The world groans

It's really hard to know what to say when the world seems to be in such turmoil. For a long time, I have thought about making a little glass box to hang on my wall with these words on the top: "Break glass in case of emergency." Inside I would have the 8th chapter of Romans. It explains what in the world is going on.

 "...All around us we observe a pregnant creation. The difficult times of pain throughout the world are simply birth pangs. But it's not only around us, it's WITHIN us. The Spirit of God is arousing us within. We're also feeling the birth pangs. These sterile and barren bodies of ours are yearning for full deliverance. That is why waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don't see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy...."

Right now, it’s both Christmas and Thanksgiving in Eureka Springs. We have to accelerate the process for the sake of the tourists. But I don’t mind; I love Christmas.

This night I park at the bank and head downtown for an evening walk. It’s nearing dusk so the Christmas lights have already come on. I walk down Planar Hill into historic downtown Eureka Springs, the town I have loved all my life. I first visited here as an adolescent from Kansas and never quite lost my childhood wonder for this place. At the bottom of the hill, I walk by the E.S. Historical Museum all decked out in its Christmas finery. I feel like Jimmy Stewart in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” so I say out loud, “Merry Christmas, Historical Museum.” Inside its doors are stories of those who have lived before me. For well over a hundred years, visitors have come to Eureka Springs in search of its healing and beauty.

I have walked downtown for over 20 years and am well familiar with every stone of the uneven sidewalks. Every building contains its own history in my mind. I look across the street at the Pied Piper, a biker bar and restaurant. I remember when it was a fine craft and antique store years ago, before they built on the big addition. The Bank of Eureka Springs, now Cornerstone Bank, used to be the only bank in town. I walk by the Stone House, formerly an antique store, now a beautifully restored wine bar—right next to the former Wagon Wheel, a place that still reeks of beer and cigarette smoke even though it has been boarded up for some time now. Next is the Tiki Torch, a bar in an old log cabin that used to be the Legion Hut. Back in 1980, I used to attend a church that met there. I can still see it all in my mind’s eye—the old gospel piano that Jo Smith used to play, the wooden folding chairs that pinched your derriere, the young enthusiastic pastor who excitedly preached the Word of God. It’s all still there in a strange sort of way. Then there’s Local Flavor, formerly the old Christian Science reading room. We used to have a Friday morning breakfast club there. I always enjoy sitting out on their deck—right across from the trolley station. That’s exactly where I sat on September 11, 2001, when I first heard about the twin towers going down.

I keep walking--looking in the shop windows at all those wonderful silly things arranged with such care. By now I am up to the historic New Orleans Hotel. It’s evening, so the usual musician bench is empty. I round the corner by the Post Office and past the Palace Bath House. I cross the street and walk into Harding Spring Park, one of my most beloved places. It’s decorated with lighted straw figures and giant snowballs. I have painted this place from nearly every angle—in warm weather and cold, even before the ice storm took the big tree out. The old-fashioned street lamp reminds me of Narnia. I halfway expect to a talking beaver to appear at any moment. I think of myself years ago sitting here on my blue camping stool trying to paint the actual spring as it poured out of the rock ledge. I think of that turbulent time in my life and a Psalm starts to well up in my heart: “Broken-hearted, you carried me. As an arrogant fool, you carried me; Through suffering and desire, you carried me. Your faithfulness surrounds me. And I am yours.”

This rich tapestry of memories washes over me. I am everywhere all at once. I am on both sides of the street. I am in the past and in the present. Each stone is precious. I wonder if this is how Jesus feels about Jerusalem. I turn around and walk back down the street. Everything is alive with meaning. Every silly little thing in every shop window is precious, because somebody cares about it. And then I realize how much it matters that each person has lived and died here.

