My Cup Runneth Over

“Do not ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”–Howard Thurman

The most creative people I know seem to be defined by vision, passion, sensitivity, and need—specifically the urgency to manage and express the chaos without and within.  Some sneer at the “starving artist.” The paradox is that no matter how much money one makes, a true artist must continue to starve–to thirst and hunger for truth and love– with abandon.  Likewise, no matter how little one earns, life is rich– in its intensity, diversity, and complexity.  I decided in 2009 to finally blog about the wealth of  joys I’ve found through the arts, travel, my family, friends, and faith.

I’ve been writing for awhile.  I first thought writing would kill three birds—maybe even a whole flock– with one stone.   First, it would provide income–for travel, for Lancome eye cream, for groceries.

Second, it would provide therapy as I released the stuff ricocheting in my head, eliminating the need for Wellbutrin.  I concur with my favorite Bad Boy Byron who said: “If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.”  Writing would uncover my usually stifled rebel yells and free my muddled, melancholy musings.

Third, writing would help me see where I’m going and help me remember where I’ve been.  With writing I could comfort others with the comfort I’ve been given.

When I was a little girl in Kentucky, the Mother of All Field Trips was going to Mammoth Cave.  While I was told not to fear the Natural Wonder, I wasn’t all that excited about going deep into the black unknown, feeling my way down damp, winding paths. (This was before Pan’s Labyrinth or I might have seen it as quite the adventure.)  The tour guide seemed so calm.  She had a light to guide us but no map.  She had obviously been in that cave before—many times–and was so familiar with it she could  have led us through that vast cavern even if the batteries in her flashlight died.

The only good I can make of getting older is that I’ve lived long enough to have gone into some terrible darkness but emerged again into the light.   I’ve survived the death of two unborn children and of two marriages—my parents’ and my own.  I’ve survived the death of a father and then a grandmother who was my mentor and muse.  I’m still surviving the life of a single mother and a woman dating over 40.

Though I have survived great losses, I rarely emerged from the black by way of a blowtorch or floodlight.  God usually just gave me a candle—one that flickered—and He whispered He wouldn’t let go of my hand even if the flame went out.  I still grope but know He’s there.  Even if I can’t feel his fingers interlocked with mine.  Even if I can’t feel his hand at all and seem to wander in the dark for days…or weeks….or years.   I write to share my cave experiences—those I’ve emerged from blinking in the light as well as those I’m still mining through—looking for something of value as I wait and work and wait for release.

Some say we read to know we’re not alone.  We write for the same reason—especially when we’re gut honest and still raw.  I write of the familiar and lonely—like playing Santa solo for twelve years as I placed gifts under the tree.  Or of the frustrating and embarrassing–like when I didn’t know how to tie my son’s first real necktie.  While I cried, cursing my ineptness as a parent, he emerged from his bedroom with a perfectly tied knot.  Thank God for youtube.

But mostly I write of the joy I’m finding on the path not taken—that place I landed when derailed from the life I imagined, the L.L. Bean or Southern Living picture-perfect family I so desperately wanted.   Truly God has made “all things work together for good,” and He is still conforming me to the likeness of His son despite the fact that in the words of one of my favorite hymns, I am weak and “prone to wander.”  He never gives up on me.

And so I write… of playing volleyball with Italian friends in a pool at midnight, of walking through a fishing village in Ireland, and of leaving Montmartre with my daughter, all lit by the same gigantic moon. I write of riding The Hulk with my son at Universal Studios—teeth clinched, tears squeezed out the corners of our eyes as we held on for dear life…literally…under a hot July sun.  I write of feeling alive and blessed—even when the virtual mob of Guitar Hero World Tour shuts me down because my kids, though unhappy,  don’t kick me out of the band.

I write about the absurd—trying to find a social scene somewhere between the Senior Citizens Center and the haunts of hot pants herds.  And then finding it.

2008 was full of surprises, so I write…
Of a new passion that left me addicted…but never so free.  As sleep-deprived as when I nursed infants…but never so fully awake.  Though my old friends say I’m MIA, I no longer feel invisible.  I’m immersed in a foreign culture…but I’m so completely at home.  Maybe because I’m NOT  one of the twenty million American women sitting on the couch watching Dancing with the Stars. Instead I’m dancing under them.  With friends from Colombia, Chile, Dominican Republic, France, India, Peru, Puerto Rico, Lebanon, and Syria. In Nashville.

Of the closest of friendships between a conservative suburb/girly girl/ teacher/soccer mom and a liberal urban/athletic/ folk singer/dog rescuer.  (Sure to come in 2009 is the continuing salsa saga of two Renaissance women with gypsy souls whose quest to become Dancing Queens often turns Monty Python.)

Of a baby girl whose finishing her last year of high school and moving to college made her mom very sad.

Of her brother whose getting his permit and doing well his first year of high school made his mom very happy.

And, no surprise, she’s proud of them both.

I look ahead in 2009 and look forward to fun with my mom on her first trip to Europe.  Wish my sister were going.  She’s been listening to me ramble since Chippewa Drive.  Oh, and Christmas Eve rocked!

gang-silly2

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