I used to pound it out, all the fear. One shoe in front of another, running through the misty streets watching the angst steam away with my breath. Taking it all in, Yellowcard blasting in my ears, wind rushing, sun coming up, going down and and the sky always stretching on. I ran through every trouble, each separation. I ran to hold on to sanity with my love a million miles away, not promised to return and two little boys clinging to me for dear life. Over and over I listened, “This is me afraid”, “Shadows and Regrets” . . . and I held on to a boy and girl in love and all the dreams we dared to see.
Then came disaster and my body torn apart. The steps slowed to a stumble, feeling blessed just to keep two feet firm underneath me. Swaying, carrying the weight of new life in my fearful self I marched slowly on. I gained a child to hold and forgot a few dreams and more than a little of myself along the way. L’Engle says we must forget ourselves in the making but when we lose the little girl who dreamed we are diminished, less than whole.
Now, emotions swirl as my baby grows up. I turn to what I know, quicken the steps of an untrustworthy body and for a few minutes I run again. The melody in my ears, the sun grown long, shadows, regrets . . . but I can feel the life pulsing in my chest, greedily sucking in the air. A smile spreads – I can’t give up, not on one solitary dream, not on my man, not on our love, not on all the romance of this broken world.
The shadows reach long, regrets creep in and pile high, threatening to crowd out the beauty He gives. I haven’t managed to give them all I wish, I haven’t walked the path as well as I would have liked. But this is what I have, light on little shoulders. Spelling lesson in an evening wonderland (in nothin but undies :). Crazy, unbounded life climbing on the table, mad to create. This is enough, always will be and I will forever hold these moments. The dark gives the light its’ purpose, its’ brilliant beauty, its’ power. Scoop up this dappled light, spots of truth and forget all the rest. Our real reality is loveliness no matter what else we have seen. L’Engle, she reminds me of this and that it is no fault of my own that I receive – pure gift is given me. In the light of day our most horrid moments will make sense in this story we have run and stumbled through. And the moments bathed in light, those are ours to keep forever . . . held safe in His hands. He does the holding, I’m to let go . . .
Fingers laced with my love, lying in his arms I am whole enough to let go a bit more . . . and we run on dreaming
“When we were only kids
And we were best of friends
And we hoped for the best
And let go of the rest
The shadows and regrets
We let go of the rest”
– Yellowcard
4-12 . 85mm . LR + VSCO . evening window light
There are days where the world spins right, all painted with beauty. Days when the smiles and silly and growing things are enough.When the feel of your desk solid and the tea warm make your heart sigh gratitude. There are days I am content and worry takes a backseat to all His goodness poured out right now. Days I can glimpse the golden gleam of childhood and feel the dandelions brush my cheek just the way they used to. Moments in this uncertain swirl of life where I remember we are always safe in our Father’s hands. When I see gifts everywhere and they are enough.
I don’t yet know how to forever linger in this wholeness, but it feels like coming home. We have been trying to find a new roof over our heads, somewhere to call our “own”. All we found was confusion sprinkled with disappointment. And yet as I return to where He has placed me, it feels like coming home. Joy to paint a wall, plant a seed, see my children run and play, create and grow. We live surrounded in beauty, smothered by a fallen world. Still I long for that tiny backyard, sheltered under one sprawling tree. I miss the honeysuckle bush sweet and how I popped its’ fruit between my fingers. Breathtaking gardens are visited, nature I never dreamed of is witnessed . . . but nowhere to be found is that green park rolling out between friendly trees, fairies dancing amidst the neighbors’ flower beds, elfin folk hiding round rocky borders. It’s childhood I seek.
Amidst all the diapers and responsibilities, if I can be a bit more Mary, a lot less Martha, my children hand it back to me. Between the add your sums and sound out your letters we stop to paint the world right with blue, yellow and red. We try to slow down the relentless march of days with lunches spread out on sand. Time is washed away in waves, while crabs are caught – me just hoping they will remember the golden light of innocence the way I still do.
“We write, we make music, we draw pictures, because we are listening for meaning, feeling for healing. And during the writing of the story, or the painting, or the composing or singing or playing, we are returned to that open creativity which was ours when we were children.” – Madeleine L’Engle (she calls it wonderful racketty creativity 🙂
4-28-12 . 85mm . indoor morning light . painting pine wood derby cars, baby man’s first paint adventure
I’m not good at making lemonade. 33 and I had never made it before.
I don’t think I’m good at motherhood.
I’m a mess . . . Can’t even qualify for a hot mess, just a mess.
