Green Flamingos, Nelson Mandela and Courage

Over the last few months I’ve noticed green flamingos around Starkville. They started popping up unexpectedly on bridge railings, electric boxes and the like, your typical vandal fare. But, they were some pretty well-designed vandal fare. These repetitive stenciled green fowl were nicely composed and sufficiently funky — something a designer would enjoy. And, it ticked me off.

It ticked me off so much that I was poised to launch one of my infrequent, but soul-cleansing rant posts complete with a few of the following points:

1. Kids these days.
2. Great. My tax dollars are going to have to clean that up.
3. That whole underground starving artist thing may seem glamorous, but it’s, well, NOT.
4. Get a job!
5. It may look like art, but it’s actually a misdemeanor.
6. Your talent is a gift. Make it count.

Yep, I’ll admit I was ready to unload, but that’s not the essay I’m writing. An overloaded schedule (and maybe some poor time management skills) stepped in and allowed those uncensored thoughts some time to germinate. Although I may still feel the same way on many of the points, they’ve also reminded me of the need for a shift in thinking.

“Your playing small doesn’t save the world.”

It’s from a quote by Nelson Mandela. It’s been floating around in my brain since I read it in a transcript of a commencement address several years ago. I can’t escape it. And, before I knew it, my impetuous rant turned into a post about courage. It’s been a while since I’ve written about the pursuit of my 2010 theme word. Perhaps I’ve been too immersed in exercising some courage in a few areas of late (where exercising equals being tossed into the deep end and hoping your swimsuit top doesn’t fly off.) I suppose that the laboratory takes priority over the lecture series in life lessons just as it often does in the traditional classroom.

I read in last week’s Starkville paper that the green flamingo vandals have turned themselves into the police department. They are exactly who I imagined they were — a couple of art students at the university making their mark on the world, literally. They are offering restitution and performing clean-up duties in hopes their records can escape with only minor blemishes. I’m sure their parents are hoping the same, and that their dollars spent on higher education will not go to waste. End of story.

Only not.

I’m sure there are more personal elements to the situation, to which, as a mother, I would likely be sympathetic. As an artist, I’m sure even more sympathetic. As a person, quite challenged with the realization that talent deserves courage. The broader quote from Mr. Mandela says this…

“Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, ‘who am I to be brilliant gorgeous, talented and fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be?  You are a child of God.  Your playing small doesn’t save the world.”

This from a man who has seen and lived at the pinnacle of authority and power as well as the despair of imprisonment, a man who HAS changed many aspects of the world around him. My first reaction to green flamingos was to say… Your talent is being misplaced. Your education is a privilege many in the world aren’t offered. The opportunity to learn in the arts is one many in the world don’t experience — or at the least they experience it with makeshift tools and eagerly devote themselves to the instruction knowing it may be their only hope to rise from desperate living situations. The superfluous materials of stencils and spray paint are luxuries many in the world can’t afford because they need rice or flour. While my first notion was to remind those young students of these facts, my more in-depth realization is to remind myself. To challenge myself against laziness. To challenge myself against cynicism and pessimism. To challenge myself against pity and compaint. To challenge myself into embracing big gifts.

I’m talented, as each person is in unique ways. And those talents aren’t entitlements or rights. They are gifts. Remarkable gifts. It’s so typical to diminish them. To be shaken by others who diminish them. To deny them. To apologize for them. To waste them. To shirk them. To make them seem small. To use them as if they WERE small.

“Your playing small doesn’t save the world.”

Even if the only world I’m saving is the one where I sit every day, I’m realizing that whatever talents I bring to bear on that world require courage. The world where I sit deserves a courageous talent, one that is used wisely and generously, without fear and without apology. To make those gifts count in whatever tiny sphere I apply them is my privilege. My responsibility.

