Talk to most any artist and they’ll confirm the many broken pots, wadded-up papers, re-painted canvas or ripped-out stitches along the way of their art. Such is also true of living. Writer and cancer survivor Mark Nepo says, “I have discovered that living is the original art.” I read these words and my soul screams, Yes!
There are many days I lament my lack of time for artistic endeavors. I want to curl up by the fire and write. I look longingly at stacks of reed and oak handles and imagine the basket, I want to dust off my guitar and play until my fingers are calloused. But truthfully my most consistent art these days is found in the poetry of living. I have to confess. I am more and more appreciative of the piece I’m sculpting.
I rolled out of bed early this morning. My sleep was disturbed off-and-on for hours by a dream that finally got my attention. The first image I remembered was reaching into my Mother’s lap, taking her hands and helping her to stand. I turned to my son and said, “I’ll need your help.” I was guiding my Mom down a long hallway. There were several doors. My son would hold each door open so I could easily pass through while supporting Mom. The feeling in the dream was warm. She wore a cozy robe, my son smiled as we walked through each door, I held Mom gently and close to my body. I felt the softness of her skin and hair.
It was a beautiful dream and yet I kept waking up feeling disturbed. This is not really surprising since last week I spent several nights in my Mom’s hospital room. Waiting for test results, dealing with side effects from medications, answering her repeated questions about the many confusions. I think last night’s dream was offering me the opportunity to re-enter the poetry of life. To affirm again the cycle of birth and death, beginnings and endings, gain and loss. This is the third in a series of dreams I’ve had about my Mom’s passing. The first was many years ago. I dreamed that Mom and I were both lying face down in deep, rich mud. Our hands were touching. Mom asked, “What’s happening Debbie?” I replied, “We’re dieing, Mom.” She was upset because she didn’t think her child should be experiencing death. In the dream I sensed her sadness and said, “Don’t worry, it’s fine. It’s natural to return to the earth. It’s just a part of me that goes with you. And a part of you stays with me.” A few weeks later I told Mom about the dream and she laughed. After a few minutes she told me she wasn’t too happy about being in the mud. Life as art in hospital rooms and assisted living.
A few weeks ago I sat with my spiritual formation group in the familiar circle we’ve kept weekly for over 15 years. I need to sit with these dear friends without words at times. With their love and energy. With the memories and blessings of their stories and the treasures of our shared story. We have journeyed together through so many life changes and deepening of soul. This circle. This sacred space. This is where I’ve practiced my art. I’ve cried and laughed and wondered and hung-in-there with these folks, week-in and week-out. There are precious few things I’ve held so consistently. Life as art in gemeinschaft.
And so, it is the season of gifts. There are no boxes to hold my art. It feels to me that as if by magic or miracle, the time of year that usually has folks running frantically from place-to-place has somehow slowed me down. In this quieter space…the hospital room or the circle… what I need, and what is needed of me in each moment is simply delivered. Present, if I can recognize it.
This week I hope to see each person I encounter as art and gift. And smile.
