Whimsical musings of space

So these are the few initial spaces that help to make me feel that things are obtainable (regarding my musings below--that place we are heading...).  Living sculpture/sculpture for living from The Rural Studio Project: http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2008/ruralstudio/particulars.shtml--just a sampling of what these architects can do.  Can't you see modern monasticism for the artist alive and well within these walls?

That place we are heading...

I have been out walking. The morning clouds spilled into rains and yet the two little people and I wanted to encounter its thick fresh air, brush pass the voluptuous ferns along the roadside, and peer over the bridge on the off-chance we might see a trout napping in the shadows. The rains died down, and so the air gathered more a mist, gifting a subtle incubus of space and time, fragrant earth, and sweet sleep for the riders in the stroller.

And my mind stirs to surface the many things that are speaking-- This notion of community, and current lack thereof; the love of God synonymous with love of neighbor; the way that I, as a mother, can make a difference in my children’s lives while pointing the way to a semblance of heaven on earth; collective acts of creativity pooled out to overflowing in waters of collaborative space. The why, the grief, the longing--all beautiful arrows that once and still point to that greater dream and propel me to ask how to form the door that can open to this place. Is it foolish to hope? I know I am not alone—but how to take action and make change. What does it look like? How can it serve? How to form the forgotten dust of Eden to build such a dream? 

What is it this severing? Spliced lives in heavy balance of all the needs of the day. The unity of simplicity lost. The intimacy of spirit, the intimacy of love, the intimacy of simply breaking bread broken down and sitting shelved and mostly forgotten. The ways of this culture wheeling along but broken: from the minimal glories of success to the monumental loss of time to trivial pursuits that keep us from each other and from true intimacy, growth of being, and gifting of self. I question myself and why this longing runs so deep. Not simply a monastic desire, but here in this desired place of New Jerusalem there are families, children, single people committed to another way of day-to-day sustainability and life. Feed my spirit, feed my body, feed my mind and creativity—feed each other. Is this not also where we find God? And true love? And I am one of the blessed few who share deep love and commitment with my spouse. But that too didn’t come without loss, pain, and a severing of a previous attempt at marital love that failed. So what is it? Where is it? How to find it if it has not been discovered, and how to create it if it is yet unknown? 

I want to know.

I know now that I feel like a traveler without home. But the fact that my being yearns, like an older deeper instinct, makes me think it exists, if only yet formless. Perhaps one needs to learn more about the communities that St. Basil set forth—but for artists? Sometimes I am only too acutely aware of all the ways that it is unattainable. To love God is to go further, to take the narrow road that has not even been forged through the wood. But to have enough vision to see it illumined through the darkness, and hear the sound of song from its heart echoing back: to trust, to hope, to follow.

May we be brave enough to try. 

So along with the daily needs of the day we pray for the quickening of the reality of the Abbey. For heaven on earth, for Love that sustains and never fails, for beauty that illumines the Creator, for a place to call home in this passing, dying world.

The photos above are from The Rural Studio Project--innovative architects concerned about the nature of community and the beauty of form. I should have been an architect. They get me excited and thinking.

St. George and the Dragon, and simple miracles

Slowly, I have loved a piece of wood with marble dust, chalk and warm hide glue.
Polished slowly, to catch the Light, to illumine the approaching shroud of pigments which will disperse like clouds in the formation of creation. Simple water and yolk.
But time laid out in these movements absorbed into my life. Silent and hidden foundation which now--only now--is finding form through curve, arrow, and ink.
And here am I--distilled. Entering. Setting fire to Athonite crystal breath of Our Lady of Iveron saturated in rose floating above my table, slow-motion caught in the light from my Eastern window.
And it is for the quietude and the abandonment of self and the beauty of gifted entrance that I rejoice. The voice is speaking in the hush of the barely audible breath of wind. Time flow. Brush flow. River flow out my window. The will of God in the here and now and always.
And prayer.
These private utterances of sound blowing the inner hut--brushed clean and warm.
Open wide the windows.
There are spring flowers there blooming out my window. They too are reaching East towards that light, bowing and blowing and boldly shifting landscape.
Rejoice! Hell was vanquished, time redeemed, and we must ready ourselves.
O dear saint George, I taste my tears and remember the love you lived.
What dragons do I slay in this my?