The Reason Behind the Reason

Today marks my two-year anniversary as a blogger. What a journey! This week, I’ve been thinking about the EyeJunkie adventure as it relates to my 2010 theme word, courage. Over the last few months, several friends and commenters on the site have made reference to openness and the courage required to express thoughts so transparently in this particular medium. Can you say world wide web? Emphasis on world. While I don’t necessarily see myself as courageous (hence the year-long posting pursuit), I do recognize that sharing one’s thoughts and life in any authentic way with the internet is not for the timid. It’s intimidating. It’s scary. And, yes, I think it can be a little presumptuous. I mean, what do you care, right?

I’ve actually been amazed by how much you care. By how much credence you’ve given to my sometimes haphazard thoughts. I know my own time constraints and schedule, and I’ve been amazed at how ready you’ve been to carve out however brief a space in yours for this blog. I’ve been honored by the comments–both here and on Facebook and Twitter. I’ve been inspired by how many of you have taken the time to send me a personal email about something you’ve read or seen here.

Still, courage? Contemplating whatever courage might be required to enter the blogosphere and the daunting task of interjecting my voice into the fray has me thinking about the reason I started this “thing” in the first place. And, the reason behind the reason I’ve realized since.

I had been contemplating this adventure for some time before I actually began. I’ve always enjoyed writing and journaling. This particular medium seemed (from an observer’s position) to be the perfect combination of both. I was pregnant with Baby Girl at the time and swimming in a sea of toddler antics, dirty diapers and waning second trimester stamina. I was immersed in the usual schedule of home-making and nursery preparations. I was keeping my head above water with a healthy design schedule at my day job. And, I was realizing that, for the first time in my life, I had virtually abandoned any personal creative pursuit.

For those of you who haven’t read all the fine print, my day job is with an advertising agency where I am a graphic designer. So, I use my creativity for a living. However, I’ve always somehow needed an outlet for exploring ideas in a more personal way. Whether through painting or poetry or book-making, expressing myself–usually through some combination of words and pictures–has always fueled energy and creativity in other areas of my life.

It began to dawn on me as I made it through the considerable energy drain of a third pregnancy paired with two toddlers that my children didn’t yet know that creative person, that writer, that painter, that maker of things. Somehow through complacency or busyness or sheer exhaustion, I had forsaken those pursuits. Then, I began to notice this odd on-line medium called blogging. I began to see this type of outlet as a way to incorporate those creative tendencies back into my life without the less than kid-friendly materials and space required for something like the watercolor painting or collage I was prone to. In early 2005, my parents gifted me with an exquisite little MacBook named Kermit. He opened the doors of reality on that little idea that had been germinating. I began brainstorming and making notes and sketches for how a personal blog might actually flesh out. You can read the evolution of “eyeJunkie” and the “adventures in paying attention” theme another time, but suffice it to say that one domain name, a web hosting account, and one WordPress download later, this blog was born.

“Hello, world.” That statement was enough to intimidate me for sure. It was the title of the test post WordPress Dude includes in every download of the application. It chrystalized the nature of this experiment pretty clearly–my words, my voice broadcast to the world for all manner of internet-goers to partake. Yikes.

My voice.

As I plugged along with writing and posting, EyeJunkie certainly filled the creative bill. It helped me accomplish that goal of a creative pursuit. Those readers who have been around for any length of time can attest that I’ve subjected the Junksters to all kinds of experiments and hare-brained ideas–graphics popping up here and there, series starting and fizzling, run-on sentences and fragments abounding. But, something else beyond a basic creative outlet has emerged for me in these two years.

Recently, I was writing some thoughts (something about underwear purchases or chili… don’t even ask) in an email to a friend who commented… “this sounds like an EJ post.” Wait a minute. EyeJunkie posts have a sound. That stuck. The comment made me realize the reason behind the reason that this blogging adventure matters to me. I’ve noticed a voice emerging. Mine. A consistency and willingness to speak. A thoughtful, but emphatic tone. An amalgum of emotion framed in a single sound. The sound of my own voice.

