It Has Begun

Luke 18:18-25

[18] A certain ruler asked him, "Good Teacher, what must I do to
inherit eternal life?" [19] Jesus said to him, "Why do you call me
good? No one is good but God alone. [20] You know the commandments:
'You shall not commit adultery; You shall not murder; You shall not
steal; You shall not bear false witness; Honor your father and
mother.'" [21] He replied, "I have kept all these since my youth."
[22] When Jesus heard this, he said to him, "There is still one thing
lacking. Sell all that you own and distribute the money to the poor,
and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." [23] But
when he heard this, he became sad; for he was very rich. [24] Jesus
looked at him and said, "How hard it is for those who have wealth to
enter the kingdom of God! [25] Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the
kingdom of God.

Yesterday was Christ the King Sunday. In the Christian year, it is the last Sunday before we transition into advent and the new year on the Christian calendar. On the secular calendar, it is the week of Thanksgiving. It is also the week of Black Friday, when the holiday shopping season traditionally begins. For many, a day of feasting and family is followed by a weekend of football and snack-inspired torpor or a marathon of consumerism.

It is no accident that this week was also chosen for the new Harry Potter movie release. Many schools are closed for the week and college students are home to visit family. Dollars flow through the box offices everywhere.

My family joined in and contributed our fair share to the ongoing success of the saga. Although we are trying to reign in our spending and teach ourselves to live more simply, an occasional movie out seems like a small indulgence.

I must say, though, it seems as if this whole ramping up to Thanksgiving and the ensuing Christmas season is more frenzied this year than in past years. Black Friday prices are already on offer at our favorite retailers. Is there more anxiety in the air because of pressure from the economy? Or is it just more noticeable because of our efforts to be more discerning about spending money in accordance with our values?

I think something Jesus may have been asking the rich young man to do was move away from the practices he had long known, which he'd done by rote all his life. Instead, the young man was asked to try looking at his world in a different way, a way that frightened and dismayed him.

The season's demand for our consumer dollars has begun. What has yet to be determined is how we will respond to that demand.

I'm counting on getting the camel to heaven by way of Bethlehem. Yes, I know I mangled the metaphor, but I'm really looking forward this year to having some moments of rest and contemplation around the scriptures rather than driving myself into a frenzy trying to make a holiday "perfect" by someone else's standards.

Prayer of the Heart

Luke 18:9-14

[9] He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves
that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: [10] "Two
men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax
collector. [11] The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus,
'God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues,
adulterers, or even like this tax collector. [12] I fast twice a week;
I give a tenth of all my income.' [13] But the tax collector, standing
far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast
and saying, 'God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' [14] I tell you, this
man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who
exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will
be exalted."

This passage from our Lectionary reading today reminds me of the "Jesus Prayer", also known as the "Prayer of the Heart". It is said to have originated in Eastern tradition by a Christian pilgrim on the journey of a lifetime to the Holy City, Jerusalem. Whether created as a rhythmic accompaniment to his plodding footsteps or to lend strength and cadence to his measured breathing, it certainly seems to have been inspired by the divine.

Perhaps in its most simple form it is, today, the most sublime for the postmodern Christian:

"Jesus Christ, Son of God
Have mercy on me, a sinner."

I have learned that the lines of the prayer can be repeated silently according to the rhythm of the inflowing and outflowing of the breath. It is particularly grounding in the context of daily prayer, reminding us of prayer's purest essentials.

The sinner in the passage we just saw needs his Creator, and his Redeemer. The Spirit prompts him to recall that his great need dictates the simplest possible prayer.

We will enter the season of Advent one week from this coming Sunday. Many people, myself included, wonder how during this restless and busy season, we will have time to rest in communion with the Holy Love. Perhaps if we recall the humble pilgrim, and the repentant sinner in the back of the temple, we can pray the simple prayer and be comforted.

"Jesus Christ, Son of God,
Have mercy on me."


You are invited to be a part of the pilgrimage through Advent. Join me every day on this site beginning November 28 for a few minutes of sacred space and time to reflect on daily scripture readings from the Common Lectionary as we approach Christmas, its lovely mystery, and the opportunity it gives us for renewal and spiritual refreshment.

50 and Launching

This morning on Good Morning America, host Robin Roberts interviewed Denzel Washington, Valerie Bertinelli, Dr. Oz, Patricia Heaton, and Amy Grant to get some feedback and advice on turning 50.