Diocletian spilled blood when George loudly renounced the Emperor's edict to kill and sacrifice any Christian soldiers--in front of his fellow soldiers and Tribunes he claimed himself to be a Christian and declared his worship of Jesus Christ. They had a hard time stilling his pulse. And now I find that even Muslims and Jews accepted him as a holy man. There is a shrine to St. George in the village of Beit Jala, beside Bethlehem, which had been frequented by all three of Palestine's religious communities as a place for healing. El Khudder —The Green, as Muslims called him (possibly also naming him the saint of fertility), sometimes confounding him with Elijah, but none the less seeking healing from powerful ailments. All three communities are still visiting the shrine and praying together to this day. Now the love deepens as this becomes a door for ecumenism and solidarity.

We all need healing.

And I now approach the moment of gold, pure and perfect. May heaven aid.

And may this day bring forth joy.


Above: Al-Khadir (right) and companion Zul-Qarnain (Alexander the Great) marvel at the sight of a salted fish that comes back to life when touched by the Water of Life.
Artist unknown

Palm Sunday and the mutability of time

"Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem! Lo, your King comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on an ass, on a colt the foal of an ass" (Zech 9,9)
Again the early rise with my most eager one and a half year old. Exuberance of life as the light has barely permeated this room. And I have been trying to wake most slowly, while grasping the passage of this Lenten stretch and how quickly it is coming to a close. I am perplexed in my awkward interior gaze, having had a rush of time past--links to the me here and now from other Lenten journeys. Such a desire to experience spiritual progress, notable growth, deeper understanding of the mysteries of life, but feeling in some sort of incubation period--the weight of that Everlasting-not-yet. I know there is much work to be done within me. I know I am needing to embrace the absolute of the moment, and unwind this impatient desire to be living the New Jerusalem. But then there are gestures of mercy and encouragement in such simple ways.
We found the tiniest of crocuses blooming right outside the front door--beautiful in pale purple and yellow.
And I see this as a greater affirmation of hope, yes-simple, yet observed too from the interior castle into the world--even small miracles are still miracles not to go unnoticed. Ask and you shall receive. God's hand reveals--in the still and quiet, the small and seemingly insignificant, the barely audible riding on a breath of wind.
And I shall be content in this moment. I shall be patient. I shall gather all the Lenten boughs in my garden and count my blessings. I will learn to appreciate the mutability of time, always changing, always with greater purpose, and trust the path set forth that we are upon.
Time now to place a fond of palm on the ground for welcoming the Innocent--singing and rejoicing and filled with thanksgiving.
And that alone will be sufficient.

And so another shift--my main body of icons are coming home, while new ones are going forth to St. Joseph's Abbey on Holy Saturday. St. George is soon to open (do the Russians use this term in the sense of flowers blooming into the fullness of their color? perhaps...), Our Lady of Guadeloupe will start her journey on my table too as soon as her board is ready. As soon as I get my camera situation secured (in "borrowing" from an offspring), I am starting a place to track visual progress of my icon table. I have wished there was a place to see the process of other iconographers (and there are a few), but many are very impersonal (here I stand as a lone wolf--we are supposed to strip self away altogether, but herein rides a fine line...to make personal without self aggrandissement--and so I shall try...) I want to bring the act of creating--in the realm of writing icons--into a sphere of accessibility, of warmth and approachability for anyone. Mistakes and all. I see this more frightening in laying forth humility--I am constantly learning, correcting myself, and growing. I would like to actually die to self in this execution. So I am prepping A visual record. It just doesn't seem right to include here--I like to segregate the words from the images. So by Easter I hope to have something there.