Through the months of blogging, I recognized that I had been in a period of my life for some time when I felt that my voice was being drowned out–perhaps by difficult relationships, distractions and interruptions, the absorption of care-giving and kid-loving, dailyness and just plain busyness. I found that my own voice was hushed and difficult to discern–even to myself–above (or below) the din. Through the act of writing and exposing thoughts to the world regardless of who may or may not be reading, I was finding my voice again. I realized again that I had something to say, and this venue gave me the inclination to say it. To find the courage to speak it. In my own voice.

Is transparency in this world brave? Perhaps. Is writing an authentic blog essay courageous? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve put courage into this body of nonsense as much as it’s put courage into me. Writing an EyeJunkie worthy of your attention has encouraged me to speak. In my own voice. If the question of courage is “where can I find it?”, for sure I’ve found at least a little within this cyber space. Thank you for listening to that process.

Showers Bring

“In the depths of winter, I finally found there was in me an invincible summer.” ~ Albert Camus

As has become my habit these days, this month’s desktop wallpaper calendar has woefully missed the mark. I started the process of determining a theme in plenty of time. I really did. The execution was the step where things fell apart. I had determined to use the common phrase, “April showers bring May flowers,” as inspiration for the design. Given the facts that we reached mid-month with no motivation in sight, and the rhyme implied an obvious correlation, I decided to give you a combo April/May version. Sort of the surf and turf wallpaper variety. (Only no surf and no turf.) Just point – click for the supersize version.

I think my Mama may have used that rhyme on one of her Spring bulletin boards. She was an elementary teacher, and therefore professionally obligated to hang all kinds of cute and inspiring things on her walls. It’s a familiar phrase, and in my neck of the woods, April often does bring showers with its windy days. I’ve always thought it was a courageous (and impressive) statement to make. Finding the faith, hope and vision required to see flowers in the midst of dripping rain is not always an easy task.

I’ve realized through hard experiences that there is no more devastating a process than reaching the conclusion that a situation you’ve invested yourself in is hopeless–incapable of fulfilling the hopes of your great expectations. And, whether the situation is in fact hopeless or not doesn’t always matter. It’s the reaching of the conclusion that shakes us, especially when those hopes are so intricately entwined with the core of who we are and what we want our lives to be like. It wears us down. It disappoints us. It sickens our hearts. It shatters our assumptions. It rattles our confidence in ourselves. It challenges our view of who we are and who it’s possible for us to be. No, being hopeless and in despair because of it isn’t often something to which we aspire. That situation doesn’t usually make the “bucket list.” However, I imagine that when any of us come to kick the vessel of life we’ve been given, we’ll each find that hopelessness factored in at some point on the journey. It’s just a part of the pageant sometimes.

Standing in a rainy downpour, it’s hard to see the flowers expected a few weeks down the road. It’s hard to see for the dripping in your eyes right now. In the storm, it’s hard to envision the blossoms as anything more than washed out ground. It’s hard to believe they are germinating. It takes quite a lot of courage to know they are.

There is an inescapable joining of faith and hope. A connection. For hope to be sustained regardless of disappointing situations or people or actions, we need assurances, evidences, signposts. We need faith–an “invincible” faith that lets us KNOW our deepest hopes will somehow be realized. Of all the books and philosophies and conversations I’ve been privy to in my following of faith, the most exquisitely simple definition I’ve found is this:

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (hebrews 11:1)

Faith makes hope reliable. It gives it credibility. And, let’s face it. In the midst of the showers (and depths of winter), we need to know our hope is more than fool’s gold. We need that credibility. It makes it possible to see what isn’t apparent. It shows us May flowers during April showers. It gives us the “invicible summer” that Camus articulated. And, amazingly, it’s revealed right there by the real foundation of any working faith, God Himself. Faith is to understand and rely upon our God, knowing that in His wisdom and might and bigness, and despite any circumstance or choice or shortcoming, He can sustain and govern the fulfillment of that deepest hope in us.

