Tuesday, January 15, 2013

This Lil' Light of Mine

I remember as a child going to church with my family.  It was a bit silly, I thought, as our family is going to a sacred spot for an hour to "get all holy" was screwed up, as we would act as-if for an hour, inside this 4 brick walls with stained glass angels watching over us little fakers.  When we got home, instead of feel refreshed and anew, took our usual places in the Punch & Judy show, and who the hell is Judy?!    Even though I have these cray-cray memories of life as a kid, I also have the pictures that float in my mind; the sweetest melodies in that bliss-filled hour  I still hum randomly.  The best thoughts of Church weren't the damnation or tarnation people often link with the traditional Church Lady stereotypes.  The best memories were those songs - songs that we there for me unconditionally every week.  The liturgies, the Sanctus, the Offertoryhymns that gave me comfort, even though I didn't know what it meant.  As my life at home was unpredictable and protected, this red brick building we went to every week to "Act Saved" was there for me, giving me these rote songs that didn't judge me or make me eat brussel sprouts or the dreaded liver and onions.  It gave me the peace of my understanding - exactly what it said it would do.
The thing I craved most as a child was peace.  As a family, whether at the dinner table or the church pew, each member would play their part in the game of Deactivating Peace.  Usually my brother would start the marble down the slope by saying something rude to my sister.  That would send her into a tizzy, which caused me to delightfully kick my brother under the table to stop being such a tool.  That would make him complain to his mommy, which made my dad yell at her for being his cheerleader.  On and on, no matter where we were, this pinball game would go off, sending the ball this way and that, going no where while going everywhere.  This constant state of unrest seemed a bit of a cheat, as even in a legit pinball game racks up points; feel that momentary rush when the lights and bells go off at the end.  The sad point of our game was there Was no end. All I learned is how groovy flowers and fuzzy neon pink footprint stickers would cover the holes in the wall that were made by my father.

the good fairy

I remember when I was in kindergarten, my constant goal was to be good. Not "good" in the sense that I could finally sit in the "A" table or be one of those annoyingly perfect curly headed beauties soccer mommies oogle over.    I wanted to be the Good Fairy that taps everyone on the head when nap time is done.  Remember that?  In school, I was taught that you would be rewarded, whether temporarily or permanently, for your good deeds. At home, it was a different story, but at school I could be vindicated!  I could be the one that people look up to and learn from.  I could have an audience, people to laugh at my jokes and see the things I make and do weren't stupid.  With this in mind, I took every opportunity to shine.  My teachers thought I was cool; a prodigy of sorts.  My poetry was awarded , my pictures graced the walls of my teachers, but still at home I was a Lemonhead.  If I had only given up trying to please the very people that brought me into this earth, and work on shaping me into a gift that should be cherished instead of kicked around, would my life be different?  All things happen for a reason, and I do feel that all that junk back then did shape me. My empathy for the underdog is unparalleled, as I knew that title well. 
Fast forward to 40 years later.  Sitting here pondering this next shift in my Life.  I'm entering the vortex of something a bit exciting but raw, magical but seemingly risky... but I want it.  I want the challenge like I was that little girl sneaking into the boys bathroom all over again.   Will I be discovered?  Found out to be this amazingly talented writer/collage artist that the Universe has been missing All.This.Time??!  Or will that other part of me, that part that sees the devil-may-care attitude fall flat on my arse!
 The risk to put myself out there, for all to see is Great.  The adrenalin rush makes me feel like I'm standing in the middle of an intersection in my underwear.  Everyone will see my flaws scrutinize me if I don't use correct grammar or I glue shit down that looks like a kindergartener did it. .  Scary stuff. Brave stuff.  Necessary stuff.
This collage is done  in moments of complete Bliss.  Nope, not in kindergarten anymore. The collage was from a workshop given by Jonathon Adler . It was interesting as the male perspective led to different emphasis, shapes and placement instead of details.  It's like that in real life too - men speak in generalities, using fewer word to describe things, to make things happen. Women use the language of Detail.  Descriptive, mellifluous words that skip around the subject and flirty-flirt with the nuances, not nail it in the gut.  Case in point: a couple in a paint store. The guy would look at the color, and in one caveman grunt, he would blurt "Blue.  The color of the wall is blue".  The women, on the other hand, would describe the color as having hints of azure, cobalt, robin's egg-such-and-such, with a tad bit of the ocean in July.  Dude, it's not blue!

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