The early spiritual writer John Cassian (c. 365-435)muses on the entry into Jerusalem (through the Palm Sunday procession)on four different levels:
1. LITERAL--the historic event--Christ riding into Jerusalem in procession acclaimed as King a few days before his crucifixion.
2. ALLEGORICAL--Jerusalem stands for the Church that Christ established by his death & resurrection--united to us through each and every divine service through word and sacrament.
3. MORAL--Jerusalem is the individual human soul that receives Christ.
4. ANALOGICAL--the eternal abode that awaits--The road to heavenly Jerusalem where the kingdom of god will bloom in its fullness.
(lifted through Solrunn Nes's book "the Mystical language of Icons")

'Today He hears the children cry "Hosanna!" while the crowd replies, "O Son of David, make haste to save those whom Thou hast created!"' (Mattins, tone 8)

Andrei Rublev...

A still shared from the masterpiece of Andrei Tarkovsky'sAndrei Rublev (below image as well) gazing at a mandylion icon of Christ.

Mud, pigment, Lent and ashes...

I found the below words recently, written in my own hand some years back and it brought a wave of the familiar longings that preceded my entrance into iconography. Here between musings of the Eternal and a vision of being witness to hope, a tangible path is found to set foot to...here again in the Lenten journey we are about. From the desert to finding our way back to the garden...

There was a time when I would dream about mud. About pounding the earth, a dry and barren earth in a place where the sky runs big and stretches out to embrace this expanse of my dream. Before the exaltation of the empty tomb. A place where light waned, and the sound of solitude permeated deep. Was it grief? Alone I would sit, naked and focused, driving my hands into the crumbled soil over and over until the moisture from my own body would ease itself into my efforts and start shaping the earth into a crude clay. And then the rains came, igniting the parched dust in resistance at first, and washing my humble form with life, with purification after the oils of sweat spilled to the ground. It was in this merciful gesture that I was given sight to know that one's own will can transform the physical. That the potential for renewal is obtainable. Salvation. The alchemy of will. The power of miracles to breathe life, where Life can surmount and overcome.

When I was a young girl, I would hear stories of Native Americans too who had an appreciation for mud and the longings of resurrection. They would seek out the clays to anoint themselves with, and my father, in those rare and cherished moments of storytelling, would dig through a box of incubated memory and pull out a bag that contained a small, dried piece of blue clay, a beautiful and holy clay, given to him years earlier from A Sioux. The promise of life, it held the capability of being brought back to life with the tears of a warrior, to prepare oneself for battle, perhaps to prepare oneself for the next world if that was one's destiny.
It is this inexhaustible potential for rebirth that drives my vision to this symbolic understanding. I am forming this mud within my self and am convinced in the knowing that certain things fallen asleep have the ability to be stirred, breathe, and be formed again. A small still promise that the past rotating through the hand of the present can open and anoint the next door with the sign of the cross.

And it is in this light of ash, mud, clay and pigment that I return. Capturing form and matter stilled, distilled and luminous through water, yolk, tears and prayer stirred and mixed with the Joseph's coat of earth, ground and mixed to dust to be spread free and released with the touch of my hand. To open and cast light upon these windows, these icons from hence we shall find that pointing to salvation, that gaze of healing grace where we shall be cleansed and made whole. There where we can transit to the New Jerusalem washed, pure and gloriously resurrected.

This is Lent in the barren snow, set still upon my icon-table, traveling in heart towards the ripening bough.

King David icon & my son

O happy circumstance. My dear King has spoken to another across the ocean--an art director of a Catholic Italian publishing company who wants this icon for a cover of a new book series--"The Breath of God". The internet does have it's upside with allowing people around the world to find images of what they're looking for...and for reason of the general iconographer mindset of avoiding technology and turning back to ancient tradition, many do not dare blog (!), and some, including the best and most revered iconographer in Russia, Father Zinon, do not even have a website. So far, I do not feel I am breaking rule, although it is important within iconography to deny self and detach from personal identity (thus Iconeye Studio). There is a fine line here, as my own personal mission is to bring icons into contemporary awareness, and this takes a certain acceptance of the internet thing, which perhaps simply because of my semi-isolation in the woods, has its place in my day-to-day life. I am still trying to figure out why my icons are found early in google image page searches, while my mentor's icons are not. Strange these interior engines of cyberspace...

But I am joyful at sharing these images with more people. There is a hopeful difference with an icon of a contemporary iconographer as opposed to an ancient original, in that the new can pull forth a timelessness and make us a part of the experience grounded in the present. As there is a historical implication in the reality of our faith, it is good to make new, and become aware that we are specifically appointed to be God's witness in the here and now, proclaiming Truth, pointing towards Eternity along this road we travel.