We hope for the flowers, for the flowering of our lives in ways we’ve imagined, in ways we’ve assumed were possible. And, in the downpour of disappointment, we can still know the blooming is on the way.

Faith. And hope. I want to live in that place where I know what the showers bring. I’ll get there.

Oh Happy Day 041610: Glass

Hello Friday!

My office is on the second floor of our building in the Starkville Industrial Park, and I have a window that faces the north side. I regularly enjoy the decision the Queen made to let the crape myrtle trees next to the building follow nature’s course and grow to their hearts’ content rather than chopping them off at the fork in the branches (read metaphorical knees) like some poor myrtles endure. This particular landscaping technique (letting them grow) has often afforded me a wonderful view out of my window despite the standard pre-fab metal-sided glimpse of our industrial neighbors. “My” crape myrtle has been home to several bird families over the years. It’s offered beautiful blooms interspersed with blue sky on summer days. It’s displayed the waning colors of fall among bare branches and revealed the new growth of Spring. Right there on the other side of the glass, it’s given me a walk through the park in the middle of industrial manufacturing central. It makes me smile.

However, this week it’s brought me a touch of jaw-dropping surprise and just a smidgen of annoyance. This week I (and my crape myrtle) have been visited by a very persistent bird. And, frankly, he (and I’m assuming he’s a he) seems to be highly ticked off. At me? I don’t really know. Sometimes it seems like it. But, maybe that’s presumptuous and possibly a bit delusional.

Maybe he (and I’m assuming he’s a he) thought he saw a hot little birdie mama in the glass reflection he’d like to build a nest with among the newly sprouted crape myrtle leaves. Maybe he thought he saw another available boy bird honing in on his crape myrtle territory. Maybe it was seeing the great beyond through the slivers of light at the other end of our building. Maybe the very existence of the glass itself just ticked him off. Maybe that transparent, but obviously apparent boundary just pushed his buttons. I don’t really know.

Here’s what I do know. He had his eye on me. He scoped out the glass. He flapped his wings with everything he had. He moved back and forth from side to side right in front of the window without ever touching it. That’s the part that brought the jaw-dropping surprise. He opened his tiny beak. And he SANG. Repeatedly. Persistently. LOUDLY. Much more loudly than expected from such a tiny beak, from such a tiny bird. So much so that it got his little feathers all ruffled. And, although that’s the part that brought me the smidgen of annoyance given the disruption to my thought process it produced, it’s also the part that I really sort of respect. What a bird!

He walked flew right up to that glass wall–the one that caused him doubt and fear and maybe anger. He did what any self-respecting bird does best. Intimidated or confused or not, he sang the loudest and most defiant song he could muster. It got MY attention. He hauled off and sang. He showed me.

And he did. Show me.

Fresh on the heels of nature’s little object lesson, the report for today’s Oh Happy Day! gratitude project has me thinking about boundaries. And about singing. And, oddly, about how grateful I am for both. We all have boundaries whether internal or external. The boundaries make themselves most apparent in times of transition. When we contemplate change–a change in perspective, in thinking, in lifestyle, in action–sometimes all we can see are the boundaries. Within those walls, we feel our own limitations. It’s easy to lose our vision, our gumption, our selves there.

Yet, if we look carefully, most boundaries are glass. Humans have the unique capacity to see the transparency and the transiency of limits. God designed us with the ability to hope, to imagine, to see beyond, to see through.  And, whatever real or imagined situation we see through that looking glass, we can glean new perspective and new courage to push against those limitations–to alter and expand the space in which we live and move and breathe. Whether through the time-tested promises of faith and hope found in the Bible, or the caring words of others that often shift our perspective, or our own sheer defiance of a particular situation, we can haul off and sing. We can sing the loudest and most persistent song we’ve ever sung. We can push through a week with a sick and crying Baby Girl in need of Mommy’s care. We can juggle and act based on our own priorities, rather than those of the world around us. We can bend a creative block and make it produce something fresh and timely. We can change a situation that has caused us pain for too long. We can learn to do something new. We can choose to do what brings us joy. We can say “no.” We can say “yes.” We can say “enough.” We can say “more.” We can sing. Out loud.

