Drawn by an irresistible attraction, to the regions of light.~C.S. Lewis (From Out Of The Silent Planet)

On the evening of my daughter, Bethany Wren's artist event, I was drawn to the regions of light. Bethany debuted her new EP, Kindred. The album is a collection of songs she wrote. She graciously invited other artists to perform. The night was filled with song and laughter, poetry and music, champagne and cake. Fresh flowers. Light and beauty. Bethany invited me to read an essay during the event, and I post it here. It is lengthier than what you usually read at this site. You will notice themes you've heard before in my posts.

I also invite you to listen to Bethany's gorgeous songs. You will love the collection. And please feel free to share the link with friends and loved ones. Kindred

IT CAN BE EVERYTHING

Bethany, there is an image of you that I carry in my mind. It was the eighties. Your father and I rented a weathered clapboard house in Portland, Oregon. The landlord tended a vegetable garden in the side yard and you liked to watch him harvest his crops and talk to him while he worked. You were almost two. One day the man placed a gigantic zucchini in his wheelbarrow, and you became fascinated with the vegetable. He asked if you wanted to hold it, and you readily tucked that verdant beast under your arm. In your other arm you carried Fozzie Bear, your favorite stuffed animal. You then promptly took your treasures to the front steps of that old house, sat down and began to sing O Little Town Of Bethlehem. The man paused from his work and said, "You know, she has a wonderful singing voice for one so young. It's clear and beautiful. I believe the happy gardener was prophetic in his declaration.

We begin early, I think, to embrace what delights us. No shame or fear or anxiety has set in yet about liking what we like. Noticing what we notice. No comparisons with others. No performance-based pressures. No perfectionism.

And then we begin adulting. Suddenly it doesn't seem so simple to pursue an artistic pathway. Childlike delights can become distant, or sadly, forgotten. We get talked out of things. Sometimes it's the most well-meaning people who can sound so persuasive. Heap on the guilt. Cause second-guessing. "You mean you really think you can make money with your art? You're so good at accounting. Aren't numbers more your thing?" 

"You know everyone in our family gets into the medical field. Surely, you're not thinking of pursuing theater. I mean maybe as a hobby. But really. Think about it." We let the painting lessons go by the wayside. We hide the poetry in the bottom drawer. We don't take the class in film making. We cancel the ballet workshop. We don't count decorating our home as a real art form, nor the passion we have for cooking or parenting or starting a business. We say things to ourselves like, "Who do I think I am to write a play?" We tell ourselves that we don't have time. We move opportunities for submitting our work to the spam folder. "Who am I kidding?" we say.

Most of you here probably don't have this type of thinking. You've transcended the discouragement or disillusionment and are happily creating. Bravo! I'm not quite there yet. I continually need to be reminded of some things to stay on the creative pathway. I invite you to consider the following, taking what you need and leaving the rest.

Keep taking chances. Keep going. Keep, keep going forward.~E-mail from a good friend

I'm more of a tortoise. The hare wears me out. Exhausts me. I need margin. A slower pace. At times I feel guilty about needing to move more slowly in life, feel pressure to accelerate my pace. Get it done faster. Especially with writing. There are now programs you can sign up for where you write a novel in one month. That makes me want to faint. I couldn't do it. Don't want to do it. 

It's taken me three years to finish my current novel. Thousands and thousands of steps. One by one. A loyal tortoise, intentionally ignoring the hare, even though I see him out of the corner of my eye, rushing past and waving. Urging me to join his rapidity. 

But the stars were still blanketed, out of sight. I wanted to see them. I wanted to feel their comfort.~Matt Haig (From The Humans)

Things just feel so out of control. They are.

The day after I returned from Italy, I got COVID. I'd had all the vaccinations. But I was still really sick. Coughing, stuffed up, fever, sneezing. Very weak. Couldn't smell anything. In quarantine on the second floor of my house. Away from my husband. Away from everyone. 

But really, in the scheme of all that's out of control in the world, I have no reason to complain. I can rest, drink water, take medication, pray. Read. And text. So few people call anymore. That's okay with me. I'm not really a phone person anyway.

You crown the year with a bountiful harvest; even the hard pathways overflow with abundance.~Psalm 65:11

Giovanni and I are edging closer to leaving Italy, this beautiful country. I took a last walk yesterday on the pathway that loops through the bucolic setting. The weather had cooled, and I felt a refreshing breeze on my face. A few bikers rushed past. Tractors harvested crops. A flock of white birds gathered to feast on the bits of grain left scattered in the fields. 

Last year when I was in Italy, I often walked over to an abandoned farmhouse. I always thought that the weathered, broken-down structure could be restored--reconstructed into something beautiful again.

This is the most difficult thing I've ever done--to be in a country where I have so few words. Yet I choose to be here, reminding myself it is important to be grateful for the experience. This is how I grow. This is how I increase love and empathy for others. For myself. This is how I trust God. 'What is it like?' I ask myself.~Journal entry for September 7, 2023

Being underwater. The experience in Italy is like being underwater without an oxygen tank. I have only so much air in my lungs, only so much language. Even experiencing the beauty of Italy, like an underwater world--brilliantly colored fish and vivid orange coral--I can't stay long. I must surface for air, gulp down more oxygen. Sometimes if feels much easier to stay on the ocean surface than to take another deep dive.

Giovanni and I vacationed a few days with his sister and her friend on the Lago di Garda. His sister's generosity allowed us to stay in an apartment with breathtaking mountain vistas. Yet when you are spending a few days with others, you need words for soap and sheets, language for how to open the sliding glass door, and to tell others that you wrote another book and how to respond when they ask what it's about. And what's the word for "towel?" I knew it, but can't remember.  "Breathe," I remind myself. My lungs are bursting. My oxygen is language and I have so very little. Dive again. Do it again.