To a person, all of these celebrities remarked on the great blessing it is to enjoy the ages that they are right now. The story also emphasizes the amazing, wonderful people we find in this particular age range.

Having experienced "agism" in my last church position, I can only embrace what Meryl Streep once said.

Paraphrasing, "The forties are the old age of our youth. The fifties are the youth of our old age."

Every day makes a difference. May it be so today!

Pen and Ink...and Angst

The class assignments this week would have been so much easier had I just worked ploddingly, diligently, and faithfully day after day. Instead, I missed two classes and didn't work for a week due to daughter's wedding followed by an illness.

Had I realized what I was letting myself in for, I could have just asked for death by firing squad.

The work I missed in my Art History class was hard enough: 2 days' worth of slide lectures from the Fauves to Kandinsky. Post-Impressionism to the first genuine Abstract Expressionist. Okay, I can deal with that.

In Pen-and-Ink class, however, I missed out on two major projects, one which could have been done with a team in class. The big one was to do a BIG pen-and-ink drawing, minimum of 11"x14" but preferably something more along the lines of 36"x24". Okay, I can deal with that. I got a huge slice of paper and brought it home with me, and I have just the picture in mind.

What I was totally unprepared for was producing a copy of a master drawing: selecting a well-known artist (Rembrandt, Durer, Michelangelo, Manet, Van Gogh, etc.) and reproducing AS CLOSELY AS POSSIBLE stroke for stroke a drawing of theirs, down to the last detail, color of ink, color of paper, etc. Okay, I can deal with that too.

Not so easy.

Looking on line and through all my art and drawing books I realized how badly this assignment was going to kick my butt. Every artist of every era of any reputation whatever was a master draughtsman. Intellectually, I knew this before I signed up for a drawing class. It was precisely for this reason that I chose the class, so that I could be challenged to sharpen my skills and really stretch as a draughtsman.

Intellectually, it makes sense that artists throughout the ages have learned by copying their betters.

If you examine what most master artists have left behind them in the museums of the world, for every oil painting or finished sculpture there are literally hundreds of drawings whether they be in pencil, chalk, pastel, or...pen-and-ink. One cannot be a master artist without first submitting the ego to the battery it takes to learn to draw. It was my ego's turn today.

So after being well and thoroughly intimidated by all the pictures by Goya, Raphael, Millet, and all the rest I figured I ought to turn to an artist whose work I enjoy so much that, if I managed to produce a credible copy, I would look forward to having it on my wall as a reminder of the labor required to perfect my art.

Van Gogh. That stinkin', crazy, lopsided, quirky-handed, mad-eyed, looney-tune who searched throughout his life for someone to admire and buy his work. That inimitable, curly-pen-stroking lover of country scenes made convoluted by the wild way he saw the world. That angst-ridden, up-in-the-night bi-polar guy who ate yellow paint. Yep. Him.

He's the one whose drawing I copied. And he kicked my butt. Thanks, Vincent, for the genius. I will awaken every morning for the rest of my life a humbler artist, certainly more learned and a much better person for the experience trying to follow in your blue penstrokes. I will put our drawings up on my studio wall as a reminder that there is always something more to strive for, more to achieve, and more to attempt. I will celebrate what you accomplished in your short life, knowing that there is no way I could ever produce a Vincent Van Gogh.

I will also take comfort in knowing that it was enough for you to have produce them, and that it is now my job to learn to produce the best artwork by Doriene Marshall that I can produce in whatever time is left to me.

No, I don't get how you held your pen or how you saw the world, but that's OK. I just hope I have the chance to run into you someday and you can tell me yourself.

See the LInk; Take Action

http://www.yesforstateparks.com/?utm_source=gsearch&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=parkstarget

Art for Art's Sake-Parks for Parks' Sake

It is indeed affirming to hear one's husband at the ripe old age of fifty-something claim that he will buy a bumper sticker for the family car that reads, "My Wife is an Honor Student at Sacramento City College". Never mind that these bumper stickers are a figment of his imagination and he would, as a member of California State Parks department, be better served (but possibly in violation of the law)to display a "Yes on 21" bumper sticker.

