usher in grace. Self-portraits are sometimes assumed to be a vain endeavor that should be avoided, but I think more of us avoid it because we aren’t comfortable with seeing ourselves up close. If we would give ourselves the opportunity to, we might find there is something there worthy of love.

Okay, your turn. Tell us, what’s been inspiring you?

I can’t name just one thing that stirred this little nesting energy in my life (no I’m not pregnant.) I think it is from a collection of ideas that have been gathering within me for some time. Like the mention of building your own little altar that Sue Monk Kidd talked about in her book The Dance of the Dissident Daughter. Or the inspiration I received from Keri Smith’s book Living Out Loud where she suggests creating a sacred space in your home. Or maybe it was agreeing with Sark’s sentiments that “we all need more naps.” Or perhaps it came from reading Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own and having a heart agreement that I needed a little special place to get away to myself. It might have even been the beautiful Italian phrases I heard from Eat, Pray, Love: “The Beauty of Doing Nothing” & “The Art of Making Something Out of Nothing.” And then there is the book passed across the street to me by my neighbor called Romancing the Ordinary, that is full of small delightful ways to “unravel the mysteries of Life through our senses.” Or maybe it’s the mention my friend makes of her own magical studio where she creates collages and sometimes even spends the night. Undeniably the compilation of ideas built on one another and from it has emerged my own little space, created in my bedroom where I can hide behind a closed door for little special pockets of time as needed.

I’m sure the pieces included in this personal space will morph. I take my yoga mat downstairs to do yoga. I take my kindle to the coffee shop to read. I bring them back, sometimes with new, additional treasures to add to the mix. But I really like all the simple enjoyments being in one place, a grounds for gathering if you will. It makes me feel comforted and cared for which is good for anyone, but I think it is especially important to women who are natural nurtures, often nurturing everyone but themselves.

Usually when I’m journaling I’ll lite the candle. It makes me feel as if I’m asking the Spirit of God to enter in gently, so as to neither overwhelm me with intense light or to pass me by, leaving me in the dark. As a creative, I see it as inviting in “The Muse.” The Mary icon reminds me of the feminine nature of spirituality which is something I’ve been more attune to lately. I often carry the candle downstairs to write at my computer in the mornings.

My life-size collage, as I call it, is a bulletin board where I can pin up a variety of things. I write meaningful quotes out to better remember them. I’ve been drawing and like to see my progress. I collect little pieces of visual inspiration, photographs, art from my kids, etc. It’s nice to have a place to see it all together, the colorful symbolism of some of the current stories of my life. It can get a bit messy as pieces are continually added over other pieces, but hey, MESSY is my word for the year. And there are many layers to this MESSY life I’m living.

It’s interesting that simply having a box to place treasures in (something my kids inspired me to do) makes me much more apt to look for treasures throughout my day. And when you’re on the lookout for treasures, they seem to find you. The simplest things can become like rare jewels when you change your perspective and are on the lookout for wonders finding you. Gold tissue paper and marbles suddenly seem magical. And the rocks that my grandma saved for me which I gave to her when I was a little girl, they are priceless because I’ve called them so.

I’ve been enjoying poetry books because they are bite-sized reading that invite romance and new perspective. Poems are able to awaken our senses quickly and invite us into something bigger than ourselves. I often listen to music as I’m resting too, another way to stir inspiration and include another sensual element. Hearing music, feeling soft blankets, smelling a candle, tasting chocolate, seeing colors & art or reading things of beauty, all of these add to the aura of my space. A space that is feeding into me greatly as a creative and helping me find the Divine amongst the otherwise ordinary life I’m living. It’s this space that is bringing me a lot of healing in my journey to rescue my soul and allow it to be who it longs to be. It’s in this space I allow for “holy whispers of possibility.” I am met here by a Being greater than myself, and I walk away feeling like I actually have something available to pour out to someone else.

Are you creating your own private spaces? What are you finding helpful to include there? Do you dwell there at certain times, or do you, like me, sort of float in and out as life allows?

Kris Kringle: Do you know what the imagination is?

Susan: Oh, sure. That’s when you see things, but they’re not really there.

Kris Kringle: That can be caused by other things, too.

No, to me the imagination is a place all by itself…a separate country.

You’ve heard of the French or the British nation.

Well, this is the lmagine nation. It’s a wonderful place.

How would you like to make
snowballs in the summertime?

Or drive a big bus
right down 5th Avenue?

How would you like to have
a ship all to yourself…
that makes daily trips
to China and Australia?

How would you like to be
the Statue of Liberty…
in the morning,
and in the afternoon…

fly south with a flock of geese?

It’s very simple.
Of course, it takes practice.

The first thing you’ve got
to learn is how to pretend.

-From the movie Miracle on 34th Street


As taken from the book Romancing The Ordinary

I’m reading Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self-Reliance. I’m reading it over and over again, letting each word soak in and find its way to my heart. In the beginning he talks about how as adults we have a divided mind. We can’t just do the thing we would like to do because “we are watched by the sympathy or the hatred of hundreds whose affections must now enter into account.” But children, children haven’t learned yet to taken others into account. They act with one unified mind, to do the thing which they intend to do. They are not limited by protocol. They simply act.