I have commenced drinking coffee. Me whose head already spins in circles . . . finally acknowledging that strong drink might be the only hope for making it through the morning mayhem of eggs and diapers, schoolwork and tying shoes. That barrage hitting me bleary headed, still trying to make sense of the day before . . .
The past few yesterdays haven’t gone as I had hoped. How can a woman, thirty some years accustomed to this world still sprout so many dreams in just one day, all to watch them trickle away? And still the mundane must do’s won’t all fit between sun up and sun down. I can’t find the path to talk of grace and hope right now so I rest in knowing L’Engle says true faith is full of heavy doubt – that’s how you know you really care. The fact is I’m deflated, uneasy and my coffee’s gone cold.
We stepped off the roller coaster and have come smack up against reality. If grief is a coma, then awakening is slow and muddled. Just kids we were married and bearing our first child by our first anniversary. Lying,wrapped in each other, I ask him how we got here, how have ten years flown by? What to do when you realize you can’t go back and undo all the mistakes made, can’t grasp all the opportunities you didn’t recognize til now. How has picking wedding colors and assembling cribs turned to college plans and career paths? The panic sets in, I’m always quick to find my way there and to it’s friend despair. He holds me, reminds me we still share the same bed, we hold three healthy children, we care enough to speak our minds, we work hard and we love our God and in this world that is more than most have or even hope for.
Seems I’m always driving now, red light sitting and a motorcycle’s roar takes me back to days of fast freedom. Remember rockin out at the straightedge show and the good and the fierce they embolden my heart heavy with a world of work and worry. Modest Mouse stirs me up and the Lord’s courage appears in the unlikeliest ways. Isn’t that how He always comes? The music washes over, I’m living by songs recently, heart a great yearning ache. The melody draws it out, that deep cry, for . . . for I don’t even know what. I try to walk through the week worthy, stumbling back together with His body. Unworthy. Powerless. It’s all I can think, feel. Tired. Uncertain. And when I am all of this – HE. IS. He is POWERFUL. Washes it all away, brings me in, asks me to ask Him. Breaks my heart, Heals my soul. I’m crying and I’m laughing and I’m opening my eyes . . .
The past few weeks have shared a glimpse of other’s lives. Chances given to covet, peeking at easy street, heaven on earth never works as well as it looks I try to remember. And seeing all the harsh struggle and how we’ve all fallen down, still so hard to get back on our feet. Taking looks at dishonesty, uncertainty, lives destroyed, dreams lost, people hanging on, honest hard work and unquenchable creativity. It all just weighs heavy. Presses down and gives weight to the letters, the message inscribed.
“Keep Calm and Carry On”
Each generation carries the weight of the whole world so the next can play under their wings. A few years of innocence till they shoulder the load. Heaviness presses down.
Our Lord steps in, takes the burden. We are not of this world and so we can smile at the days to come. What a crazy path we walk with hearts lit with passion and death the certain destination. We must hold the days with open hands.
And so my son asks to make lemonade. He who hates singing and too much attention has taken to heart the school musical – “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
So we squeeze sour juice til our hands sting and the pitcher’s full. Stir the sugar in and drink, proud of what we have made. This is all we can do, receive what is given, add the sweet, drink it up sitting round the garden with the ones you love, and give thanks. Give thanks for a cold drink on a hot day. Sing thanks for little hands working next to yours. Shout thanks for food to fill bellies and roof to shelter from the rain. Pray against the dark and breathe thanks for the good and the love,
and make lemonade as much as possible.
“Alright don’t worry even if things end up a bit too heavy – We’ll all float on alright – Already we’ll all float on” – Modest Mouse
Makin Lemonade from sharon mckeeman on Vimeo.
4-2-12 . 85mm . indoors midday
“The artist, if he is not to forget how to listen, must retain the vision which includes angels and dragons and unicorns, and all the lovely creatures which our world would put in a box marked CHILDREN ONLY.” – Madeleine L’Engle in Walking on Water
You can find the first half of this session here. We met for dinner and I photographed this lovely Mama and her boys in a tiny upstairs room of an old house around a big wooden table with evening light streaming in through little windows on every side. That’s where the boys looked at me with their souls and I played with capturing her hair in golden light. On our way out to the cars I had visions of trying to get some rad shots in front of old walls, everyone lined up looking cool and disinterested. But there was a Koi pond on the way out and alleys are for running and brothers are for being silly. On this my first attempt I have learned I am not one to take those stylish images, but to grab what they give me and play with it as much as they enjoy the moment.
