Day 20: Did he not find his "God" there?

"Mere man lives in houses, he encloses his gods in temples." Ludwig Feuerbach

My dad was a builder.  In seventy five years of life, he built a lot of buildings.  I grew up around his handiwork.  It was his passion.  

One day, it must have been one day, but that one day was a gathering of days of thought and decision.  One day, he came to his children and told us that we would be leaving the farm.  The plan was to go on the road and "build churches".   

That plan culminated in fifteen years and two provinces of my Dad's handiwork.  The picture above was a church in Holden, Alberta.  That steeple was Dad's handiwork.  Built in a shed that now belongs to his other daughter, he artistically crafted a topper for this old gathering place. A crane was hired to lift the steeple up on to it's resting place.  

My dad has been gone fifteen years now.  The same amount of time that they spent "on the road renovating and building churches".  I wish I could access that part of his soul that felt the need to uproot his family from their home and, as Feuerbach states, "make temples to enclose his god in."  

There is an ironic story about that church.  It is now an art gallery and craft store called "The Gallery" .  It didn't have enough income to continue to be a church, but now people go to see paintings and buy home made goodies.  Creativity draws people into a building much like "God" drew them into the building before.  It seems strange that people still need "temples" to experience a condensed version of what no "temple" can hold.  

I have long since laid to rest the pain this caused me.  I have gained so much as a result of his choice to move.  I just wonder what he felt back then.  Why were those buildings so important to him.  He was an outdoors man.  He loved nature and animals.  Did he not find his "God" there?  

Day 19: Just give me Bob Ross

 This week, for me,  has been a sad realization that my artistic taste is seemingly old, archaic, or out of date.  And I thought, as an Enneagram Four, that I gravitated to beauty.  

My husband and I have been enjoying Bob Ross as of late.  His TV program "The Joy of Painting" was on PBS and CBC from 1983 to 1994.  Now, we watch him on Youtube.  His videos have achieved millions of views each.  

Both Hubby and I find his talent and skill amazing.  He can turn a blank canvas into a thing of amazing beauty.  We are both nature lovers.  Watching Ross paint a scenic picture while explaining brush strokes and paint colours. brings us right into those moments.  It is like an orchestral performance of Mozart on canvas.  

All it takes is a google search to find that there are people that walk by a blank canvas and either call it art, or stop and look at it to see how it makes them feel.  A blank canvas!  There are art galleries that have paid thousands of dollars for paintings that are that or almost that... blank canvases.  

I am not going to get on my soap box and say that blank canvases are not art, when some want to believe that they are.  I was told today, that art isn't always about what is seen, but what is felt.  

I guess my personal taste in art is exactly that... personal.  Maybe some things don't make sense to me, but do I really need to define what someone else finds as meaningful?  What if a blank canvas moves another person to tears.  How can I stand beside them and say that there is nothing to cry about?  I probably won't cry with them, but I don't think I would feel good now about getting in the way of their emotional response.   I learned that lesson today.  But if I was going to open up an art gallery, and an artist came to me wanting to display their blank canvas... I would look at them and say something like this... 

"I'm sorry.  Maybe there is a place where you can display your canvas, but as for me, in my gallery... just give me Bob Ross."  

Day 18: I really don't know life at all

 

Joni Mitchell came out with an amazing song back in 1966.  It took over fifty five years before it's music and lyrics would embed themselves in to the very core of my being.  All because of a movie called CODA and a girl by the name of Ruby.  

CODA is a movie about Ruby, the hearing daughter of two deaf parents and sister to one deaf brother.  Ruby grows up in this fishing family and has a gift she can't share with her family.  She can sing and sing beautifully.  The movie charts her journey of acceptance within her family to follow her dream of pursuing music... all the way to Music School.  

The song Ruby chose to sing for her audition to Music School was Joni Mitchell's song "Both Sides Now" .   