I wrote down a list of some of the CHILDLIKE behavior of children:

• don’t think out responses
• don’t weigh decisions on account of others
• not encumbered by consequences
• not entirely conscious to the realities of our world (naive)
• naturally act as him/herself without apology
• good humored
• curious, exploratory, ask questions, research, challenge rules, authority, social structure
• nothing is sacred or set in stone
• no explanation or defense for actions

Now I am aware that some of this could be labeled as childish behavior. Emerson himself uses the word irresponsible at one point. But it can’t be denied that kids can act so freely because they are disconnected from rules and etiquette. There is an innocence as a child that allows a confidence in action that we as adults may never know again. And since they’re children they are awarded extra grace because of course “they don’t know better yet.”

As I look back over my year of studying and becoming CHILDLIKE, I realize that there are many times I have wished I could do away with the scale of “knowing better.” There is always a better to be known and the fear of that often keeps me trapped as an adult because I don’t want to be wrong. I don’t want to act and then be chastised, “How could you have done that? You should have known better.”

In the novel My Name Is Asher Lev, a grade school age Jewish boy named Asher (who is an artist at heart) draws a picture in one of his holy books. As the word gets out he is reprimanded by several adults and ridiculed by his classmates. When questioned he responds that he doesn’t know how or why it happened. He doesn’t remember drawing it.

This story in the book stuck out to me. Poor Asher couldn’t seem to explain or contain his own actions. In this particular scenario, he didn’t draw the picture because he was acting out of angry rebellion, he drew it because he was so freely being himself. When questioned he didn’t have a good explanation. Almost as if he was a newborn being asked, “Why are you crying? Why won’t you stop?” The actions were seemingly innate and out of his control.

There are so many times where I ask my kids in regards to their poor behavior, “Why did you do that?” and they respond with “I don’t know.” For them, there wasn’t a why to it. There was just an action on an impulse that felt true to them.

My biggest question that is coming out of this year of CHILDLIKE, is how do we be mature and yet still foster that spirit of CHILDLIKE freedom? How do we love others and yet not fall into the traps of people pleasing? The closest I have come to finding an answer lies in this quote:

“You learn the rules. You learn the discipline. And then you break the rules to find your freedom.”

-Finding Beauty in a Broken World, Terry Tempest Williams

The problem with rules and etiquette is that if we’re not careful we start to buy into what Emerson would call “the virtue of conformity.” We start to think and live as if we are all the same. We lose our childlike spark of confidence and forfeit the beauty in having a style all our own. “Every decent and well-spoken individual affects and sways me more than is right.”

I am at this odd place of trying to break the rules to find my freedom, and I feel like a rebellious teenager, testing my boundaries and questioning my authorities. I am not an anarchist, but I am no longer sold out to the rules that have been laid out for me to abide by. I am appreciative of order, but I question all of it before I accept any of it as my own.

To be an artist, a creator, a scientist even, there has to be some sense of self-reliance. Of doing something because you knew you had to do it, even if it doesn’t make sense according to the rules. It requires imagination. It requires a break from the status quo. It requires a disconnect from what others may have deemed holy ground: untouchable and unquestionable.

And all of this in turn means it requires mess. Have you ever thought about why children are so messy? It’s because they don’t operate according to the rules. If there were no rules, there would be no definition for mess. Things get messy when they seep past the boundaries of what should be, dripping dangerously onto the floors of what could be.

Even the law that God issued for the Jewish people in the Old Testament was not a law that He knew they could keep. It was a law to illuminate their mess. A law to foreshadow a Savior that must come. We are a messy people. Imperfect and wandering and sometimes downright hurtful. But it wasn’t within those rules of the law that God conducted His plan. He didn’t stand back and refuse to get His hands dirty. He jumped right into the middle of the mess and created a solution that existed outside of the rules.

I am an adult that has learned the rules. At the same time I am an adult in conversation with a God that stands above all rules, and I am saying to Him, “Which ones can I break? Which ones don’t apply to me? Which ones were but for a time? Which ones are man-made and life-sucking and which ones are God-ordained and life-giving? Which ones can be bent without breaking? Which ones are making me bitter and keeping me imprisoned? Which ones are beneficial if I am to become the person I want to become?” And He is giving me answers as I jump off the table and dive into the mess of what could be.

I am standing here watching my year of CHILDLIKE come to a close and knowing that I must jump into a year of MESSY. Because it is in the mess, outside of conformity, that I will find my voice and my art and my freedom and the grace to risk it all. There is no perfect formula in the messy. There is just experimenting and faith. Lots of faith.

