But It's Only a Car

“But it’s only a car,” my husband said.

Reminding me the three-year lease

Would be ending in a few weeks.

 

I would stall as long as possible,

Make excuses for not responding to

Trade-in inquiries by email from the young salesman

Who sold me the car. 

 

“I like my car. I don’t want a new one.”

I pleaded to my husband.

 

“It’s leased, we have to turn it in!” he replied,

Frustrated with my inability to consider the car as only a vehicle,

A means of transportation 

And not a place of containment.

 

The car is my friend, my companion,

Always present when people are not.

Ready to hold when intense emotions

Overcome. 

 

My car is not like my favorite twenty-year old sweater,

Missing two buttons, 

Strands of yarn

Worming out of a few holes at the elbow,

Tucked away on a shelf in my closet,

So I can pull it out and wear when I need comfort

Companionship, consistency, familiarity.

My car won’t fit in the attic or

On the shelf next to my ragged sweater.

 

The lease ends tomorrow.

 

My trusted, ever available source

Of comfort

Will go to the dealer to fulfill a

Legal commitment.

I should have written a note to the next driver. 

 

Am I the only one who understands the value

Of a well-formed piece of metal

To hold a struggling heart?

 

Forced to face the reality of what must come,

Each day I have emptied contents

From my trunk, glove compartment, and passenger seats.

Stacks of masks looped around the gear shift.

Tablet of paper and pencil in the passenger seat

Ready for thoughts as they surface.

Canvases from my canceled art show resting in the back seat

Stayed in the car, not ready to go home.

My gym bag behind the driver’s seat,

Stuffed with towels, shampoo, and hairdryer,

Waiting for the Y to re-open.

My family jokes my car is my second home.

It is.

 

My personal effects will be in a grocery bag

When I go to the counter to hand over the keys,

But part of my heart will remain in the piece of metal,

Locked behind the doors

Buckled into the seat

That carried me for three years.

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{A special note for Jacquie Reed's faithful readers.... Jacquie enjoyed writing as a way to express her insights and share her creativity but also as a way to more deeply connect with the people she held dear. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the topics in her posts and interacting with her ideas and art while she was living. This post was written and scheduled by Jacquie in the weeks before her unexpected death on November 5, 2021. Her remaining posts will publish every two weeks from now through the end of February 2022. Please feel free to respond with your memories of Jacquie in the comments. May the words she left behind minister to you as you grieve her passing and remember her life. You can find her obituary here.}

Communion in the Vineyard

 

The rows of grapes for wine were overabundant, the local U-pick farm email said. They were now available for the public. Each year, I go to pick strawberries at the same farm. I try to go early in the morning when there are few people, because picking strawberries is a time of worship for me. Even if it rains the night before, the straw on the ground, abundantly packed between rows, absorbs the water, keeping puddles or mud at bay. I like the quiet and being able to kneel down to grab clusters of bright red strawberries waiting on the plants. But my afternoon with the grapes in early August would be different.

With no clouds to block the sun, the air was beastly hot. With no breeze blowing, the humidity hung heavily in the air. Dripping with sweat, I planned to pick quickly and then leave.
This would be different. I eagerly drove to the farm not knowing what to expect. 
 
The farm’s winery is a few years old, and I had walked through the rows before. I had picked leaves from each of the three varieties of grapes, red, black, and concord, to make dye for fabric, but this would be my first time harvesting the grapes themselves. 

 
Would the grapes be easy to reach? How many bunches would I be allowed to pick? What kinds of grapes are good both for wine and for fresh eating? Lots of questions followed me along the narrow, two-lane road through the Indiana countryside.
 
Easing my car into the nearly empty gravel parking lot, I entered the little store on the grounds, where visitors pay for fresh-picked strawberries and purchase vegetables, homemade jams and jellies, pies, ice cream, and fudge.
 
“I’m here to pick grapes,” I said to the young lady working at the counter. She smiled, handing me a large woven basket and a pair of yellow-handled scissors.
 

“Our red grapes are outside the door,” she said, pointing to a post identifying the row. “Pick as many bunches as you want. The sweetest grapes are deep red so look for those. If you see green grapes, they aren’t ripe.”
 