This town is a living organism and we are the cells that make it unique. We all play our part in this complex network. I can picture God looking down at these streets like they are a circuit board. At this very moment, as I walk, I carry vital information from one place to another. I make it back to Basin Spring Park—the place where our whole town began. Over a century ago, people camped around this very spring and got healed by the waters. I stop. Tears fill my eyes. I love this place—this little bit of history, this little space of land, this paradise. Trying to describe this moment is like writing on water. It cannot be captured. The moving stream of time goes on. I soon will be gone. Someone else will be walking these streets. I hope they love them as much as I do.

            I keep thinking that someday I will get caught up on my grocery shopping, that there will finally come a day when I have all the ingredients I need to make whatever I want to make. Currently I just make do. I go to the cupboard and see what I have. Then I decide what’s for dinner. My logical mind keeps telling me that if only I was more organized I would plan ahead, that I should keep track of the inventory I have, and that I should run my kitchen like a restaurant--efficient, well-stocked, and profitable.

            This begs the question: “Why, after all these years, do I still have such illusions?” Haven’t I learned who I am yet? There’s a very good reason that I’m not in the restaurant business. I don’t even want my kitchen to be a place of business. I guess I kind of like the chaos. It means I have to be creative and inventive. I cook like I paint. I come up with solutions as I go. I surprise myself. I even enjoy myself.

            But my logical mind will not give up without a fight. It chastises me in every area of my life. If only I was more organized, everything would be fine, it says.

            I’m afraid I have often thought of my spiritual life in these same narrow terms. When a situation calls for love, I go to the cupboard and find that it’s empty. I lament, “If only I had planned ahead. Why can’t I ever get it right? I knew I would need love at some point, why didn’t I stock up?”

            So I reach for something that I do have. I will need to try a dash of patience or compassion or even drag out the well-worn jar of obedience until I can replenish my supply of love. When I do manage to get my love level up to where it should be, the next situation calls for faith. Again the cupboard is empty. Again I lament. Again I improvise. Perhaps I have a stash of hope in the bottom drawer. That will have to do until my faith is replenished. And so it goes.

            The funny thing is that this approach works—both in cooking and in the spiritual life. God only offers daily provision. He doesn’t promise the cupboards will be overflowing. He wants us to be creative—to learn to use the gifts he does give us, not to wish for ones we don’t yet have. His delight is to drop in for dinner and see what we can cook up for him. Contrary to what the logical mind might try to tell us: he’s happy with what we serve him.

           Nearly every summer I teach a painting class at Eureka Springs School of the Arts. Of my five recent students with widely varying backgrounds, there was one striking similarity: each had been deeply wounded by an art teacher in their past. What they wanted from me was to help them rediscover their love of painting.

Van Gogh is quoted to have said, “If a voice inside tells you that you are no painter--paint, boy, paint! —And that voice will be silenced.” So I applied the advice of the master and made my students paint! Since the class was called “Speed Painting,” I set a 20-minute time limit for them to cover an entire canvas—painting in the large shapes of their composition using very little detail. Under protest, they did pretty well. By the end of the day, each student had at least four canvases underway.

            The next day, starting only two paintings didn’t seem so daunting. By the third day, paintings began to fill the room. They were stacked on tables, hanging by clothespins on rows of wires, leaning against the walls along the baseboards. We even started a pile in the adjacent vacant room. It began to feel overwhelming. I spent the day going from easel to easel, helping each person the best I could. Every piece of advice I gave seemed followed quickly by a piece of conflicting advice. I tried to impart my years of wisdom to them about how each painting is a different set of problems to solve. I attempted to let them know that it’s a process, but they only had five days to crank out some masterpieces before heading back to hectic lives filled with everything but painting. It took a lot out of me.

On Wed. night I went home exhausted—too tired to do anything but lay on the floor with my dogs and watch a movie. I felt like all I had done was confuse my poor students. All night long I woke up thinking, “I can’t go back. I just can’t do it.” The next morning I got up early and looked through six portfolio books of my own paintings from a period of roughly 25 years—thinking through the methodology behind them. I thought about all the teachers I had ever had and the different methods I had learned from each one of them, and of all the conflicting and contradictory advice I had received. It was a bit of a revelation to realize that I had done an equal amount of good paintings and mediocre paintings with each method. My biggest conclusion was that it’s not just the methods that determine the results. They can get you started, but then it’s just you and your canvas and your paints—putting one stroke after another.  Each decision carries you to the next one. At any point it can all collapse into disaster.

