icons opening in obedience

"Obedience, taken in itself, is not a "virtue"; it is blind submission, and there is no light in blindness. Only love for God, the absolute object of all love, frees obedience from blindness and makes it the joyful acceptance of what alone is worthy of being accepted. But love without obedience to God is 'the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life' (1 John 2:16), it is the love claimed by Don Juan, which ultimately destroys him. Only obedience to God, the only Lord of Creation, gives love its true direction, makes it fully love.

True obedience is thus true love for God, the true response of Creation to its Creator. Humanity is fully humanity when it is this response to God, when it becomes the movement of total self-giving and obedience to Him."

--Alexander Schmemann, For The Life Of The World, p. 84-85

Embarking on Schmemann for a time.

I have put forth into the world all the icons in my studio as silent yet moving witnesses of the lineage of Truth. For this I am pleased and pray for love to shine forth in this next wave that is about to unfold.

There will be another Theotokos as a commission, a very small Mandylion (face of Christ on a cloth), a Holy Trinity based on Rublev's (and the fluid interpretation of it that Leonid Ouspensky proclaimed) and a Christ in Majesty. This time the majority on beautiful carved panels with a kovcheg that my carpenter neighbor has made. I have carefully hand-stained their edges and backs with a custom oil color in a deep brown with some burnt sienna.

A new chapter in the journey. I will push to simply keep learning and growing as I know progress in skill and vision is being made. And may that never cease.

The very first icon I attempted almost four years ago was one of a portrait of Christ. I had been keeping it as a testament of how far I've come, but the other day I started to see that as a self-oriented perception of this journey. My icons should aspire to be the best always, and so it was almost a sad statement of an imperfect love to Christ allowing it to sit in a corner serving no purpose. The happy end of this realization has been scraping it down, yet saving the extensive gold that I water gilded on the panel, and I am prepared to sketch Christ as all that remains is the gessoed silhouettte. Now to move forward.

So as I share words, a rabbit-skin glue is heating on my stove so I can seal the four new panels. I have to prepare the gesso as well. That is an enormous project, and luckily one that my dear 3-yr. old Emma can assist with while her 1-yr. old little brother Soren can watch perched from my backpack. I am always perplexed at how I can move forward in the icon do-ing with so many laborious, prayerful and time-consuming movements required to complete an icon--being that I have five children. Yet I have never been so disciplined in my life because of that I think. I have my children to thank, and an increasing love of entering the icon and this ever-present sense of gift to be here--here at this precise moment in time, where I can take up brush and proclaim the kingdom of God. It is a miracle. May I never take this for granted.

But so much more to learn... Funny, how I made this shift from looking backwards at my youth and where I have been in terms of creative milestones (or lack thereof), and have now focused on the beauty of days to come, welcomed as I aspire to come into fullness of creative excellence. My body aging in appearance now is daily light to the wonderful place I am heading if I am faithful to the calling of this vocation. Perhaps strange, but a good shift indeed. Why wallow as so many do for youth when wisdom finally and hopefully can emerge. When you pass 40, it is a definite marker--but I think virtue can be obtained. Patience. Life becoming like a gesture of being poured out through a sieve--only the purified and cleansed falling into the basin. So many times I feel as if I really need the span of years to understand so much. But then there is the gift of my husband Aaron who has gifts of philosophical understanding where I do not, and thankfully he helps to pull me up to higher ground (And I hope, I, in other ways I can reciprocate).

Obedience. Patience. Love.

I am going to enter the sunlight pooling in my studio blessed on this beautiful warm day of winter. I am going to rest in thanksgiving. I am going to draw and find those lines to articulate love.

I am glad to be simple. I am glad to be here. I am glad to be immersed in the here and now. I pray the same for you.

Shown at top: Andrei Rublev's icon of Christ in Majesty

Becoming unravelings

...All material things are becoming unravelings from an inner core of substantial luminescence... apples, trees, rocks, birds, sky, my husband.

Patterns. Signs. Yearnings. Understanding. Hope.

I love this image of two clown lovers walking in the night.

I wish i could use my tongue better. I fall so short in spoken word. The same way i yearn and struggle for the subtlety of color and line through my brush that i see in my mind's eye, I try to speak with certain things but fail at arriving. I fail and become misunderstood. I frustrate. Words. But it is not only words. It is my lack of understanding, of remembering, of becoming. It is then the realization that i am culpable for this that i sink. Maybe i shall not fly, but i would like to walk or at least climb. Not handicapped. Whole and strong. Able to walk in the dark even when the light of the moon is hidden and in the moments where the path deviates or even becomes lost.

But the patterns are there. Patterns of love growing and shifting and blowing and moving. And certain ones remain as powerful signposts. Even when incubated for years and minutes suspended and then realized at its appropriate moment. Reminders. Things to grasp onto as we hurdle through space. Why is the past of our lives and the dreamed dream relegated to the same island once it has been?

After Aaron and i married, we went to Montreal to spend some alone time in marking the event. And the visit to the arboretum has been visiting me much lately. The day itself cloudy with light pockets bursting through--the air quality cold but warm at the same time. Spring. Bulbs were beginning to emerge out of the ground, tree buds blossoming. We didn't know where we were going and simply discovered the way we were to take. What stays with me most is that in the walking that seemed as if we were lost in the wild we would then come upon the most beautiful gardens. There was the Chinese and Asian garden and entering into the ancient Chinese house on a small island in the center of a pond next to a beautiful waterfall. And inside the house a woman was playing the harp. More walking along indistinct paths to emerge in the rose garden that was shaped like a labyrinth. Then a hyacinth field. Much walking for a long time in the extraordinary ordinary. Entering in then to a house that held the corpse of an ancient tree so you could lovingly touch its concentric circles. Again long walking and then descending into the house of insects like a cave--all i remember are all the lovely butterflies pinned open--miniature saints lined up in a row. Beautiful skins that once lifted light. And one's own strange feeling of lift when leaving back into a world we are only passing through. This distinct sojourn at the arboretum was a gift--our journey has unknown walking like the waiting of entering into the moments of light. Transcending the wild. bridging the night. The hoping then arriving. Like riding Peleshian's train. Everything pointing to the end. And we hurdle quickly there. Returning to the Garden.

The patterns remain. Like the prototype. Love caught within the pattern. Given in the pattern.

Someday i shall speak and be understood.
Someday i shall understand and hear.
Now, I and we shall strive for inner luminescence like foxfire from decaying wood.

Clowns lovers in the night. Holding hands.