Eagerly, I went out the door into the humid summer air. I lifted a thin net covering the vines and ducked underneath. The leaves were plentiful and hid the grapes clustered in the middle of the row.
 
Unlike strawberries, that sat in the sun waiting to be picked, grapes are a little more elusive. To find them, I had to separate the leaves to reveal clusters buried in the middle of the plant. The grapes were at eye-level. I could stand and move up and down the row, poking my hands through the vines, searching through the dense leaves. 
 
Putting my basket on the ground freed my hands to cut the small bunches of grapes that were ripe and ready to eat. When I chose a cluster of grapes, the vine was difficult to cut. I wished for sharper scissors. I held the cluster in one hand and made repeated attempts to finally cut the grapes from the vine. I expected the grapes to be larger. The grapes’ surface was smooth and came in varying shades of purple and red. I filled my basket a quarter full and decided that was enough. After all, I didn’t know how the grapes tasted and I didn’t want to throw them away after I got home if I didn’t like them.
 
Ducking out from under the netting, I stood up with my basket under my arm and walked toward the store ready to pay. When I arrived at the concrete porch of the farm store, I put my basket on a picnic table, so I could take a picture of my grape harvest in the basket with the scissors. 

Pausing to get my phone ready, I felt God’s presence catch me by surprise. I paused and savored this moment. I inhaled God’s presence. I didn’t want to move. I stood still, grounded in God. I was oblivious to anything else, immersed in this unexpected moment of God finding me. 
 
After I paid and began driving home, I remembered Jesus’ words from John 15:5 – “I am the vine and you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, and I in him, will bear much fruit, for you can do nothing without me.” 

 
I had experienced these words during my time in the vineyard.
 
These words of Jesus came alive in me in a way I had not experienced. I thought I was going to pick grapes and I encountered the Living Word. Picking grapes was not only a new activity, it also provided a new encounter with God. 
 
I touched the vine...I touched Jesus.
 
I parted the leaves to gather grapes...I felt Jesus.
 
Jesus is in me...I am in Jesus.
 
My time in the vineyard was like communion. When I participate in communion at church, it is a time of renewal. When I drove home from the farm with a bunch of grapes, I felt refreshed and energized with the peace of God’s presence. 
 
Bearing fruit has always been a focus in my life as I try to spread God’s love as I go. Recently, though, I’ve been learning to pause more in God’s presence as I did on the porch of the farm store. Much like parting the leaves among the grape vines, I’m waiting to see the fruit that will emerge from my time abiding with God.

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{A special note for Jacquie Reed's faithful readers.... Jacquie enjoyed writing as a way to express her insights and share her creativity but also as a way to more deeply connect with the people she held dear. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the topics in her posts and interacting with her ideas and art while she was living. This post was written and scheduled by Jacquie in the weeks before her unexpected death on November 5, 2021. Her remaining posts will publish every two weeks from now through the end of February 2022. Please feel free to respond with your memories of Jacquie in the comments. May the words she left behind minister to you as you grieve her passing and remember her life. You can find her obituary here.}

Art is Where You See It: Cloud Sculptures, Airport Carpet, and How My Senses Came Alive During the Pandemic

Nineteen months into the pandemic, although I was excited to travel to meet our first grandchild and see family, I was anxious since Covid numbers were still not under control and many were refusing to get vaccinated. I don’t like to fly in the first place, and the long delays we had in busy, crowded airports were frightening.

My flight began with watching the raindrops collect on the airplane window, opening my imagination to new ways to perceive the clouds, airplane windows, the landscape, and even the carpet of an airline waiting room. After the poem about the raindrops, another poem came along unexpectedly from my other observations.

 

Flying for five hours along with a five hour layover in Denver, I had ample “studio time” to write, draw, and paint my awakening thoughts. I always travel with  art supplies, two sets of watercolors, a few brushes and pens that are water soluble. Moving along in the air after being cooped up for so many months, I noticed how much more developed my awareness was than when I last traveled in November 2019. 