We did it. We bought an Art Museum membership. It’s not as if you have to have an art museum membership to be an artist. It’s just that I’ve always thought it would be neat to have one (especially in New York or Washington DC, but Oklahoma City is okay too.) I can count on one hand the times I’ve been in an art museum, and those times hardly count because I didn’t believe I was an artist then. Now that I believe I am an artist, and I am hungering for the chance to rub shoulders with others who have a passion to create. I am one of those people now who wants to sit and stare at a painting, to drink it in. To see color and lines brush strokes, but to also see a real live person whose heart is somehow wrapped into those streaks on a canvas. I understand now what it feels like to dare to believe in yourself and what is inside you, to dare to use your voice to express yourself, and I want to hear the stories of others who have taken just such a risk.

I have to admit I walk around in the art museum with a chip on my shoulder.

It’s a chip of insecurity. A chip that has accumulated over years of telling myself I am not good enough to be in such a place. I know nothing of the “fine” in fine arts. So I walk around and assume that the people with the museum pins on their shirts are looking at me like I don’t belong there.

And the artists, like the non-conversational woman painting my kids faces and arms on family day, believe that I am nothing but a novice and am just there to grovel at the feet of those who are too good to share techniques or the names of paint supplies. I assume that the short lady in the navy suit coat, following me and my kids around, and peering at us over her glasses, knows that it’s our first time and that we are mere common-folk who shouldn’t be allowed to wander the corridors of greatness.

I want to shout at her, “Are you going to follow us around the whole time. Back off!” But I am polite and maintain some semblance of self-control because I am aware of the presence of that chip on my shoulder, and I think it’s starting to whisper insecure things into my ears. And I realize that yelling at her would only give testament to the fact that I am in fact the common-folk that I don’t wish to be.

I feel at home in family art classes where we can drop-in and create freely. I don’t feel the chip quite so heavily when I have oil pastels all over my hands and I’m dressing up in crazy outfits with my kids so that we can stare into a mirror and create a unique self-portrait. I am looking forward to this weekly encounter with art that is CHILDLIKE in its nature.

This feels like the art I know. The art that is messy and touchable and breathable.

The art that does not require a 3-foot distance rule or is not framed in gold or placed behind a glass box. I’m tired of putting art in a box. I’m tired of putting myself in a box.

The Art Museum is still a strange mixture of rules and freedom for me. It is both exploratory and hands-off. It is touchable and yet unapproachable. I’m not sure if that will change over time as I rid myself of this annoying chip or if the paradoxes are just part of the territory.

What I do know is that I am determined to take the advice of a fellow artist and use this year of membership to the fullest. To not visit once and then never return.

I am determined to make this little plastic membership card be what I need it to be, despite my chip, despite the rules, despite the people in navy suit coats who stick to me like a shadow once I enter the building with my curious children. This is uncharted ground for me, but it is necessary ground, and I’m determined to cover it and learn from it and embrace it.

I wanted to share some new things with you about my Messy Canvas Bookstore.

FIRST

I have a brand new e-Book available!

Homeschooling our children greatly feeds into me as an artist. It is inspiring me to be creative, to think outside the box, to chase dreams and curiosities and exploration and adventure and story. It teaches me to want the most out of my today. It makes me live more childlike. It also teaches me a lot about mess and being imperfect.

If you are considering homeschooling or are currently homeschooling, but just aren’t happy with the results, I hope this e-Book will be an inspiration to you. I hope it will empower you and inspire you to do exactly what is best for your unique family, and I hope you’ll have fun in the process.

You can read more about it here.

SECOND

From now until the end of this year (December 31, 2010) all sales of the Angry Homemade Noodles e-Book go to the charity A Beautiful Idea. If you’ve been wanting a pick-me-up as a mom or want to give some hope to a struggling mom, I believe you will find this e-Book inspiring. And now your money goes twice as far, by also supporting a good cause.

THIRD

There have been nearly 700 downloads of the FREE e-Book Messy Canvas: You Are An Artist. What Will You Create? It’s so exciting to hear feedback from readers whose hearts are awakening to what has been lying dormant inside them for far too long. Thank you for sharing the e-Book so generously with your own friends and family and blog readers. Please continue to do so. This creative movement is far bigger than any one of us. It’s fun to just play a part in the stirring.

He wasn’t saying words really. It was more just a gesture and a grunt. He motioned towards the cabinet. His face serious and passionate. He needed something, that much was obvious. Again he grunted and pointed this time with more enthusiasm. His body bending at the waist to emphasize the importance.

I could feel the tension in his body. The desire to communicate something profoundly important and yet the inability to find the right language to bring about the desired results.

I knew my window of cracking the secret toddler code was about to end. There were whimpers trailing the end of each grunt now. He was threatening to lose it.

I started opening cabinets and pointing to options. Do you want raisins? No. Do you want peanuts. No. The “No” word was clear, as it is with most two year olds. It was the grunt I could not quite decipher.

