Just another Daisy Chain

Hello world. The architecture and the scenery is beautiful in all the cities that I have visited, but what grabs me the most is all the faces. Some express joy, anticipation, child-like excitement at seeing all the tourist sites of Europe, but a lot of the faces are simply weary.

Strungout over a million miles of a daisy chain. Wilted here. Wilted there. A fresh green stalk as new hands continue the ornament. Bruises sprout as children wear the neclace around their necks in innocent play.
Oh to be fresh and fully alive in the meadows, to be smelt and enjoyed by a nomad. Not to be picked and thrown away after a day.
This life, though full of wonders, is a little wearisome. So come sun, and shine like you have never shone before.

I have a friend who everytime he talks to me always sings or mentions the song "This little light of mine, I am gonna let it shine".  A simple song of our childhood, but it is imprinted in my memory. Joy does not necessarily mean that we have to be happy or to act "okay".  Joy is about realizing that there is hope and that God is faithful despite circumstances.   I pray that I can be more joyful in order to give weary hearts rest.

Claire de Lune

Walking through the streets of Amsterdam I felt like this city was making a poor attempt at powdering out its erotic blemishes. Our hostels sits in the Red Light District where life is simply open.  It was but 2:30pm when we began our walking tour of the city and already we notice young women in black lingerie posing inside windows, smiling at passerbys. They are just another item for sale in a city intent on high fashion and brand names.  It is hard for me to see the rest of the beauty in this city when something so base is so blatant in sight. 70-90% of the women here are forced into the sex trade. The business men of this industry often threaten to harm the womens' families if they refuse to comply. So I wander these streets, perplexed and deeply saddened. "There is beauty everywhere," I keep telling myself. I know it is true, but for once I don't want to believe it.

We make our way to the public library (7 stories tall!).  A piano waits in anticipation in the main lobby. A signs reads that somewhat experienced payes are allowed to strike a tune, but quietly and for no longer than 30 minutes.  With child-like excitement I sit down on the piano bench and play a rough version of "Claire de Lune" (my go-to-song, when I don't carry music). They have muted the strings, but I do my best to let the notes sing in this still, quiet atmosphere. A few people stop, listen, and thank me afterwards for playing.  It is then that I realize that hope can be found in beauty, and beauty in forms of art. This city is crying out for hope. Even when I feel like throwing up my fist at it, and cursing it, I must, we must, love on it. We must see and bring what beauty we can, even in the darkest places. Beauty is in everything, but as an artist, I hope that I will strive to paint, draw, play music, and dance even harder, not just for myself, but for others and especially for those that are broken in this world.

I don't know much, but I know that God's heart goes out for Amsterdam and he will not stop working in this city. There is hope.  There is always hope.

Youth Hostel Ministry

This summer from May 26-27th I will be in Europe traveling around youth hostels with a team of four. We will be building relationships and sharing the gospel with travelers, through word and action.

Here is our itinerary!

May      25                     Arrive Chicago, USA

             27                     Arrive Amsterdam, Netherlands

             29                     Interlaaken, Switzerland
June      2                       Salzburg, Austria

             6                       Budapest, Hungary

             10                     Bratislava, Slovakia

             12                     Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic 

             15                     Vienna, Austria 

             21                     Munich, Germany 

             27                     Hurlach, Germany
July       2                       Prague, Czech Republic

             28                     Cologne, Germany

             31                     Amsterdam, Netherlands
August  2 - 10                England
August 11                      Dallas, TX

If only it were different...

Not on the path, the homeless man feels obligated to walk on the street.  There he is a free man.  On the path he is an obstacle, an annoying disturbance, a mass of dirty jumbled together jackets that makes us walkers slightly alter our course, in slight disgust.  I can understand why this man chooses to move with the cars. He pushes his cart, which hides his entire world and belongings, just another part of traffic.  

Grass, paint, moose.

Junior year of high school I decided to take on this big project and draw a realistic picture of my senior friends for their graduation gift:

I was pleased with the end product, but it sucked out from the joy of producing art.  I spent three long month trying to depict my friends exactly as they were.  No creation was involved here, no real discovery, nothing that inspired me to keep searching for something more.  So, I really didn't draw for the next few years, except for a handful of drawings I did of hands.  Art had lost its lustre for me.  When I thought of art, I imagined being entrapped in a little room, with no one to talk to, not being able to feel the wind on my face, or the soreness of my body from doing activity ( a good thing), just simply sitting for hours. 

But then I transfered to Wheaton College and I discovered the peace and quiet of lying outside on a Sunday on Blanchard Lawn:

The grass reminded me of the grass I used to know in England, so wet and soft, so lush and green.  I imagined it wrapping over me like I was a sausage and it was the Pillsbury Dough.  And it was here, on this lawn, where I rekindled my love for art.  I spent hours lying down on a rudolph the red nose reindeer blanket, in the warm weeks of August and September, just drawing patterns, birds, hands, eyes, wherever my pens and pencils took me.

It was lovely.

The next step? I became an art major.

And I studied painting:

(This is a painting of Blanchard Lawn with cubist influences)

And I loved my studies.  I love doing with my hands: the thrill of creating something.  In someways painting has become like an archeological dig.  It is as if I know something is behind that canvas and I have to discover it.

But sometimes I have to wonder.... Did I fall in love with art? Or the joy of sitting outside on Blanchard Lawn, feeling the wind blow my hair from side to side, the cool wet grass on my dry skin, and the sunshine so hot on my legs.  Perhaps one love has grown into two.  Perhaps I have just abandoned my love for the outdoors for too long and need to get my body out of the studio. 

I wouldn't mind seeing this out my back yard:

(Seen near the Grand Canyon summer 2010 with my parents)

My modern dance class is more about learning how to use your body, then actually dancing in the common sense of the word.  We have especially focused on learning to move slowly and to gravitate away from our bodies learned and natural movements.  Have you ever consciously taken 3 times as long to walk from A to B as you usually do? Perhaps you should give it go.  I was amazed at how much I noticed about the movements, the sounds, the people, and the nature around me.  It forces you to be more aware of your surroundings.

Puddles

This week has been full of wonderful old and new sights, smells, and physical sensations.  Rain.  Ah, I love the smell that it gives, the budding life that it reveals. It makes me come alive.  It makes me do things that I wouldn’t usually have to do.  The drainage system by the 904 College Avenue Building is pretty pitiful.  When it rains, water just rests in a large area about 15 feet from my door.  I either have to take a detour to get to my apartment or splash through the puddle, as water sloshes up the side of my white leather flats and sneaks into the insole.  Sometimes I just shrug and keep on with my day, other days I am frustrated that I have to walk around in soggy shoes.  But regardless it makes me feel alive, makes me feel a certain way that I only experience as a result of splashing in a puddle.

Some Summer Poems

It is as if I am floating

Like a footnote

That’s not really noticed

As the reader continues to gloat

Over all the sumptuous

Imagery.

-------

I feel here

But queer. 

Alive

But not satisfied

By this lackadaisicalness

That I feel engrained

In this mess

Of chains

That trap me from reaching

Those dreams.

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It is like a jumble of 16^th notes.

Can I find the melody, the coat

To tie it all together?