 

I saw art where I had not noticed it before. I began to think that perhaps there were some gains over the covid lockdown, even though the losses seemed overwhelming. During the pandemic, I had kept my creative growth as a priority, continuing sessions with my writing coach, which deepened my ability to express experiences from my everyday encounters. Even though many parts of my life were in lockdown, my creativity and relationship with God were thriving. Now as I emerged from my quiet pandemic patterns to travel again, my senses felt like curious young children. They were new and ready to receive. The ordinary looked extraordinary. Art seemed to be everywhere.

 

This second poem of my travels that day captures my experience in flying almost 2,300 miles from Indianapolis to Denver to Portland. 

 

Five hours in the air,

The airplane window and clouds

Had more surprises for me that day

Relieving my anxiety at 35,000 feet.

 

An empty window seat

Allowing an unobstructed view

Of the flat farmscape from my Midwest home to

The Columbia River and the Three Sisters,

Trio of snow-capped mountains

In the Pacific Northwest.

 

Reaching for familiarity in the sky

From a bulging carry-on bag,

I retrieved my sketch pad,

Box of watercolors,

Paint brush, small plastic container.

I drew what I saw out the window

And wrote on my sketchpad.

 

“I believe the clouds are sculptures

In the sky,

Art seen from above.

A surprise gallery

Already framed

By window’s rim

35,000 feet above earth,

Companionship for the long trip,”

 

Landing with relief in the Denver airport over two hours later, I began the five-hour vigil until the final departure to Portland. Getting lunch, reorganizing my carry-on bag, watching people, and noting my environment, I had plenty to keep me engaged.

 

I observed the pattern of the carpet on the airport floor, the same one I remembered from the last time I flew. This time however, I drew the simple lines and wrote underneath my sketch, “I believe art is where you see it…even on an airport carpet.”

 

Whether my senses were on increased alert from traveler’s anxiety or my deprivation from being mostly alone over the past year and a half, or whether my creative practices over those long months had helped me see with more clarity now, this improved perception added fullness and meaning to my trip. I came home with poems swirling in my head, lined up like the airplanes waiting to take off in the three airports I visited. 

 

I had a visual record of what I experienced in the air and in the airports, vibrant colors and shapes and fresh insights adding excitement to my trip. The things I saw opened me up to new observations, pleasant memories from the past, and ways to illustrate my feelings of the present moment.

 

The highlight of my trip was meeting our first grandchild and spending meaningful time with our daughter and son-in-law. But the bonus for me was seeing how my creativity had grown during the pandemic lockdown, springing up into art, poems, and writing I could never have predicted.

[See the companion post to this one shared last week!]

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{A special note for Jacquie Reed's faithful readers.... Jacquie enjoyed writing as a way to express her insights and share her creativity but also as a way to more deeply connect with the people she held dear. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the topics in her posts and interacting with her ideas and art while she was living. This post was written and scheduled by Jacquie in the weeks before her unexpected death on November 5, 2021. Her remaining posts will publish every two weeks from now through the end of February 2022. Please feel free to respond with your memories of Jacquie in the comments. May the words she left behind minister to you as you grieve her passing and remember her life. You can find her obituary here.} 

The Airplane Window and the Kindness of a Stranger Long Ago

Settling into my seat on the plane going to Denver last May, I noticed drops of water on the window. A quiet rain was falling. Eventually the drops started to roll down the glass, in clusters and individually, creating a puddle at the bottom.

I held this image throughout the trip. A few weeks after my return, I wrote a poem about how the raindrops on the window reflected my heart. The drops of water were like my tears that wanted to flow but had trouble forming after nineteen months of pandemic disappointment that kept me from traveling to see my daughter, her husband, and my brand new grandson.

Watching the drops reminded me of a poem I liked in a book I received from my father’s  colleague on my sixth birthday, “Now We Are Six,” by A. A. Milne. I never met the colleague or knew why the person decided to buy me a book or how the person knew it was my birthday. My father didn’t tell me the person’s name nor did I have the opportunity to write a thank you note. Receiving the book was a mystery, but a welcome one. 