Finally I landed on the bag of pretzels. The panic left his voice. The grunting stopped. The pointing arm dropped. The jumping began. With a flurry of giddiness he began hopping in place. Uncontainable joy threw him into action. He ran in a circle, chasing his own anticipation and nearly catching it by the tail. He tried to help open the drawer to get a cup to hold them, but his emotions were too scattered to allow him the focus to perform such a task. Instead he continued the ear-to-ear smile and patted his little toes on the ground in a quick little thump, thump, thump that matched the beats of his racing heart.

I handed him the cup filled with pretzels. And then he did something I didn’t expect.

He took one step away and then turned around again, looking up at me with that same smile. He held out the cup, up in front of his face, stretching his tiny arms towards me, as if to say, “Look, have you seen this wonderful thing that has been given to me?”

I found it humorous that he should share it with me. Afterall, I had been here all along. I was part of the process. I was the one interpreting the groans, cracking the code, scratching the itch. I was the one that poured the pretzels, provided the cup, and passed him the treat.

None of that mattered. What mattered is that a deepest longing had been satisfied and the giddiness was just too much to contain. It had to be shared. It had to be noticed. It had to bubble up and pour out over anyone in close proximity. His shoulders hunched up close to his cheeks. He wiggled back and forth with glee. His body was no longer a body at all but a rushing wind of pure childlike delight. And he was sharing it with me, and I couldn’t help myself. I was entering in.

This is yet another lesson for me in being CHILDLIKE. The impatient groanings that growl out of me as an artist. The painful attempts to point out my cabinet of needs. The maddening inability to express the art inside of me in a way that would make sense to anyone and yet the connection to a Master Artist who I know can decipher my groanings and give me what I need to fulfill the urge inside of me. He provides it. And while I could go running off content with my pretzels, I am too taken by the moment when all that screamed inside of me somehow managed to be understood and satisfied.

I am overtaken by a cloud of giddiness. I turn to show Him, holding my art up in front of me, arms outstretched, my toes thump, thump, thumping in excitement to match my racing heart beats. As if He didn’t know, as if He wasn’t there all along, as if He wasn’t the provider, the sustainer, the interpreter, the helper, “the source without a source” (- Thomas Aquinas).

And yet, in this moment, he doesn’t remind me of his involvement. He just enters into my delight. He beholds my art and we share a moment, with my shoulders raised up to my cheeks and my eyes squinting with uncontainable excitement. What was once just an idea in my head has now materialized. I am holding it. And I am, in my own giddy, CHILDLIKE way, telling him thanks.

Annie the Bird Boy gets PANTS!

What’s a detail from your today?

Charis, you see the world in a way no one else does. You are constantly exploring, creating and imaginating. You teach me so much about being CHILDLIKE. We love you! Happy Birthday!

He was praying. The usual “Thank you for Mommy and thank you for Daddy” were thrown in there. He might have even pulled out  his typical blanket prayer about his fears, “And thank you that we don’t have to be scared of tornados.”

It had been awhile since they’d prayed before bed. It seemed as though the momma had nothing left to give at 8:30 at night. Often there was little more than a hug and a pat on the head. But tonite she followed through on intention and made the effort to sit still long enough on the side of the bed to listen to a few prayers. Three prayers to be exact.

Perhaps down deep she could sense that she needed to hear the prayers more than they needed to say them. If she did have any sort of inclination of this, she didn’t let on. At least not until the third prayer, the boy’s prayer. And not until the line to beat all lines hit her out of nowhere, knocking the wind right out of her while at the very same time, flooding new breath into her lungs with a love she had all but forgotten.

His eyes were squinted tightly, a testimony to the passion with which he prayed. His hands were clasped together in sort of a pleading fashion and he would shake them when he wanted to emphasize his point. His little voice was pure and honest and hopeful.

“And thank you God for dominoes. Amen.”

He looked up at her when he was done, his head tilted to the side, a shy smile on his face. Without saying a word, he asked if he had done well. “Was my prayer ok?” His eyes questioned.

The momma swallowed hard and blinked her eyes a time or two to clear the mist that had gathered there. “That was such a good prayer buddy. Thank you. I’m so proud of you.” She hugged him tightly and could feel his tiny chest swelling beneath her in pride. The good kind of pride. The pride that comes from knowing you’re loved and then settling into it.

Later that night the momma thought about the prayer about dominoes. She analyzed why it had touched her so deeply. They’re just dominoes, afterall. “But that’s just it! That’s why it is so moving,” she thought, “Because they’re JUST dominoes.” To be able to thank God for family or protection is almost expected. Any human can walk through those words unrehearsed and even passionless. But to thank God for dominoes, why that is another thing entirely.

If the momma was to thank God for dominoes, she would be hesitant. She would first think, “Should I even have the dominoes. Are they just a waste of my time and my money? Will God be unamused with my frivolity?” Then she would think, “Maybe I should give the dominoes to someone else. How unholy of me to keep them to myself.” Her mind would continue to race, “How could I be using the dominoes in a way that would please God? Or better yet, should I fast from the dominoes because I’m getting too much pleasure from them?” She even might wonder “Are the dominoes in God’s plan for my life?”