This morning as I read about "The Cloud of Unknowing", I chose to think about clouds instead of the unknowing.  There is a line in the song...

"So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way."

I ask myself... what would I do if I had clear skies? What would I do if the clouds weren't in the way? 

Today, I am thinking of an old friend.  It's her birthday today. I haven't seen her for over eight years, but she lives in the next town from me.  Clouds got in the way.  

"Oh, but now old friends they're acting strange
And they shake their heads and they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day"

I lost so much the day we separated.  I just cried... I didn't have the courage to challenge her or fight for our friendship.  I was insecure and felt worthless.  I kept telling myself that she was better off without me.  I had no place in her life.  I was toxic to her.  Those thoughts kept me from knocking on her door even years later.  

If she is still the person she was eight years ago, I am still not the person she would want in her life as a friend, even more so because I have totally abandoned everything she holds dear.  Eight years ago, I was just starting my journey away from Christianity.  I have no courage in me to even believe a relationship is possible.  So I am sad today.  I lost and don't even know if I have it in me to start finding again.  Clouds got in the way.  

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

Happy Birthday Carla! 

Day 17: ONE can't Create

Some days it's the whole reading, some days it's a quote, some days it's just a word... and some days, it's a thought not even related to the reading.  That is the Journey of "Authentic Lent".  I am grateful to be following along with the readings of "Atheism for Lent".  There is a lot of food for thought.  Some more tasty, some not so appetizing.  But every day, I find myself with an inspiration of sorts.  

This morning, I was soaking in the hot tub and a thought came to me.  

"One can't create".  

The creative process, no matter what it is being created, requires a community.  

Who makes a painting?  The artist, the manufacturer of the canvas, the designer of the brushes, the hands that mix the colours of the paint?  

Who makes a movie?   The actors, the directors, the producers, the script writers, the stage hands, the set constructors?

Who makes a poem?  The inspiration, the poet, the computer programer of the word processor or the trees where the paper comes from?  

Creativity and Creating is done in community.  There is no exception.  

In my mind, no one said it better than A.J. Jacobs in his book "Thanks a Thousand".  He wanted to thank the people responsible for "creating" his morning cup of coffee.  He ended up with a thousand expressions of gratitude from the barrister, to the cup manufacturer, to the farmers who grew the beans, to the people who paved the roads so the trucks who hauled the beans could get to the processing plant.  A.J Jacobs understood that "One can't create." 

Maybe that is why the writers of the Genesis story made the Creator a "we".  Maybe they understood something of the process of creation. Over the millennium, most of humanity has tried to understand and paint a picture of the "ONE" who built the cosmos.  "ONE" has to be responsible for it all.... Right?  But "ONE" can't create.  No exceptions.  So what does community look like for the "Manufacturer of the Universe"?  Maybe that community involves time, movement, atoms, exploding stars, environments that encourage adaptation... and the list goes on. 

* * *  

Today is Meister Eckhart day... so I didn't want to leave him out.  He has a lot of good things to say.  I will end this post with some of the quotes I pulled off the internet.  

* * * 

“Theologians may quarrel, but the mystics of the world speak the same language.” ME

“If I had a friend and loved him because of the benefits which this brought me and because of getting my own way, then it would not be my friend that I loved but myself. I should love my friend on account of his own goodness and virtues and account of all that he is in himself. Only if I love my friend in this way do I love him properly.” ME

"The most important hour is always the present.

The most significant person is precisely the one sitting across from you right now.

The most necessary work is always love." ME

"What good is it to me that Mary gave birth to the son of God fourteen hundred years ago, and I do not also give birth to the Son of God in my time and in my culture? We are all meant to be mothers of God. God is always needing to be born." ME

“There’s a place in the soul where you’ve never been wounded." ME

“The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake.” ME

“If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough.” ME

Day 16: The Show must go on

The Emperor's New Clothes 

(Hans Christian Andersen)

Many years ago there was an Emperor so exceedingly fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on being well dressed. He cared nothing about reviewing his soldiers, going to the theatre, or going for a ride in his carriage, except to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and instead of saying, as one might, about any other ruler, "The King's in council," here they always said. "The Emperor's in his dressing room."

