These are dry times. Summer slips away faster than you can catch it – a dime down the drain. The sky hangs damp and icy today. Across the globe, powerful little men toy with the world’s future like it’s a game of chicken. Hurricanes have ravaged large parts of our earth. Families will suffer the effects for years to come. Terrorists won’t let London sleep.
This planet can get so ugly. So broken. So disordered. So many of our mirrors are shattered.
There is order in beauty. A divine order, I believe, but whatever your theology you can feel it. The affirmation of disparate parts falling into place.
Jennifer Berkenbosch’s Cultivar matters because the world needs beauty today. We need to be reminded that there is goodness. There is a solid bed beneath this wild river.
Becoming your authentic self seems to be the work of a lifetime. Every once an a while someone comes along to speed up that process. Brené Brown researches shame, fear and vulnerability, so she has a lot to say about authentic living. That is the focus of her book, The Gifts of Imperfection
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I walk over, following Russ' curious gaze to the ground. When someone watches something this intently, it’s hard not to join in. Now I’m looking down, too. Watching water trickle over brittle earth. Iced tea, to be accurate. The overflow of a church picnic.
Brown on brown, the liquid spreads. Like a virus across continents in some summer blockbuster virus-visualization. We wonder aloud at how far this small amount of liquid is spreading. We place bets as to where it will stop. In the end we leave, responsibilities calling us elsewhere. The drink is still spilling out.
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There are protests about time. The lack of time for pursuits of passion. I persist. You make time for the things that matter, I say. I talk about someone I read about online recently and how she works her creativity for at least an hour every single day. How if you just give your creativity an hour every day you will grow like you wouldn’t believe. You may even master it. You will at least keep it thriving.
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Remember that old saying, 'crime doesn't pay'? I think they meant to say 'art'.
I am continually scratching my head, trying to figure out just how to make art pay. How to make a living from this life. Don't get me wrong, it's worth every non-penny it brings my way, but it would be awful nice to sustain a family with these creative gifts, too.
This struggle isn't only mine, of course. It may well be yours, too. And it is certainly, thus far, the story of the Bleeding Heart Art Space.
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This Sunday we voted to close the best church I’ve ever been a part of. Urban Bridge Church is ending after nine years. We were asked whether we should continue, or not. It was the hardest ‘no’ I’ve ever had to write. It feels painfully cruel and heart-poundingly necessary at once. My ‘no’ met with other ‘no’s’ to seal the fate of our little community.
I am proud of those no’s. They may turn out to be the most courageous thing our church has ever done
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The people around the table are old friends. New friends. Friends brought together by a church who has just collectively decided to close the doors. In as much as we ever had our own doors to close.
It in in this moment, breaking the bread in two and passing it around, the separation hits me. Arrow to heart. I look around and realize the weight of leaving this community.
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Birds leave nests and caterpillars become butterflies and seeds become flowers and it is all difficult–painful even. Yet it is all transformative in ways we cannot predict or even dare to hope for.
And yeah, sometimes you just wish things would stay the same. Stasis is easier. Stasis is comfortable.
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This will be the ninth Bridge Songs event I have produced. The ninth time I’ve made wonderful plans and watched the whole jalopy shake apart as we raced toward the finish line.
But we’ve always reached the finish line, even if parts have fallen by the wayside.
I know that, but I’m still nervous. Not for the reasons you would think.
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Keep your gift sharp. Keep your fire lit. Even if, at times, it’s nothing more than an ember. Don’t let it fade to smoke.
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In the then-current issue of the Rat Creek Press, I had a piece about my ’new’ hi-fi system. A wooden cabinet record player straight out of Don Draper’s appartment. I wrote about the experience of listening to records. The connections the records were building with my wife and I. With our whole family. The forced labour of getting up to flip the record and skip the skips. The intentionality of it all. The attention that listening to music once demanded. No shuffle. No stream-fed playlist.
People read that article. At least one of those readers really got what I was saying. We connected. He responded. He brought records to my house. In his words, we ‘B.S.’d a bit.’
You have something to say–why not say it here? Email your blog post idea to dave@bleedingheartart.space and let's chat.