Tears flooded her eyes again. She saw a picture in her head of God. He was seated at a dining room table, lining up dominoes and laughing as He pushed the first one to trigger a whole chain-reaction of toppling rectangles.

How the momma longed for the complete freedom to just thank God for something as trite and unholy as dominoes. To overflow with joy over something so small and seemingly insignificant. To know that every joy, even the joy from tiny wooden black tiles with white dots, has its source in God.

She thought about how rigid prayer had become for her. How she wiggled her way through it second-guessing every word, feeling as though she had to read God’s mind instead of simply share her own.

She squinted her eyes tightly and clasped her hands, waving them in front of her with passion, “Thank you God for lipstick and earrings. For words that pour out of me onto paper when I write. For books and cool morning breezes and vanilla cokes.” She could feel her body relaxing, her breath slowing,and yet her heart racing.”Thank you God for sex, for ocean waves as they crash on the sand, for iPhones, for cameras, for crayons, for lattes, for girls’ nights.” She picked up speed with her words. They were pouring out of her now, freely. She might not ever stop. “Thank you God for pigtails, diamond rings, tiptoes and wine.” She smiled. Her chest swelled with pride. The good kind of pride. The pride that comes from knowing you’re loved and then settling into it.

“A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical ENCORE”

-G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

I wouldn’t have noticed the plaque if it wasn’t for a curious litte five-year-old that was tagging along with me that day to the library. She was amazing to watch, as she flitted from one little wonder to the next.

“Oh mommy, look at this neat little bench. Can we sit on it for a little bit?”

“Mommy what does this poster say?”

“Mommy, why do all the parks around here have these fancy signs with lots of words?”

I stopped and looked at the plaque. I can’t recall having ever seen it before with my conscious mind, although, I’m sure I’ve passed it time and time again. But who has time to read all those words?

I had time this day.

The words “benefactor,” “publisher,”  and “beautification patron” stuck out to me. Especially “beautification patron.” What a title!

I marveled at Mr. Anton H. Classen and all that he was able to accomplish in his life. He “helped.” He “served.” He “donated.” He “led.” He “brought.” I wondered about his life and if it was rich and if he had great joy. My five-year-old and I tried picturing the park in front of us as the fruit orchard it had once been. I could almost hear kids laughing and screaming as they chased each other, weaving in and out through the rows of trees. The idea of such a social gathering in this grove felt whimsical. I imagined them having an ice cream social and fanning themselves in the shade, picnic blankets strewn along the grass.

It is something to be able to look back on a life once lived. To get a glimpse of it, not in moments or seasons, but as one entire whole. To realize that the accomplishments were once but dreams conjured up in the minds of ordinary men and women. To realize that they could have just as easily not dreamed or not, for that matter, truly lived. To realize that their story to me is just a blip and yet to them it was week upon week of choices and risks and messes and persistence. To realize that each of us is writing our own story, word piled upon word, and that the story, in it’s finality, has the equal possibility of whimsical greatness.

I am thankful for Mr. Classen, for he shows me of life’s often untapped possibilities. And I am thankful for a certain five-year-old who asks all the right questions and takes notice of library posters, unique benches and odd little bronze plaques with too many words.

Wonder is all around us. Does our story make time for it?

]]> http://www.messycanvas.com/2010/08/beautification-patron/feed/ 1 http://www.messycanvas.com/2010/08/talking-like-a-grown-up/ http://www.messycanvas.com/2010/08/talking-like-a-grown-up/#comments Sun, 08 Aug 2010 12:00:21 +0000 mandy http://www.messycanvas.com/?p=4037

I was watching one of the BBC Chronicles of Narnia movies with my kids recently. One of the little girls tells the other characters in the story that she has seen Aslan, the great Lion King, pass by. Sightings of Aslan are rare and precious and the other characters don’t really believe her. They claim, “You only think you saw him.”

Her reply is priceless, especially for someone like me who is living with the word CHILDLIKE for a year.

“Don’t talk like a grown-up. I don’t think. I KNOW.”

Guard yourself against being the type of grown-up that likes to dumb-down rare and precious sightings, to take the wind out of sails, to deny the unbelievable. Maybe we don’t see the glorious living we’re promised or the extravagant work of God in our lives because we don’t want to. We’re so busy telling people why it couldn’t possibly happen that we completely miss that it just did happen.

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be know and understand.”

- Albert Einstein

“You see things; and you say, ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say, ‘Why not?’”

- George Bernard Shaw

I was reading recently about a process called Scripting. If a situation isn’t going how you like you choose to re-write it. You pretend you have a magic pencil, and as you put it to paper, whatever you write will be performed.

I’ve also heard about this being done with Storyboards. You cut out pictures and words from magazines, print them out from your computer or draw them yourself. Then you glue them all to posterboard or into a journal. You start to imagine what your ideal world would look like. You surround yourself with those images. You create your own reality. Whatever is pasted here, IS. You call it into being. Imaginative thought becomes reality. It is true that for anything to ever be, it must start out as a thought.

