“It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes.”

[title quote credited to Douglas Adams]

I don't expect life to be problem-free, and that's not what I'm asking for. . . but is there someone I can talk to about a trade? Someone that can take x number of my current problems and give me x number of new ones.

Coming home to the same problems day after day for so long is exhausting...confining almost. I feel suffocated.

A voice inside me shouts, "You have a problem? Well fix it!"
But its not always that easy. Its not always within my capabilities to fix, and that frustrates me like nothing else.

So I wait. But too often I relate waiting to doing nothing. I watched Fireproof the other night (beginning to redeem myself as a good little baptist) and the best thing I took from it was this song, While I'm Waiting, by John Waller.

I'm waiting
I'm waiting on You, Lord
And I am hopeful
I'm waiting on You, Lord
Though it is painful
But patiently, I will wait

I will move ahead, bold and confident
Taking every step in obedience
While I'm waiting
I will serve You
While I'm waiting
I will worship
While I'm waiting
I will not faint
I'll be running the race
Even while I wait

I'm waiting
I'm waiting on You, Lord
And I am peaceful
I'm waiting on You, Lord
Though it's not easy
But faithfully, I will wait
Yes, I will wait
I will serve You while I'm waiting
I will worship while I'm waiting
I will serve You while I'm waiting
I will worship while I'm waiting
I will serve you while I'm waiting
I will worship while I'm waiting on You, Lord

Not breaking any new grounds theologically I guess, but I need the reminder.

It's like he reads my mind

andre

doings≠being

We've been going over our core values at church for the last several weeks, the most recent being diversity.

Dictionary.com gives these it these three definitions:

1. the state or fact of being diverse; difference; unlikeness.
2. variety; multiformity.
3. a point of difference.

I find it interesting that most people apparently assume a context of race when they hear the word "diversity." I think its a fancy word we've assigned to describe a sensitive issue. Why "different" has such a negative connotation I don't understand.

But, that's not really my point. . .
In our small group Tuesday night I asked if we were going to stick to the racial and cultural context in our discussion, and in short the answer was yes. One girl's reasoning stuck out to me, within reference to diversity among personalities she referred to me as the "creative or artsy one" (I can't recall her exact wording). I interrupted saying that's what I do, not who I am, to which the general consensus was "eh, same thing."

This bothered me, for a few reasons.

• I don't like being boxed in. Can a creative person not also be efficient or precise?
  
• It makes me feel like a fraud. I recognize that the things I make aren't going to hang in a gallery or even on someone's wall. Most of my ideas are not original, but instead adaptations and interpretations on someone else's creativity. But I make things because I enjoy the process, not for the end result. This makes me question whether I should share my creations or if that cheapens the fulfillment I get from making it.
  
• Too much pressure. If I fail to be creative, I fail as a person.
  
• I really don't believe doings=being. If we apply this to good things we do it might make us feel fine about ourselves, but we cannot restrict it to what is good, it would also have to hold true for the bad. I've been reminded more than once that I am not my disorder, I am not my habits or problems. Most recently it was through this blog,
  

  If you struggle with self-injury, you are not "a cutter". You are a person. You are not only your pain. You are not only wounds and scars. You are also better things. You are possibility and promise, hope and healing, daydreams, favorite books and favorite songs. You are the people that you love and the people who love you. You are hope and change and things worth fighting for. This is all your story and your story isn't over.

Once upon a time, in another lifetime it seems, I was "the funny one." But when I ceased to make my friends laugh I felt like I lost my value to them. My heart still hurts over this.

Knowing my identity and worth continues to be one of the biggest obstacles between living my life as a test of survival and living a life of purpose. I love these words in Ephesians,

I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

This shows me that (a) I'm not the only one who has trouble accepting God's love, and (b) the fact that Paul was praying for it makes me feel like it is possible, it gives me hope.

only 5 more days

Unfortunately, for me, this means added stress at work.

• more cranky customers (but several nice ones too)
• more people who want specific prices but don't plan to place an order
• ridiculous marketing strategies implemented by someone who probably never took a marketing course
• production and sales goals set by managers who have not worked in framing and have little to no grip on reality

Its the last two that really make it hard. All morning I thought, "I'm probably going to lose or quit my job today." I spent the majority of my lunch in tears, releasing the stress that'd built up over the short four hour morning. The afternoon was better (thanks Ativan) and I'm off tomorrow, so I might make it through the week...

Its worth pointing out that I have amazing coworkers. I literally thank God for them. Encouragement, patience, helpfulness, etc... Without people like this I'd end up on aisle 19 in the fetal position whimpering. And nobody wants to see that.

So, 60% off week...get it while you can, but remember to be nice to your framers...

honesty and awkwardness

Never before have I had so many questions and comments concerning my scars as I have since starting my current job. I guess partly it is because many of these scars are only a year or so old, but it is also due to more exposure. I spend much of my day using my hands to show people their options. Somehow this gives them the right to ask personal questions.