In the great city where he lived, life was always gay. Every day many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two swindlers. They let it be known they were weavers, and they said they could weave the most magnificent fabrics imaginable. Not only were their colors and patterns uncommonly fine, but clothes made of this cloth had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was unusually stupid.

"Those would be just the clothes for me," thought the Emperor. "If I wore them I would be able to discover which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away." He paid the two swindlers a large sum of money to start work at once.

They set up two looms and pretended to weave, though there was nothing on the looms. All the finest silk and the purest old thread which they demanded went into their traveling bags, while they worked the empty looms far into the night.

"I'd like to know how those weavers are getting on with the cloth," the Emperor thought, but he felt slightly uncomfortable when he remembered that those who were unfit for their position would not be able to see the fabric. It couldn't have been that he doubted himself, yet he thought he'd rather send someone else to see how things were going. The whole town knew about the cloth's peculiar power, and all were impatient to find out how stupid their neighbors were.

"I'll send my honest old minister to the weavers," the Emperor decided. "He'll be the best one to tell me how the material looks, for he's a sensible man and no one does his duty better."

So the honest old minister went to the room where the two swindlers sat working away at their empty looms.

"Heaven help me," he thought as his eyes flew wide open, "I can't see anything at all". But he did not say so.

Both the swindlers begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excellent pattern, the beautiful colors. They pointed to the empty looms, and the poor old minister stared as hard as he dared. He couldn't see anything, because there was nothing to see. "Heaven have mercy," he thought. "Can it be that I'm a fool? I'd have never guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the minister? It would never do to let on that I can't see the cloth."

"Don't hesitate to tell us what you think of it," said one of the weavers.

"Oh, it's beautiful -it's enchanting." The old minister peered through his spectacles. "Such a pattern, what colors!" I'll be sure to tell the Emperor how delighted I am with it."

"We're pleased to hear that," the swindlers said. They proceeded to name all the colors and to explain the intricate pattern. The old minister paid the closest attention, so that he could tell it all to the Emperor. And so he did.

The swindlers at once asked for more money, more silk and gold thread, to get on with the weaving. But it all went into their pockets. Not a thread went into the looms, though they worked at their weaving as hard as ever.

The Emperor presently sent another trustworthy official to see how the work progressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing happened to him that had happened to the minister. He looked and he looked, but as there was nothing to see in the looms he couldn't see anything.

"Isn't it a beautiful piece of goods?" the swindlers asked him, as they displayed and described their imaginary pattern.

"I know I'm not stupid," the man thought, "so it must be that I'm unworthy of my good office. That's strange. I mustn't let anyone find it out, though." So he praised the material he did not see. He declared he was delighted with the beautiful colors and the exquisite pattern. To the Emperor he said, "It held me spellbound."

All the town was talking of this splendid cloth, and the Emperor wanted to see it for himself while it was still in the looms. Attended by a band of chosen men, among whom were his two old trusted officials-the ones who had been to the weavers-he set out to see the two swindlers. He found them weaving with might and main, but without a thread in their looms.

"Magnificent," said the two officials already duped. "Just look, Your Majesty, what colors! What a design!" They pointed to the empty looms, each supposing that the others could see the stuff.

"What's this?" thought the Emperor. "I can't see anything. This is terrible!

Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be the Emperor? What a thing to happen to me of all people! - Oh! It's very pretty," he said. "It has my highest approval." And he nodded approbation at the empty loom. Nothing could make him say that he couldn't see anything.