I think it’s really hard as an adult to “imaginate,” as my daughter Charis would call it. It feels like a waste of time if we can’t figure out the “how” and “when” to what we’re imagining. How’s it really going to ever come to be? When is this even realistically possible?

If you have in your mind a desire of something more for your life, then

“Give this thought to your imagination and see what your imagination can, or will, do to create practical plans.”

- Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill

In my wrestling with this world CHILDLIKE, I see the need for wonder to return to my life. I’ve touched on several different aspects of wonder this week, but I’ve left the hardest for last.

IMAGINATION 1 : the act or power of forming a mental image of something not present to the senses or never before wholly perceived in reality
2 a : creative ability b : ability to confront and deal with a problem c : the thinking or active mind
3 a : a creation of the mind

Imagining is a creative process. It is the process of an artist! It is a tool in our toolbox. One might even propose it is the most important tool in our toolbox.

How does one teach oneself to see imagination not as immature or childish, but as an absolute necessity to succeed, to flourish and to wonder? Why do we think of imagination in regards to children, but rarely in regards to adults? Why are slots not carved out in our work days for the sole (and soul) purpose of imagination?

I don’t have lots of answers on the subject because I’m still in the process of asking so many questions. I wrote this in my journal recently:

Why am I so hesitant to imagine?

• It’s not real
• It will awaken desire, before I can do anything about that desire.
• I’ll be impatient on the timing for what I imagine to become reality.
• I’ll be jaded if it doesn’t really come true.
• It’s a waste of time.
• I should be doing not imagining.
• I’ll use it as an excuse to escape responsibility of reality.
• Someone else will tell me the impossibility of it coming true
• I’ll imagine something that isn’t right for me and maybe wish I was someone else.

I have this sense that many of these reasons of mine do not hold water, but I have to go into the testing phase for myself, to convince myself imagination is worth my time.

Maybe the point in imagining is that it is training for your heart and mind. Maybe the point is not what you imagine or even if what you imagine will actually take place, but that in the process of imagining you are opening up yourself to a world that was previously impossible for you to enter. Maybe the point is to consider the impossible so that when impossibilities show themselves in real life, we are prepared to sail over them.

]]> http://www.messycanvas.com/2010/07/a-week-of-wonder-part-7-imagination/feed/ 5 http://www.messycanvas.com/2010/07/a-week-of-wonder-part-6-excuses/ http://www.messycanvas.com/2010/07/a-week-of-wonder-part-6-excuses/#comments Fri, 30 Jul 2010 12:00:16 +0000 mandy http://www.messycanvas.com/?p=3848

I know there are some of you reading this series of post about wonder and saying, “But you don’t know my life Mandy, my life has nothing wondrous about it:”

I work two jobs.

I don’t have a job.

I am a stay-at-home-mom.

I can’t have kids, and I want them desperately.

I hate my job.

My spouse is a kill-joy.

My friends have betrayed me.

I’ve lost someone I love.

My kids are disrespectful and lazy.

I’m lazy.

I’m boring.

I’m ugly.

I’m overweight.

I’m sick.

I’m poor.

I come from a broken family.

I’ve been abused.

I’m ______________.

Whatever your excuse may be, my answer would be, “Exactly. So you can’t afford to NOT have wonder in your life, not, that is, if you want to truly live.”

“If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and poor indifferent place.”

“When one day one perceives that their occupations are paltry, their professions petrified and no longer linked with living, why not then continue to look like a child upon it all as upon something unfamiliar.”

- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet

“A man only begins to be a man when he ceases to whine and revile, and commences to search for the hidden justice which regulates his life. He ceases to accuse others as the cause of his condition, and builds himself up in strong and noble thoughts; ceases to kick against circumstances, but begins to use them as aids to his more rapid progress, and as a means of discovering the hidden powers and possibilities within himself.”

“Man is buffeted by circumstances so long as he believes himself to be the creature of outside conditions, but when he realizes that he is a creative power, and that he may command the hidden soil and seeds of his being out of which circumstances grow, he then becomes the rightful master of himself.”

As a Man Thinketh by James Allen

I come up with excuses too:

I’m too young.

I’m too old.

I have four kids.

I can’t relate to others. I’m a loner.

I don’t have the time.

I didn’t go to art school.

I’m too tired.

I’m too stressed.

I don’t know the right people.

I’m too driven.

I don’t have enough money.

I’m too scared.

Excuses look at wonder and say, “I’m sorry, you’re a luxury I just can’t afford.” And then we go on about our sorry life and wish we could change it.

Wonder looks at all of our excuses and says, “Yes, and what can I make of it? Surely I can make something of it.”

Artists need mystery. And since I see all humanity as artists or creatives, I could rephrase that to say, humanity needs mystery. But we try to convince ourselves we don’t. We try to live like we can do without it. We try to pretend like nothing surprises us.