Usually I laugh it off and talk about how clumsy I am (which is not a lie). If they push for specifics I blame a stray piece of glass, a neighbor's cat (who moved 6 months ago), or something else to that effect.

It has crossed my mind that some of them must know, but I choose not to think about it. This week I realized that these are the people who don't ask questions, who stick to socially acceptable topics.

Except her. I don't know her name or anything about her, but she's a hero to me. . .

She was looking for a plaque, the metal kind you can get engraved. I told her we didn't have anything like that but was able to point her to a few local trophy shops. She mentioned she was from out of town and not very familiar with the area, so I gave her the phone number of the nearest one. She thanked me and left.

In 10ish minutes she was back. She spoke quietly, asking if she could talk to me. I agreed, knowing this had nothing to do with framing or anything else in the store. She said she'd noticed the scars on my arm and very emotionally told me about her friend's suicide the week before (the reason she was in town). She showed me her friend's picture and urged me to get help and to know that things will get better. Looking back, I can think of so much I could/should have said, but at the time all I could do was whisper thank you and try not to let my tears catch the attention of my boss, who of course was not too far away.

How many times have I suspected, or even known, that a stranger was hurting and done nothing? How many times have I ignored the obvious pain of my friends? Only because the truth is ugly, awkward, and makes us all more vulnerable. This girl is a hero for seeing the value of Truth above what may be uncomfortable.

something like grief

I'm frustrated. . . with life, specifically mine, and the lack of direction or movement or change. I keep turning the pages on my calendar but when I look back there's not much to show for what has passed.

How much change am I really capable of making? Am I kidding myself by thinking that there could be more?

My heart hurts because I don't want things to be like this, to be so hard. For awhile I'd like to feel like I'm not fighting against everything.

So I don't think about it. I don't think about anything. I just keep going, doing what has to be done, and trying not to acknowledge that I'm not really going anywhere. And I'm ok until something disrupts my attempt at blissful ignorance. What I feel when I realize how unhappy I am is difficult to describe, but something like grief. I grieve for the loss of hope and joy in my soul, as much as I would for the loss of a friend.

Once you lose it, can you ever truly be hopeful again? Or will every future experience and observation be affected?

My bathroom...a place of worship?

My apartment is interesting, obviously. I have managed to undo most of the damage done by the previous tenant (or at least hide it well), but there are some parts things that aren't worth the effort. Some of these uglies have been inspiration and channels for creativity.
For example, the bathroom ceiling:

(this was taken mid-remodel, ignore the primer, rust, etc)

Someone's quick-fix to a water damaged ceiling was to create a false one a foot or so lower. Its made from 2 sheets of particle board and held up by a quarter-round moulding and connected by metal plates.
Left as is it would be tacky but ignorable. However, someone took it a bit further and drilled holes everywhere. I don't know if there was a structural motivation behind this, but when I noticed what appeared to be the Big Dipper, I assumed not.

The constellation effect is finalized in the lighting. The current main light is above the medicine cabinet, but the original ceiling had some sort of bucket light as well, still controlled by the switch. With the medicine cabinet light off and the ceiling light on, I get stars.

As amusing as this is, I'm thinking about exaggerating it by painting the ceiling a very dark blue or black. My inspiration for this is the chorus from the Phil Wickham song we sang Sunday night,

You are holy great and mighty
The moon and the stars declare who You are
I’m so unworthy, but still You love me
Forever my heart will sing of how great You are.

The hope is that I would be reminded of who God is every time I see the "stars," and so be drawn from recognition into His presence.


flickr



I've got a busy week, and I may lose interest by the time I have time, but if it happens there will be pictures.

"Our past is not our potential."

-Unknown

The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.

-Anna Quindlen

We will mess up. We will hold on when we should have let go. We will walk when we should have run, We will go when we should have stayed. We will hurt others when we should have loved, but God forgives, He forgets and best of all, He restores.

-Unknown

somewhat recent creations

Gift 1 for Deanna on her wedding day




Gift 2 for Deanna on her wedding day






Concept taken from a patch I saw at work. I redid the border after the photo was taken.






Mother's day collage.
Reprinted hymn, flowers from cut from a book then painted over, works added with permopaque pen, edged in ribbon. Ignore the dark splotch over the work "lily."

Detail:







Ellen's birthday present, in honor of Frank.






Clumsy kids need a lot of bandaids, etc. Rather than having things scattered all over my apartment, I decided to make a fun box.






Perhaps the start of a series, and perhaps the motivation I need to start my etsy...

my ethical dilemma

Let's say I cut myself at work. I sloppily stick a bandaid on it but stick a few more in my pocket to redo when I have a minute. But that minute never comes, and I ended up leaving with the bandaids in my pocket. . .

Am I stealing from work?


[This is what I pondered as I was re-bandaiding a few minutes ago]



That is all. As you were.