His whole retinue stared and stared. One saw no more than another, but they all joined the Emperor in exclaiming, "Oh! It's very pretty," and they advised him to wear clothes made of this wonderful cloth especially for the great procession he was soon to lead. "Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!" were bandied from mouth to mouth, and everyone did his best to seem well pleased. The Emperor gave each of the swindlers a cross to wear in his buttonhole, and the title of "Sir Weaver."

Before the procession the swindlers sat up all night and burned more than six candles, to show how busy they were finishing the Emperor's new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth off the loom. They made cuts in the air with huge scissors. And at last they said, "Now the Emperor's new clothes are ready for him."

Then the Emperor himself came with his noblest noblemen, and the swindlers each raised an arm as if they were holding something. They said, "These are the trousers, here's the coat, and this is the mantle," naming each garment. "All of them are as light as a spider web. One would almost think he had nothing on, but that's what makes them so fine."

"Exactly," all the noblemen agreed, though they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see.

"If Your Imperial Majesty will condescend to take your clothes off," said the swindlers, "we will help you on with your new ones here in front of the long mirror."

The Emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put his new clothes on him, one garment after another. They took him around the waist and seemed to be fastening something - that was his train-as the Emperor turned round and round before the looking glass.

"How well Your Majesty's new clothes look. Aren't they becoming!" He heard on all sides, "That pattern, so perfect! Those colors, so suitable! It is a magnificent outfit."

Then the minister of public processions announced: "Your Majesty's canopy is waiting outside."

"Well, I'm supposed to be ready," the Emperor said, and turned again for one last look in the mirror. "It is a remarkable fit, isn't it?" He seemed to regard his costume with the greatest interest.

The noblemen who were to carry his train stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were picking up his mantle. Then they pretended to lift and hold it high. They didn't dare admit they had nothing to hold.

So off went the Emperor in procession under his splendid canopy. Everyone in the streets and the windows said, "Oh, how fine are the Emperor's new clothes! Don't they fit him to perfection? And see his long train!" Nobody would confess that he couldn't see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No costume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a complete success.

"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.

"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."

"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.

The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all.

* * * 

Today's reflection on John Cage's 4'33" brought me back in my mind to this classic story by Hans Christian Andersen.  I felt like I needed to read it again, in case I had forgotten something important, and I did.  I forgot the ending.  I imagined that after the child ratted out the obvious, that the emperor sheepishly ran back to his castle in shame.  Even after the crowds started in on the chant and even after he realized the truth himself.  But the story doesn't end that way.  The story ends with the sad conclusion that makes more sense in the world I live in. "The show must go on".  It fits with the world I live in.  It would be too easy for the story to end with the admission of the facts as they were so obviously presented.  It would be easy to hope for the swindlers to see justice.  But there was no justice.  There was no triumphant truth.  There was just "The show must go on". 

I looked at the comments on the Youtube videos, and no one mentioned the "obvious".  I had to find a live performance of the video to see if I was indeed missing something with the silent audio.  I did.  I missed the visual which really made me shake my head.  But maybe I am the only one uncomfortable with an Emperor with no clothes, or in this case, a piano that doesn't get played.  And I'm the poet.  Go figure.  

The boy in the story felt the need to blurt out his observations.  I'm not that brave, or young.  So I write in my little corner of the world and only feel the need not to play along.  I won't get up on my soap box and tell the world that most of them are crazy.  I will leave that to Richard Dawkins and company.   But I don't have to clap my hands when the pianist is finished not playing the piano.  

Day 15: Travelling with my Words : Maybe a "Holy" Experience

Thanks to the creative programming that the internet offers, I was able to create a picture this morning that brings together some special countries into a picture of what is often called by the Indigenous Culture as "Turtle Island".  This is my home.  North America.  I have been to four countries of the forty-eight that are listed in the diagram.  (Those four countries are ... Canada, United States, Mexico and Trinidad and Tobago. )

The other countries listed now have a special place in my heart.  In the fourteen years of blogging as a married woman, I have had visitors to my writing from all these countries (or so the stats on the blog say).  Discovering the details of my blog traffic gave me a showering of encouragement yesterday.  I had been into the stats before and understood that somehow, my words made it to countries across the globe, but some of the details still surprised me.  Here are some. 