We think, especially as adults, that we should have everything figured out, to have answers for everything. I notice this a lot in matters of spirituality and faith. We want to figure God out, so we can defend our beliefs. We want to sum up His character and His rules, so we can convince others of how they need to be living. I read a blog post recently that reminded me of this.

“Fundamentalism creates a system of words, bible quotes, and techniques for salvation that are supposedly certain, so that you can always knows the ground on which you stand and keep God on your side.”

I like to have a safe little box to contain all my wisdom. I like to try and accumulate enough wisdom so that my collection is complete and life can make complete sense and I can live it perfectly and convince others I’m doing so. But I am reminded of Solomon, who the Bible says was the wisest man of all times. If anyone were to have it all figured out, including God and how to live life, it would be him. But listen what he writes,

“When I determined to load up on wisdom and examine everything taking place on earth, I realized that if you keep your eyes open day and night without even blinking, you’ll still never figure out the meaning of what God is doing on this earth. Search as hard as you like, you’re not going to make sense of it. No matter how smart you are, you won’t get to the bottom of it.” - Ecclesiastes 8:16-17

Now, I suppose, depending on the mood you are in, this could be a disheartening few sentences from Solomon. Search as hard as you can, you won’t figure it out. But what I’m finding is if I give in to the true desires of my heart, I find I like a good mystery. I like unearthing a clue that leads to another clue. I like knowing that today can’t possibly be the same as yesterday because things are ever shifting. Mystery creates wonder because mystery eliminates the possibility of things becoming mundane. Mystery keeps faith alive. If I go to church, and I hear that everything is already figured out about God and I’m spoon-fed what I need to know about Him in order to understand Him, I am robbed of wonder and mystery. Why would I stay? There’s nothing to explore, it’s all figured out.

“When fundamentalism and fear become the essence of a religious community, artists and creatives will either flee or be destroyed.” -Randy Elrod, Fundamentalism and Fear: The Great Enemies of Creativity and Art

If I go to school, and I hear that everything is already figured out about science and math and history and writing and I’m spoon-fed what I need to know to be successful, I am robbed of wonder and mystery. Why am I needed in the world, everything is already figured out. My creativity is not necessary.

I think wisdom and Truth and knowledge are wonderful things to run after and even cling to, but if we ever think we have “arrived” and there is no mystery left to seek, then I fear wonder will be dead to us. And if wonder is dead, our lives and the present moments we find ourselves living in have nothing left to explore.

We wake, if ever we wake at all, to mystery…

—Annie Dillard

Wonder and mystery go hand in hand.

Preschool children, on average, ask their parents about 100 questions a day. Why, why, why—sometimes parents just wish it’d stop. Tragically, it does stop. By middle school they’ve pretty much stopped asking. It’s no coincidence that this same time is when student motivation and engagement plummet. They didn’t stop asking questions because they lost interest: it’s the other way around. They lost interest because they stopped asking questions.

- The Creativity Crisis

I recently read a book by poet Pablo Neruda called The Book of Questions. It was literally just page after page of these outlandish and beautiful questions that Neruda dared to ask. Neruda was once called “The Astute Hunter.” This title was bestowed on him because his vocation was to seek the roots of belonging wherever he found himself. In other words, he refused to let any circumstances, location or environment become commonplace. He needed a contentment in his present in order to feel he belonged there. And wonder was what fueled his exploration towards belonging. In the preface to the book it said Neruda sought to “integrate the wonder of a child with the experience of an adult. He craves clarity rendered from the examined life, while refusing to be corralled by his rational mind.”

When we ask questions, even questions that we think we already know the answers to, we are integrating wonder into our life. We refuse to let what our adult mind says is rational stand in the way of what could be. Where there is mystery, there is wonder. The very act of asking a question is the admittance that there is more to be explored.

We stop asking questions we lose interest. We lose interest, we lose wonder. We lose wonder, we lose hope and purpose and dreams and joy. We can’t afford to lose wonder.

“Be patient with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

—Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

I don’t how many times I have watched Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. Apparently plenty because my kids now tell me the movie is boring, while I, still can’t seem to get enough of it. The last time I watched it, a short little scene jumped out at me that I had never taken much notice of before.

It’s morning. Mr. Magorium meets his friend Mahoney and they are off to start an exciting day, full of CHILDLIKE adventures. It just happens to be Mr. Magorium’s last day to live, and he is aware of this fact.

As he greets his friend, he slaps his legs and proclaims, “Pants!”

“What about them?” Mahoney asks, a bit confused by his enthusiasm.

“Nothing. Just PANTS!” He answers with passion.

Perhaps you have to see the movie as many times as I have to really be taken by this scene. But can I just tell you, it is obvious why this man, Mr. Magorium, is otherwise known as the Wonder Aficionado.

I picked CHILDLIKE as my word for the year, and it has been a hard word to figure out. It seems so fleeting in its appearances in my life. Much like the glittering light I mentioned in my post yesterday, just as I stick out my fist to grab at it, it escapes me. It hasn’t been as easy a word to tie into my day-to-day life as FREE or IMPERFECT were for me. But seven months into 2010, I think I’m finally getting some perspective, and I am grateful for the chance to wrestle with such a word.