This week I’m thankful for the singing lessons of that little bird. I’m thankful for the songs of faith and of faithful friends and family I’ve heard this week. I’m thankful for boundaries. And for recognizing their transparency. I’m thankful for the ability to sing.

Oh Happy Day!

Spring Forward

The time has changed. At least that’s what I call it. I did remember to move Mickey’s big hand forward, thankfully. The whole concept of “losing an hour” is always hard for me to adjust to, but I love the resulting presentation of daylight in the afternoon. That one little extra hour of light that progressively grows makes me feel like I have a whole extra day at the end of the normal work day. It’s an unmistakable sign of Winter’s end.

It’s getting to be Springtime in Mississippi. Each year in March, we begin that yearly flirtation with warmer days, sunnier skies and the emergence of color. The emergence is my favorite part. Yesterday, I took advantage of one of the few sun-sightings we had during the day and went out to photograph the Bradford Pear tree in front of my house. Bradford Pears are spectacular in Spring and Fall, but their Spring display always seems to be most welcomed to my spirit–probably because it brings a break from the gray of January and February. The white blossoms against bare brown branches are always a visual display of Winter’s dormancy giving way to Spring’s flourish. The buds are beginning to open and spread the surface area of their petals to soak up the sun. Soon, the green leaves will accompany them and the blossoms will fall away, having done their part in initiating Spring.

I find blossoming to be quite courageous.

Perhaps it’s Nature’s discipline in performing the task so resiliantly year after year that makes us take blossoming for granted, that makes us assume it is effortless. But I’m convinced that in the plant world and in the soul’s world, the courage to bear your color against the gray sky and prickly bramble and bare branch is remarkable. It doesn’t happen without pushing, withstanding, unwrapping, exposing, releasing. Whether it’s the first new blades of yellow-green grass that push their way through the straw-like ground or the rising stalk of a hyacinth bulb inching through a tight cluster of thick leaves, blossoming requires effort. In search of light, bulbs and new grass deliberately and patiently push through the hard and rigid ground to reach the surface, to break free from the dark earth. That journey is one of courage, to be sure.

The buds on my Bradford Pear have been there, lying dormant, for months now. In a tightly held cone of velvety leaves, they’ve been waiting for the right time. It happens that way every year. And somehow, taking their cues from the promise of sunlight and warmer temperatures, they choose when to unfold, when to begin that process of revealing themselves as the pink-tinged white blooms they are inside. As if simply surviving the dormant season wasn’t enough, they gently, consistently and methodically release the tightly wrapped surfaces to expose their petals to sunlight.

Although I’m half a month behind, the blossoms in my front yard served as inspiration for March’s desktop wallpaper calendar, just as they provided inspiration for my own state of flowering. And despite my tardiness (again), this day when we “spring forward” an hour seems the perfect time for my own call to spring forward. [If you need that inspiration as well, just point-click the image to get a full size copy.]

This season of beginning to save the daylight offers a new opportunity for blossoming of spirit. It creates the backdrop for new seasons of growth, revealing the true color lying dormant beneath the surface. I’m ready. But, I’m also realizing through the Bradford’s lessons that this new season requires my deliberate attention. Blossoming, indeed flourishing, doesn’t just happen. Like the grass seed, it requires resistance and persistence through my own rigid ground–those areas where I might meet with obstacles or misunderstanding. Like the bulb, it requires the expansion and cracking of the bounds in my own confined spaces–those areas where I have become complacent, accepting of my own seeming limitations. Like the bud, it requires the shedding of my own layers, my own willingness to open closed places–those areas where I’m tightly held and fearful of exposure. Spring brings the emergence of something new in defiance of Winter’s gloom. Do I have the courage to emerge? What am I made of? What’s inside? It’s time to show my colors.