“Now We Are Six” is a collection of poems written by Milne, famous for his Winnie the Pooh stories. One of my favorite poems, “Waiting at the Window,” described a little boy watching two raindrops race down the window pane in his living room. He named the drops John and James and even chose which one he wanted to get to the bottom first.  

That day as I waited on the tarmac to leave, watching the raindrops go down the window took me back to the only book I owned as a child, and to that favorite raindrop poem, all from the kindness of a stranger.

Landing in my seat with relief, 

After a harrowing trip through TSA check-in

Masked, vaccinated, anxious

After 19 months of not seeing my daughter

Or meeting my first grandchild,

I looked at the airplane window

Dotted with drops of water

From a gently falling rain.

Suddenly the drops 

Raced down the window

A horizontal row 

Moving at various paces

Collecting in a puddle at the bottom of the curved window.

Since I could not cry

After a pile of pandemic disappointment.

Rain on the window was crying for me.

Objects and things we see

Can reflect our inner self.

Thank you window for providing a canvas

Of emotional expression and relief,

A frame to contain the raindrops

And illustrate my tears.

[See the companion post to this one next week!]

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{A special note for Jacquie Reed's faithful readers.... Jacquie enjoyed writing as a way to express her insights and share her creativity but also as a way to more deeply connect with the people she held dear. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the topics in her posts and interacting with her ideas and art while she was living. This post was written and scheduled by Jacquie in the weeks before her unexpected death on November 5, 2021. Her remaining posts will publish every two weeks from now through the end of February 2022. Please feel free to respond with your memories of Jacquie in the comments. May the words she left behind minister to you as you grieve her passing and remember her life. You can find her obituary here.}

Dinner at the Big Tree: A Poem

You come each day at dusk,

Silently appearing 

End-of-the-day friends. 

Under a bumpy-barked maple tree, 

Grown from a stick in the ground. 

Twenty-five years later  

Thick trunk, 

Voluminous branches and leaves.

Backing into a crevice in the tree 

Claiming your space

Place of security

Panoramic view of the yard

No surprises during dinner

Free to munch and crunch

Clicking teeth like typewriter keys

Kernels of corn and sunflower seeds

Spill over from the squirrel feeder

Creatures on tiny feet bob around 

A small platform

Chewing fast, 

Anticipating the arrival of a car, 

Or children playing, 

Startling, interrupting 

Mealtime pleasure. 

I watch, quiet and still, 

From my table on the porch.

Furry companions with pink ears

And white, round tails,

I witness your dinner, 

While I rest, satisfied from mine.

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{A special note for Jacquie Reed's faithful readers.... Jacquie enjoyed writing as a way to express her insights and share her creativity but also as a way to more deeply connect with the people she held dear. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the topics in her posts and interacting with her ideas and art while she was living. This post was written and scheduled by Jacquie in the weeks before her unexpected death on November 5, 2021. Her remaining posts will publish every two weeks from now through the end of February 2022. Please feel free to respond with your memories of Jacquie in the comments. May the words she left behind minister to you as you grieve her passing and remember her life. You can find her obituary here.}

A Bouquet of Kindness

“Fresh flowers on the kitchen table?!! Who gave us flowers?“ I asked as I rushed through the garage door into the kitchen carrying two bags filled with items for the trip we’d be taking in two days.

The bouquet of pale pink roses and purple accent flowers waited on the table wrapped in plastic with a pouch of flower food rubber-banded around the stems.  

“You know Kathy, the pharmacy tech,” Mike said as he stood at the sink peeling an apple. “I went to get my glaucoma drops and she gave me the bouquet.”

Kathy had told Mike about her mother’s death last year. Today, on her mother’s birthday, she wanted to do something special to honor her memory. When she saw Mike come in for his prescription, Kathy felt moved to buy the bouquet of flowers to say ‘thank you,’ for the nice things Mike and I have done for the pharmacy staff.

For the past several years, Mike and I have written cards to each member of the pharmacy team during the week of Thanksgiving. We enclose a gift card to Starbucks as a way to express our gratitude for the efficient way they prepare our medications, and for their friendliness each time we come in.