And then we travel closer to heart with those whom we love, again sharing Truth. I spent the day driving my eldest three children down to see their father in New York (rendez-vous at a half-way point). My oldest fifteen-year old son Justin sat next to me in the front while the others sat in the back absconded in a movie. And it was so interesting how our conversation went from girlfriend to the issue of pre-marital sex, from abortion to defining one's faith and the person-hood of Christ--all building in passion from his end. He was extremely animated and opinionated in his struggle with these issues and the reality of "who is this man who died for our sins?". He, very much unlike myself, was brought into Christianity since he was born and baptized on his eighth day of life. There is a different reckoning with putting it all together as a young adult, rebellious and wanting to shape the own content of one's life. And what a gift it was even in his skepticism of the audacity of the Cross. He values the importance of faith, of God, but has met a wall with who is this man called Jesus. There it was, like Jacob struggling with the angel, wrestling and shedding tears. No, it is not for us to condemn the unbelievers, the agnostics, the fringe, the imprisoned, the lost, the Hindus and Buddhists, or the Jews for not recognizing the Chosen One... Here it was--love hoping and wanting and banging and shouting and needing for us all in true humanity to be ONE--to overcome differences, pain and suffering from his tender fifteen year old heart. Christ's words are defining, and not so easy. There is a recognition that comes to you as life collects days, that indeed there is a narrow road that we must walk on. A road that goes beyond self-fulfillment to our neighbor--a road that leads right to "Our Father"--not "My". A collective voice of love reaching out to the lost, the wandering, the hungering--the ones who seek to find completion and can in God's most beautiful face who speaks of the Way, the Truth, the Life. We must shine as that face and hands and feet and eyes and mouth. To embrace that freedom of Love where we can make a difference in the world. I deeply feel for Justin in his frustrations of brokenness and yearning to make sense.
I, who am so flawed in my own self through sin, battle daily to overcome that sin of self and become Christ in the world. To recognize Love is the victor, and put it into action. Healing. Working salvation through time within me, and through the opportunities put before us...
I am grateful for God's mercy in my life, for the gifts he has given, for my children and witnessing their own struggle to reckon and come to terms with faith. May our own lives speak forth in this dark and dying world.
May I continue to plant seeds for my own son and my other children whom I love... May I continue to take up brush daily to write icons--a resounding beauty and truth gazing forth to the here and now from the knowing of the beyond.

As King David spoke in his psalm 42:

1 Like as the hart for water-brooks
in thirst doth pant and bray;
So pants my longing soul, O God,
that come to thee I may.

2 My soul for God, the living God,
doth thirst: when shall I near
Unto thy countenance approach,
and in God's sight appear?

3 My tears have unto me been meat,
both in the night and day,
While unto me continually,
Where is thy God? they say.

4 My soul is poured out in me,
when this I think upon;
Because that with the multitude
I heretofore had gone:

With them into God's house I went,
with voice of joy and praise;
Yea, with the multitude that kept
the solemn holy days.

5 O why art thou cast down, my soul?
why in me so dismay'd?
Trust God, for I shall praise him yet,
his count'nance is mine aid.

6 My God, my soul's cast down in me;
thee therefore mind I will
From Jordan's land, the Hermonites,
and ev'n from Mizar hill.

7 At the noise of thy water-spouts
deep unto deep doth call;
Thy breaking waves pass over me,
yea, and thy billows all.

8 His loving-kindness yet the Lord
command will in the day,
His song's with me by night; to God,
by whom I live, I'll pray:

9 And I will say to God my rock,
Why me forgett'st thou so?
Why, for my foes' oppression,
thus mourning do I go?

10 'Tis as a sword within my bones,
when my foes me upbraid;
Ev'n when by them, Where is thy God?
'tis daily to me said.

11 O why art thou cast down, my soul?
why, thus with grief opprest,
Art thou disquieted in me?
in God still hope and rest:

For yet I know I shall him praise,
who graciously to me
The health is of my countenance,
yea, mine own God is he.


Remember me in your prayers.