There's a spiralling, massive tower of very large, beautitfully-white canvasses in the entrance of the art store near my house. The first time I saw it, I'm pretty sure my jaw actually dropped. Something about it that just screams be creative, be creative. It's a little voice that's been crying with the little bit of force it has left, and almost in hopelessness inside of me. Let it out. Let it out in rivers of emotional colours that dance and run and stop abruptly. Let it out in the pounding of thick, bold oils that smell like release and like reminders and like reinventing and like re-establishing the flow of thought and curiosity. Let it out in rhythmic tapping of keys, words from that bit of soul that is a wild valley of flowers, each stunning in it's own unique texture and form, swaying in the wind, breathing in the sun and exhaling life to us...and despite the joy of setting free and generating ideas and sharing my thoughts and heart and life, art has been one of those things that I love to do and would love to do more...and don't seem to find the time for lately...until I heard about Kathryn's letter.
Not too long ago, she used to sit behind me in church. Some days, I would sit beside her, and listen to stories about her grandchildren, and Holland, and her family in Calgary. She'd tell me about her deceased husband, and how she used to have tea and play cards. And she'd always ask about school, about my family in BC, about the youth, about my roommates. I loved her warm blue eyes, and her hands, and her rings. Truth be told, I think when I saw her I felt the warmth that my younger self did around Abbie at Knox, and I felt safe. I think that we all need older, wiser women in our lives who can teach us to love brightly, hug completely, and listen with emotion in our eyes.
On Saturday I was celebrating a sweet sixteen with a friend from church. Sparkles and colours and music and dancing and tons of tulle later, I know that what I'm going to remember is not the feeling of chaperoning, and is not how beautiful it was to watch my friend and her mom dance their hearts out together, or to watch her unsure self, beautiful in a floor length ball gown, look up to her dad and wrap her arms around him. It's not the glitter, the presents, the cake, the laughing...but a simple conversation about the letter.
We visited her about a month before she died, he said, after asking and hearing my name. She took out a letter, and was so touched by it that she asked us to read it so we could share it too. She was really moved by it. She was touched by it. She enjoyed it. She smiled. She smiled that loving, living, genuine, complete smile that feels like it touches you.
There are lots of things I hope for when I write. I hope that my words will preserve memories of beautiful moments, like sharing wine and chocolate on a bedroom floor and talking about how we've been changed by God this year, hearing the music of my neighbours' kids playing together with all the instruments they can find in our living room, or lying in our bunk beds in the dark, talking and laughing until we fall asleep. I hope that as I'm writing, I'll experience God as I stop and breathe and reflect on my days. But really, I love the power of words. I love the depth of soul they hold, and the ability they have to bridge generations and geography. I love that as my hands wrote my heart and sealed it to give to a friend, she smiled, felt my love, and held it dearly.
I draw and paint and write and sing because it helps me connect my eyes, my heart, my hands, and my mind. Being creative makes me smile as I dwell on the creativity of my Saviour. And every time I do it and every time I think that thought I'm more amazed. I have this need inside me to share the eyes He has given me, and to see him shine in the colour I see dancing, even in these black, digital words. I'm encouraged by it, and hope to encourage others through it.
Here's hoping I'll see and feel and try to experience this aurora more often.