Next Tuesday is the day when most of us have the opportunity to vote in the 2010 Mid-Term elections. On a personal level, what it means to me and my incredible husband of 5 months is that we Californians have the opportunity to achieve much that is good and noble and real for an undeniably unique environment here on the Left Coast. It means we may be able to strike a claim to a place for our children and grandchildren in a wonderfully amazing site that they and their generations will be able to appreciate as we and those who preceded us have done.

As much as I have studied and adore the art of Europe and owe my bumper sticker to learning the paintings of France, England, and Germany, if I were to stop and give homage to the paintings of the West I would have to humbly confess that the places and times laid down on canvas back there could never be more beautiful, more stunning, or more compelling than the images rendered here in the great vistas of the West. California, from the places of the missions to the mining camps and the coasts, the sloughs where countless Eastern hopefuls panned for gold, and the undefiled tracts in which wildlife is still unfettered. It is the hope of generations, the hope of our past and future.

I used to think that the ideal sojourn would be in Paris, London, Venice, or Munich. Yes, well, it would be grand. But to this fifty-something art student San Francisco, Pasadena, and Los Angeles seem equally compelling. And that's not only because of the world-class museums in those cities. It's also due to the opportunities we Californians have of experiencing nature, the art of our creator, first-hand in our astonishing state. I humbly hope and pray that by this time next week, our precious public California parklands will be forever protected and taken out of play of a capricious legislative budgetary football game.

If you never studied art or art history, and you are a Californian, please educate yourself about the places in our state that truly are our Creator's works of art. Plan to vote next Tuesday, Nov. 2nd, in favor of Proposition 21, to create a funding source which supports parks, wildlife, and an endowment of natural beauty for generations to come.

Get the bumper sticker.

An Inky Pinky

Vincent Van Gogh (who died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound in 1890) wrote copious letters to his adoring brother, Theo. About a year before the above-noted self-inflicted death, and right around the same time he was painting his contemplative "Starry Night" while in the asylum Saint-Paul-de-Mausole, he wrote the following:

"Perhaps death is not the hardest thing in a painter's life...[L]looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing the towns and villages on a map. Why, I ask myself, shouldn't the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France? Just as we take the train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star."



My one practical studio art class this semester is Pen-and-Ink Drawing, which incorporates lecture and lab periods on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It's a good thing I have it; insanity could prevail without it as an expressive outlet. On the other hand, insanity might prevail anyway just because I have it as an expressive outlet. Something I have always found liberating about art is the expressiveness that develops the more one gets familiar with a set of skills in a particular medium. Something that drives me insane is the frustration of failing repeatedly while learning to be expressive in an unfamiliar medium.

So it is with pen and ink. I met the Speedball pen and crowquill pen, which have to be dipped or filled from a bottle of what once was known as India ink. I practiced calligraphy as early as the seventh grade, and earned ten cents a piece by lettering all the junior high achievement certificates for our year-end assembly while I was forced to stay at home, recovering from red measles. In later life I have inscribed countless bibles given to countless Sunday school students with Schafer cartridge pens. Ditto baptismal certificates, deacons and elders ordinations, and sundry volunteer recognition certificates.

I never particularly gave much thought to drawing with pen and ink as an artistic expression. Artists like Durer or Daumier used it to great effect, but I mistakenly thought that a serious artist would only use the medium to sketch or plan the great paintings which would make the mark in history for that artist. After all, how many times was I told throughout years of artistic struggle that a drawing was only a plan, never a finished piece of art?

I am coming to discover that this assumption is not true; not true for artists or the viewers of art in post modern times. Not true for me, either, and thank you to Isabel Shaskan for teaching a motley group of community college students that dipping a pen into a pot of ink can take an artist to dots on maps like trains take us to Rouen or cars convey us to a picnic in the Sierras.

Even to the stars if we so choose. That's what happens when we fall in love with an outlet for our inner Creative, that part of ourselves that is the truest representation of God. I think that may be a pale insight into what happens when God creates, as well.

In his lifelong struggle with art and with religion, Van Gogh is often remembered for his pain, much of which was due to pushing himself against the limits of the art of his day, and trying amazing new things in expressing himself in a medium that he never felt he mastered. Shooting for the moon.

Unfortunately, he could never have heard Les Brown's advice a century later:

"Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss it you will land among the stars."

It's hard to tell, when embroiled in the struggle against our own limitations how landing among the stars could be even remotely possible. Yet it is done. The possibility keeps me going back to the pen and ink bottle, in motley communion every Tuesday and Thursday, hoping to land among the stars.