Back in April I dropped off a prescription and was told to expect a day or two delay. The pharmacist explained that these days, the first two hours the store is open, the staff is busy giving Covid shots and can’t begin to fill scripts until after 11:00 am, putting them two hours behind in their regular work.

I could hear the exhaustion in the pharmacist’s voice. I could see the fatigue in the dark circles under her eyes. With all of the frustrations of the past year, dispensing medicine, never closing the department, and now with the task of giving  covid shots added to their job description, these people were overworked and concerned about not getting their orders filled promptly for customers.

I wanted them to know their efforts were appreciated. Before leaving the store, I purchased a packet of six thank you cards, enough for each person in the department. I stopped by Starbucks and got six gift cards. Dropping off my bundle of care the next day, I was delighted to add some cheer to their busy schedule. 

People who work in these roles usually deal with complaints, late orders, conveying insurance denials of payment to customers, and other unpleasant tasks. I didn’t expect them to remember our small gesture, but our simple notes of gratitude left an impression.

Now, seeing the flowers of gratitude Kathy had sent to us, I had a fresh idea. Over the past few years, I have learned how to dye fabric from natural ingredients. I sorted through the bouquet and cut the blossoms. I dropped them into a pot of boiling water and waited a few minutes for the dye to appear. I poured the dye through a strainer to remove any traces of flower petals or leaves. I folded some specially-treated fabric in the dye and let it sit for two hours. I removed the fabric and let it dry, then cut squares to make a small nine-patch quilt. I wanted to say how much I appreciated the bouquet, and to give Kathy a tangible reminder of her kindness to us on her mother’s birthday. 

When I finished making the small quilt, I wrapped it in white tissue paper, wrote a note explaining what I did to the flowers, and put it in a small bag.Taking the bag to the grocery store a few days later, I was happy to see Kathy working. The pharmacy was busy but she took a moment to greet me. 

“I made something  to thank you for the flowers.” She looked surprised as I handed her the bag.

She walked away from the counter, tucking my bag in her purse resting on a shelf, needing to get pick-up requests from those in the line behind me. 

I have seen Kathy several times since. I don’t know her well, but what I do know of her, I know through kindness. She hasn’t said anything about what I gave her, but maybe some gifts are meant to be received in silence. The energy of kindness, thoughtfulness, and gratitude conveyed in tangible ways like cards, flowers, and a small quilt carry what the giver intends. No response necessary. 

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{A special note for Jacquie Reed's faithful readers.... Jacquie enjoyed writing as a way to express her insights and share her creativity but also as a way to more deeply connect with the people she held dear. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the topics in her posts and interacting with her ideas and art while she was living. This post was written and scheduled by Jacquie in the weeks before her unexpected death on November 5, 2021. Her remaining posts will publish every two weeks from now through the end of February 2022. Please feel free to respond with your memories of Jacquie in the comments. May the words she left behind minister to you as you grieve her passing and remember her life. You can find her obituary here.}

Reframing a Disappointment in the Art Gallery

{A special note for Jacquie Reed's faithful readers.... Jacquie enjoyed writing as a way to express her insights and share her creativity but also as a way to more deeply connect with the people she held dear. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the topics in her posts and interacting with her ideas and art while she was living. This post was written and scheduled by Jacquie in the weeks before her unexpected death on November 5, 2021. Her remaining posts will publish every two weeks from now through the end of February 2022. Please feel free to respond with your memories of Jacquie in the comments. May the words she left behind minister to you as you grieve her passing and remember her life. You can find her obituary here.}

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Opening my email in early January 2020, the subject line, “Artist of the Month for April”, caught my attention. I responded quickly at the opportunity to have my art once again featured in the second floor gallery of the church I attend. Immediately, I began to organize the pieces I wanted to take as well as setting aside time to finish a few new projects. 

Not quite two months later in mid-March, the pandemic closed the church. 

That was the first of a pile of disappointments the coming year would bring. 

Online worship was difficult for me. After the first month, I found my attention waning. I sat on the couch to watch the sermon but for the other parts of the service, I was content to listen while I baked in the kitchen or worked on a small piece of quilting. 

