Be Not Idle

My clay class is officially over, with just an unofficial  ”glazing party” later. I have about 15 pounds of leftover clay, which means I’ll be using my dining table as a workplace from time to time this summer. 

My work has been a mixed bag. My first tile came out fantastic! My beautiful bowl with the painstakingly-built leaves, however, will make a rather nondescript planter. I dipped it in the glaze and wiped off the excess, but the glaze still filled all the spaces. It’s now a nothing-special planter. 

On the other hand, my failure has prepared me to use a different glazing technique when I make Jesse’s bowl. I covered it with galloping horses and horseshoes.

I find myself making gifts, mostly. I want to make Pat a tile of St. Anthony, for example. Someone else wants an angel like the one that I based on Eastern icons. And I’ve had it in my head to make a tile with an image of the Divine Mercy. 

In June, I’ll be free to volunteer more at the Art Association. I enjoy it, even when it’s actual work.  Meeting people is the main lure. I met a couple of professional maritime artists and an up-and-coming muralist. A month ago, a lovely couple named Parks came in to admire the children’s work. The wife was an absolute peach, and the husband obviously knew a lot about technique. He mentioned he painted but he humbly omitted that he illustrates Dean Koontz’s children books.   

I’ve often heard that artists are difficult, but I think the truth is that some difficult people are artists.  Mostly I’ve met people with humor, patience, and a willingness to make mistakes.

Speaking of which, I must mention one of my favorite things about going to Pistons’ basketball games: The Spare Tires. They are a group of large men who perform dance routines during halftime.  I know it sounds like a gag, but they are impressive.  

Go here and click on “Spare Tires Photo Gallery” or check them out on Youtube:

   http://www.nba.com/pistons/dance/sparetires.html

Everything seems to be crashing down around me lately.  I’ve written several drafts in the last few weeks, but writing about it seems to make it worse.

Suffice to say that my prayers tend to go something like this: “Lord, I did what I thought You were calling me to do, but did You change Your Mind and I didn’t get the memo?”

And sometimes I get angry and say things like, “I changed professions, now I’m stuck in a small town where it’s taken three years to make a couple of friends. Knowing how You feel about premarital sex, I stuck to my guns and watched my promiscuous pals marry well THEN change their ways.  What gives, Lord? It looks like the Devil has a better incentive plan… Grumble, grumble.”

God, of course, answers me in a way that I don’t like because I’m impatient, but I can’t help but admire His subtlety. While cleaning out the bookshelf, I found a book I’d forgotten I owned.  Inside was a long poem by John Masefield, “The Everlasting Mercy”. And the words jumped out at me:

…(I knew) Christ was standing there with me,
That Christ had taught me what to be,
That I should plough, and as I ploughed,
My Savior Christ would sing aloud,
And as I drove the clods apart
Christ would be ploughing in my heart,
Through rest-harrow and bitter roots,
Through all my bad life’s rotten fruits.
O Christ who holds the open gate,
O Christ who drives the furrow straight,
O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter
Of holy white birds flying after,
Lo, all my heart’s field red and torn,
And Thou wilt bring the young green corn,
The young green corn divinely springing,
The young green corn forever singing…

These horrible dark days - a furrow. This sadness and loneliness – a heart ready for planting… 

I remember weeding the garden at my childhood home, the sweat dripping from my bangs and onto the ground like rain. I didn’t thiink about the jars of pickles, green beans, and stewed tomatoes filling the cupboard during the winter. I focused instead on getting done and swimming, or else creeping in the cool and faintly musty basement to read a book.

I was lonely there, too, because the nearest girls were more than a mile away. I’d pray that a nice girl my age would move nearby, or one of the city girls would vacation at a cottage on our street so I’d have a nearby friend. I never thought that later on I’d meet women who’d many playmates but few good friends – and not enough time to sit alone with their thoughts and “find themselves” until they were adults.

One time I went on a retreat. I got up early and, Mass and breakfast being an hour away, I decided to walk around the grounds. There was a tunnel of trees on the way to the chapel. In the feeble light, it looked like a cave opening into nothing. It was only after Mass that the light pierced the trees and made it a tunnel of trees full of beautiful green shadows, leading into a sunlit meadow.

So it is now: It’s dark and I don’t see very far ahead. I hurt myself by being impatient and rushing headstrong into the direction I think is best.  Or I want to take the well-lit boulevard that others seem to cruise along, even though I’ve been warned that it’s the wrong direction.  All the while, God is here, even if He’s silent. I have no idea what is going to happen, but I have to trust that He does, and that’s enough.