She and I live in the world of children, homeschooling our kids. It is a wild and ridiculously fabulous world. Sometimes I have to remind myself of this after a long week of containing the chaos enough to teach a few lessons. But these moments always come, such as Saturday morning coffee in hand, editing photos of little boys all lit up with life. I’m reminded how my little men keep that box wide open with dragons and such spilling all over every inch of our lives.
I’m rereading a favorite book. More than a book, as my eyes fall on it’s pages like an old friend, I’m reconnecting with who I forget that I am. Falling back in love, committing to the dangerous life that is the artist’s. Maybe just to the life that is real, that we all can reach for and loose ourselves in the pursuit of. The kind of loss that gives you back what you most desire and never even dared dreamed of. So as I hear these words again you may find many of them shared as I bring them in and try to give them a home . . .
“Obedience is an unpopular word nowadays, but the artist must be obedient to the work, wether it be a symphony, a painting, or a story for a small child. I believe that each work of art, wether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says, “Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.” . . . But one does not have to understand to be obedient. Instead of understanding – that intellectual understanding which we are so fond of – there is a feeling of rightness, of knowing, knowing things which we are not yet able to understand. . . When the artist is truly the servant of the work, the work is better than the artist . . . When the work takes over the artist is enabled to get out of the way, not to interfere. When the work takes over, then the artist listens. But, before he can listen paradoxically, he must work. Getting out of the way and listening is not something that comes easily, either in art or prayer. Before I can listen to God in prayer, I must fumble through the prayers of words, of willful demands . . . until I have worked through self I will not be enabled to get out of the way . . . We must work every day, wether we feel like it or not, otherwise when it comes to get out of the way and listen to the work we will not be able to heed it.” – from Walking on Water : Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L’Engle
To be a servant is humbling, but it makes clear your duty. To give birth is incredible pain, danger and fear but it brings the glories of new life. If my role is birth giver and servant then confusion melts away. If the work knows more than I, there is no room for ego and neither is there a place for insecurity. I can have confidence in the work, my trust lies in He who is all truth and beauty. The most I can do is put down what He opens my eyes to. That is the least I can do in this magnificent story He has written. Rest is found in the fact of His authorship and I must be diligent to put pen to paper or whatever He spurs my heart to do. It is my duty and I may not understand where I will be led. All I know is that window light is calling and I must attempt capturing it’s loveliness on a friend’s deep tresses. Or that there are words inside my heart that need a place to be scrawled down and seen. And even humbler, there are socks which must be arranged in clean piles, an installation of the art of everyday. To birth the moment of a child’s head on your breast even when a million other tasks are clamoring. To let God’s grace wash over all the mistakes, when the brush goes wild and crazy and only His love can wipe the canvas beautiful clean. That is the realest kind of art.
And we all are artists, His children created to take after our Father. His creativity bursting wild with joy to make this world and still careful to craft the handiwork of each atom beyond what we can fathom. Him placing us here to love with the mad intensity that knows loss and betrayal and can choose to cling to the one they adore. We cannot breath without this love and in this story painted with the bold colors of life and death, our Father is all Goodness. Tears and laughter, houses built, babies born and lovers held testify to the truth of our story. Each act, another mark made in what is truly art. And so I search out, I learn . . . how to hold the light in a box . . . how to place the artifacts of life on a screen . . . and I try to step out of the way and let it be more than I know
(Thank you to my friend and her lovely boys for having dinner with me in the upstairs room of a favorite restaurant, around a big wooden table with evening light streaming in and my camera clicking away! Her boys are so sweet and fun. They were so into interacting with the camera and can go from really deep to super silly and back again which was so interesting for me to explore with me lens. I see the beautiful art of her family she is creating. I don’t know how to portray that, all I know is how to grab a glimpse of boys so in love, climbing on their mama’s lap and dancing round her as we walk to the car. I will share the photos I took as we left in another blog post soon! 4-5-12 . 85mm . LR + VSCO . evening window light)
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Molly - You seriously amaze me! I love reading your words, they are powerful, truthful, and so spirtiual in a way that just captures me! Thank you! p.s i’m having a boy! eeee hahaha i haven’t annonced it on any internet source but thought you would like to know! 🙂
Sharon - Thank you for your kind words Molly and oh my I am soooooooooooo excited and happy for you!!! Such wonderful news 🙂 I know it can still be a difficult and scary time though and I will be praying for God to hold you safe in His hands and strengthen your heart. xo xo xo