I missed feeling the energy of people coming together to sing and praise God and hear God’s word proclaimed. Through this strange absence, I realized more than ever the importance of place. The gifts of sitting in a sanctuary, looking at stained glass windows lining the walls, lighting a candle after the service, noting the art at the entrance, all these things helped frame and open my heart to receive God. 

In February 2021, I received another email, with “Artist of the Month for March/April “ in the subject line. These words were the first expression of hope that somehow things were getting back to normal. My reply was quick as I again assessed what I could bring to the gallery, thankful I had used the past year to finish projects and explore new interests. 

A few days before the church opened, I hauled my collection of art in bags and boxes to the gallery. 

Walking up the stairs, I was surprised when I felt tears come. I am not one to cry easily. My heart felt relief as the anxiety of the past year was slowly ebbing. 

Sorting the framed pieces of art on a large table in the middle of the gallery, I noticed the bare, burnt orange walls and the black chains suspended from the ceiling waiting to hold frames. Silence surrounded me while I worked to arrange my work in a place I was still getting used to after being away for a year. 

I wondered who would come to the gallery in the coming days. Would wearing a mask or fear of catching the virus keep people away? Although the vaccine had been available since January, many were wary of receiving this protection. Would the unvaccinated stay home to protect others? 

All of these thoughts went through my head as I placed each picture at the end of the chain. 

Although my art has been featured in many public galleries, I am especially honored when I am the artist of the month at my church. What I create comes from God, and completing art is a way for me to pray. Bringing my art to church is a way to thank God for God’s goodness and provision to express what comes from my heart. Almost like putting an offering on the altar, this act helps me show my appreciation for the way God has enabled me to express in art what I find difficult to put into words. 

In the past when I was artist of the month, I provided light refreshments for a reception after the second service. A large sign on the first floor, bulletin, and screen notices invited people to the second floor. I discovered however, reopening a church in the middle of a pandemic greatly altered publicity for the art show. 

The primary focus of communications was understandably directed to the wellness of people returning to church. Health and safety information had greater visibility. Signs scattered throughout the building reminded attendees to wear a mask, keep a safe distance from others, use hand sanitizer, and exit quickly when the service ended. 

At first I was disturbed that no one knew about the newly refreshed artist of the month gallery. I always looked forward to watching people interact and respond to what I have made. Seeing fingers point to particular parts of framed pieces always makes me want to get into their minds and learn what they are thinking. I wonder what has caught their eye? How has what I made connected to something in their life or illustrated an idea or challenge they might have needed some form to express? What have I given them to take away from their interaction with my art? 

With no publicity for the gallery, these treasured encounters were not possible. 

My concern led me to contact the church staff member responsible for the art show. She explained how the use of screen notices was currently limited to essential information. No paper bulletins were being printed in order to minimize hand contact. Although the coordinator of the gallery had tried to get the usual publicity, she was not successful. 

I was disappointed. 

As the weeks progressed with no publicity Sunday after Sunday, my disappointment only grew. What good did it do to have my art on display when there was no one there to see it. I missed out on the fun of talking to those who came by, answering occasional questions, and receiving their appreciation for my work. Art is meant to be shared. Without people there to respond to the work, it was almost like having icing removed from a birthday cake . 

With emotions piling up, I realized I needed to step back and reflect on the meaning of being artist of the month, set aside my ego, and consider that my art might not be interacting with people, but with God during the time on the church gallery walls. 

I began to imagine how my art heard the music and messages of seven Sunday services including the joy of Easter; the mourning of funerals in the sanctuary; celebrations of weddings long delayed; silent prayers from those who came individually during the week to sit with God in an empty sanctuary; and the music from the organist and choir practicing each week.

The work that I brought had received all of the holiness of what happened on Sundays and throughout each week. 

When I picked up my art at the end of April, each piece seemed to feel a little weightier, filled with God’s presence. 

The past year and a half have necessitated many shifts in normal routines of daily living as well as special events. In your challenges, how have you re-framed your perspective and seen your disappointments in a new way?