When I got to class Thursday morning, I had a heart-to-heart talk with my students. I told them that the life of an artist is the life of faith—faith in the next stroke, faith in your own vision, faith in the guidance of God. Methodology is like the information in the Bible. It means nothing until you try to do it. Knowledge can get you halfway there but it’s no substitute for the work to be done. Van Gogh was right. The only way to overcome your fears is to paint. Just paint!

When I read about Monet’s struggles with painting, I find great hope. I actually derive more hope knowing that he had times of despair than I do knowing that he had times of elation. Since I know the end of his story, I don’t find it hard to imagine his grand quest to capture the light as anything but elating. However, he didn’t know the end of his story while he was fighting his way through it.

It’s a daily thing for artists—this constant battle between two opposite poles. There is the great elation of the painting process—of being in the moment, working with visual ideas, creating beautiful things. It’s pretty heady stuff—which means there is a great emotional distance from which to fall—straight into the chasm of despair. In his early life, Monet had many struggles with rejection, with poverty, and with his own work. Traveling to remote locations in search of subjects to paint, he lived the life of an explorer—a life of hardship and deprivation. Just the logistics of plein air painting without the luxury of owning a car are enough for me to respect him forever—not to mention my love for his beautiful fresh vision of nature. His works speak loud and clear of the beauties of the natural world.

What I find the hardest to swallow is there is no evidence that Monet found the true light behind the light he chased all his life. Perhaps this is just the neglect of art historians as they inject their own bias into accounts of his life. I have pondered this for many years. It bothers me to think of Monet painting the skies without hearing the voice of the great Creator God.

I know firsthand that the artistic path can be very difficult. On the plus side, it’s wonderful to be able to live the life of an artist. As long as I have enough paintings going, I can maintain some semblance of emotional health. Long ago, I learned the positive power of artistic distraction. But the economic realities of being an artist can bring it all crashing down. It’s funny. This past weekend we had the annual three-day studio tour. I took almost a hundred people on a guided tour of our house and studio. The overwhelming majority of them had severe studio envy. I could see it in their eyes. If only they could be me—living the perfect life of an artist in such a beautiful town. What more could a person want? What indeed?

My own battle with despair can seem to take on the epic proportions of a tragic comedy. How can a person lose hope so easily? Surely I shouldn’t worry about paying off the credit card bill each month. Every year I try, oh how I try, to not think about how we are going to make it through the long winter off-season. Sometimes God seems locked behind the skies—remote and uninvolved. But then I wake up to the battle, and I realize that the true enemy is despair. No one gets out of that fight. That is where we live—on this battle plain, under this sky—not knowing the end of our stories. Perhaps my work will be remembered for generations to come. Perhaps it will end up in an estate sale with few bidders. Perhaps some people will remember me. Most likely my memory will die with the people who knew me. What matters most is that I continue to fight my battle with despair. God has not deserted me so far. I don’t know if Monet found the true light. I know that he kept on trying. He kept on working—no matter what. I fully intend to follow his example.

Jody's Speed Painting class starts Monday. Can't wait to see what my students create!

Already we've located a lovely dog to fill the hole in our hearts left by the great Toto. 

We drove up to Pittsburg, Kansas, to pick him up today. He's very cute and has a sweet disposition, but instead of barking, he just squeaks.

I hope he'll be very happy with us in his new home.

It's a sad day at Studio 62--the end of an era. The great Toto dog passed on to the heavenly realm this morning. We are so very sad! Studio 62 has never existed without Toto to guard and protect it.

 

This picture captures him best. He loved his pink stuffed bear, loved to lay on the afghan that my mom made, and loved his little sweater in the winter because he got cold so easily.

 

Here's to Toto! He was a great dog, a dear friend, a constant companion, and very unique character. We miss him so much already.