My book blog has over three hundred hits in Saudi Arabia.  This stat surprised me.  I can't visualize who,  in a predominantly Muslim country, would be interested in a blog that highlights reads from the likes of Rob Bell, Rachel Held Evans, C.S. Lewis,  Brian McLaren and oh yeah!... Peter Rollins.  Before my book blog became a book blog, it was my deconstruction venting blog.  I really can't imagine anyone in Saudi Arabia interested in hearing how I navigated my departure from Christianity.  

Next to Canada and the United States, the next highest country in post views is Russia.  This also amazed me.  I don't know anyone in Russia.  So I can't blame that on family and friends... only on some unknown fans.  

One of the countries on my bucket list is Austria.  I had one hit from that country, and it was on my newest blog on puzzling that I haven't had much exposure to... Nine hits, to be precise. 

I feel for the most part that I am relatively unknown in the blogging world.  Nine blogs and fourteen years later, I am at 23,736 blog views as of yesterday's count.  That doesn't seem like a lot in the grand scheme of things. 

"If you've done a great job with your blog, you should expect between 20-30,000 page views per month after 1 year, it could be more and it could be less. It really depends on the blog and the niche you pick." Quora quote

I haven't done 30,000 page views in fourteen years with nine blogs,  never mind a month with one. But somehow... my words have made it to all the continents (not including Antarctica.. but what polar researcher has time for that!).

I was reading something about the word "Holy" while reading Rudolf Otto this morning. That word has troubled me in the exit from religion as a practice.  What does "Holy" mean in the grand picture.  Is it just reserved for the religious?  The Hebrew meaning "set apart" seems to give it better definition for me.  "Set apart", to me, means special, acknowledged as significant, something that needs to be treated with respect and honour.  Something "Holy" can't be brushed away with busyness and ignorance.  Places can be "Holy", but moments can be "Holy" and experiences can be "Holy".  Those are the stop and wait moments where one gets to sit and just take in the massive weight of it all.  

This list of countries makes me want to sit and soak in the significance.  I will never make into most of these countries on a personal visit.  I will never have a phone call or Zoom visit with any of the residents of some of these countries.  But somehow, my words have reached past the borders and onto someone's computer or phone screen.  There is something in that understanding that gives me no other word today, but "Holy".  I need to just sit and be in awe of how it all happened.  What am I saying that invites someone from Egypt, or Vietnam, or Pakistan to read my words?  I have no explanation for any of it.  But when the word "Holy" came to my mind today, I had to embrace the possibility that maybe there are no explanations. There is just a place where I need to sit and breathe in, and breathe out.  This place, this experience is "Holy".  

Day 14: Haunted by the music of Hildegarde

"The light which I see thus is not spatial, but it is far, far brighter than a cloud which carries the sun. I can measure neither height, nor length, nor breadth in it; and I call it "the reflection of the living Light." And as the sun, the moon, and the stars appear in water, so writings, sermons, virtues, and certain human actions take form for me and gleam."   Hildegarde of Bingen

A haunting like voice sings its way into my soul as I write this.  Today, I was given a song, but I wanted the whole album.  I wonder what haunts me.... the beautiful voice of Jocelyn Montgomery, or the Latin words that find no understanding in my mind, but somehow warm my heart and the core of my being.  

I downloaded the album so one day I might find the place where the music will dance with what I feel.  To listen to it in my office while I have my brain engaged might not give me the full experience that the songwriter, Hildegarde of Bingen, wants to gift me with.  

It's haunting, but beautiful.  Is this the soundtrack to a journey of peace or an expedition of anguish?  I think I could find myself comforted by these harmonious musings in the greatest of sadness.  I am asked not to understand, but simply to listen; to breathe and to be.