There is a reason why Lee Ann Womack’s words ring so true to us:

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger

Because, unfortunately, as adults, we do lose it. We lose wonder, we lose our hunger, we lose our rose-colored glasses and we hang up our explorer’s hat on a nail of disappointed dreams and discouraged hopes. Life becomes predictable even painful at times, and certainly there is no reason to get excited over PANTS! There is no reason to get excited much at all.

But children, children have much to be excited about. Sunflowers and dancing light on a wall and yes, even pants. Their eyes are new. They truly are seeing things for the first time. My kids are teaching me how to see again, how to recover the eyesight that I’ve surrendered in the honorable name of “maturity” and “adulthood” and “living in the real world.”

Being CHILDLIKE has felt fleeting this year because adults everywhere are saying, “Just.” They are just pants. They are just sunflowers. It’s just sunlight on a wall. It’s just a stay-at-home-mom role. It’s just a dream. It’s just a book. It’s just a blog post. It’s just a movie. It’s just a job. It’s just a Secret Club. It’s just a song. They’re just kids. It’s just a quilt. He’s just a husband. He’s just God.

“One of the main weaknesses the average person suffers is too much familiarity with the word impossible. We know all the rules that will not work. We know all the things that cannot be done.”

- Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill

“Don’t reduce holy mysteries…”

- Matthew 7:6

A Wonder Aficionado is a person who likes, knows about, appreciates and fervently pursues wonder. A Wonder Aficionado inspires an affection for wonder in others. A Wonder Aficionado slaps his legs and yells, “PANTS!” at a world that has forgotten. “PANTS!” to anyone who will hear. “PANTS!” to those who will have eyes to see. “PANTS!” even knowing that many will laugh and point fingers and say things like “impossible” or “just.”

“There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.”

- Albert Einstein

As I revisit my word CHILDLIKE, I realize how closely knit it is to this word WONDER. That is the spirit I am wanting to learn from 2010. Success would be to march out on the other side adorned in my very own Wonder Aficionado pants.

He was awake. I had heard him talking on and off behind his closed door, but the babbling started to intrigue me when it became interspersed with squeals of laughter and gasps of awe. “What is he doing?” I wondered.

I assumed his brother must be playing with him, since they shared a room, but why didn’t I hear his brother’s voice?

Another squeal of joy. My curiosity took rise, and I followed it up to the bedroom door, where I quietly turned the knob and prayed I could catch him in the midst of play.

The first thing I noticed was his older brother, asleep in his own bed. “So he’s playing by himself,” I reasoned, intrigued all the more.

He was standing in his crib, looking down at his body, touching his arm that was dotted in little specks of light that were peeking through the blinds. The light was casting dancing sparkles on the edge of his crib and onto the wall as well. He looked up at the wall and slapped at it, and then let go with another squeal of delight.

“He’s playing with the light,” I thought, taken by the moment. His fist reached out with a quick grab at the illuminated wall, and I could see the mystery was baffling his little mind. “He’s trying to catch the light,” I whispered to myself.

“Your eyes are windows into your body. If you open your eyes wide in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light.” – Matthew 6:22

Now it was my turn to take my own gasp of awe. How simple a delight. Sunshine pouring in at just the right time, in just the right way, to create a magical mobile for my baby, far greater than anything I could have ever purchased in a store. Discovery, exploration, education, right in his own bedroom. I imagined how surprised he must have been when he first opened his eyes and beheld the magical light show. It was, I must admit, quite breathtaking, but I’m pretty sure I would have completely missed it, if it wasn’t for his CHILDLIKE fascination. My children wake me up to simple magic all around me. They awaken me to wonder and I am filled with light.

In early spring Nehemiah, our 4-year-old, decided to use his birthday money to buy some gardening tools and flower seeds. He was adamant that his birthday money be used to create his own flower garden. So Tony took him shopping and they carved out a little section of our backyard and filled it with rich dirt where the seeds were then planted.

I didn’t expect to be taken in by the process, but I have been. We all have been.

In the beginning Tony would protect the little sprouts from downpours and wind by covering them with our recycling bin.

Nehemiah would ask, “Are my flowers okay?”

“Yes, I kept them safe,” Tony would reply.

From the very first green to the very first bloom, it felt as though we were holding our breath, anticipating a miracle. And watching the growth process, seeing tiny sprouts turn into 2 inch thick stems of sunflowers, watching morning glories vine their way around the sunflower stems so they could climb to the sun, and seeing the first colors of bright red zinnias bloom into life, has been nothing short of a miracle. Despite thick heat and flood waters, flowers are blooming, things are springing to life, and we get to watch it all unfold in our very own backyard.

If I had forgotten for a moment that there is great wonder in this world, I am now reminded. Thanks to the wishes of a 4-year-old, CHILDLIKE wonder has returned to me.