Rites of Spring

The kids have been on spring break and The Princess just got her driver’s license -- creating a crazy combination of life and activity and all things new and exciting. The jonquils at the base of the oak trees in the front yard have sprung to life, smiling at me every time I approach the driveway. And there is (finally!) no snow to weigh them down. The plum tree at the foot of the hill has burst into blossomy pink. All seems right with the world.

As a second witness that Easter is approaching, we had the enormous privilege of seeing the Carl Bloch exhibit at the BYU Museum of Art just before we left town. There are no words to describe what it feels like to walk into room after room where you see a sensitively rendered, lifesize depiction of the Savior -- the closest thing I can imagine to actually being in His presence. There was palpable reverence and peace. The holiness brought me to tears. A time or two I couldn’t stop myself from whispering out (while inwardly shouting) my love and praise for the Master. Powerful.

Having recently painted the Savior myself, I couldn't help but be moved by this quote: "God helps me, that is what I think and then I am calm." - Carl Bloch.

Then we spent five warm and sunny days in southern Utah on a painting excursion. I felt all kinds of ideas and emotions waking up inside me as I packed the cooler and filled my palette, barely anticipating the possibilities.

I tend to think of the desert as a barren wasteland, and an odd place to usher in Holy Week. But the house where we stayed was in “a desert community” where the pueblo-style houses are built down into the ground so as not to interrupt the landscape, and the residents commit to leave the surroundings untouched. Cotton-tailed bunnies would bounce through the sage brush and run right past our windows, while red-tailed hawks circled the sky. We walked through a sculpture garden and labyrinth, hiked to a plethora of petroglyphs, soaked our feet in the stream, and sat and stared at the stars.

Early-ish one morning I went out for a walk with my camera, looking for something spectacular to paint, and what gradually struck me is that the desert landscape is very like Jerusalem, and the landscape itself an atonement metaphor. Virtually everywhere you look, there is:

a scarlet robe

a crown of thorns

swords and spears

a stone rolled away

an empty tomb

great drops of blood

deepest darkness offset by blinding light

stone tablets; ancient writ

death and decay; new life

Suddenly I can’t wait to get back to my studio and create a whole series of desertscapes, with imagery symbolizing the atonement.

I found that while the desert itself may seem dry and desolate, my search for deeper meaning led me to Living Water there. I was not just awake, but invigorated. Joyful. Filled to overflowing. I hope I can make that newness and excitement last far beyond Easter morning.

When Ugly Isn't

A few years ago I met with a new client named Brian who was in charge of a large retirement home. After our meeting he took me on a tour of the facility. As we waited for the elevator, an adorable little old lady approached us.

"Hello, Mrs. MacFarland," Brian greeted her. She returned his greeting with genuine sparkle.

As we stepped into the elevator together, I smiled, extended my hand and introduced myself. She looked up at me and said, "Well, you're awfully pretty. Really. Very beautiful." Caught a little off guard, I thanked her awkwardly, unable to get over the way she made such a fuss over my looks.

We walked a little further through the facility, then Brian casually commented, "You know that lady in the elevator?" I nodded. "She's legally blind." (ba-doom-ba!)

I laughed about that one all the way home. Perhaps it was my inner beauty she saw? But the irony wasn’t lost on me either. In fact, it stung a little. Because for most of my life I’ve been carrying around a pretty heavy ugly complex. I inherited this complex from my mother, who was strikingly beautiful, but also felt she got the short end of the stick when it came to looks.

BUT.

In the last six months, two things have made a difference for me. Not changed the way I look. But changed the way I feel about how I look.

First, this book.

Precious Bane, written in 1924 and somehow overlooked as a classic (but clutched tenaciously by those who value great literature, including C. S. Lewis) has some of the most beautiful, poetic passages you can ever hope to read. Set in Shropshire, England in the 1800s, it’s a fairy tale of operatic proportions. There is love and hate, lust and innocence, birth and death, fire and flood. The heroine was born with a cleft palate (hare lip) for which she’s despised and accused of witchcraft. Yet she never gives up hope of being loved and cherished. While her brother allows his obsession with riches to poison and destroy him, Prudence rises to a shining level of wisdom and grace. Ultimately, one wonderful man sees beyond her physical flaw to her radiant inner beauty, and it becomes a love story that is powerful and unsurpassed. How I was engulfed in the pages of this marvelous book, where a woman is loved for what she truly is on the inside, rather than for how the rest of the world sees her! This is the kind of love story I’ve always believed in: True beauty rewarded with truest love.

Next, this talk, by a modern prophet.

When Thomas Monson rose to speak to a large group of women from our church, a palpable hush fell over the crowd. Toward the end he told the story of Mary Bartels, an innkeeper of sorts, who rented a room to a shriveled, misshapen old man whom many had turned away. Over the years she came to know and befriend this man, and discovered he had a generous and humble heart and a beautiful soul. Besides the symbolism of the innkeeper, this is the part that undid me:

After the man passed away, Mary was visiting with a friend who had a greenhouse. As she looked at her friend’s flowers, she noticed a beautiful golden chrysanthemum but was puzzled that it was growing in a dented, old, rusty bucket. Her friend explained, “I ran short of pots, and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn’t mind starting in this old pail. It’s just for a little while, until I can put it out in the garden.”

Mary smiled as she imagined just such a scene in heaven. “Here’s an especially beautiful one,” God might have said when He came to the soul of the little old man. “He won’t mind starting in this small, misshapen body.” But that was long ago, and in God’s garden how tall this lovely soul must stand!

This reached me on such a deep level it unleashed cathartic sobs. I felt a power and a soothing in his words, as if God Himself had spoken them directly to some deep hiding place in my heart. And some healing happened. I left that grand, sweeping room feeling almost beautiful.

After all that, I'm sure you can imagine how fondly I'm looking forward to hearing him speak again this weekend. Tune in if you get a chance. You’ll never know what all those inspired words could do for you if you don't stop to hear them.

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And now, we have a winner to announce: Random.org chose LisAway -- who also won a book in my December giveaway -- to win the signed copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day by Heidi Ashworth. Lisa, the book gods must hold you in high favour! Next, the set of "Miss Delacourt's Roses" notecards goes to Patty Ann. Hopefully one of my wonderful readers also won the original painting over at Heidi's blog. But if not, don't despair. I have more notecards and giclee prints available through my website. And I'm always just an email away.

Miss Delacourt Has Her Day...and Her Roses

A little over two years ago, when my life felt like someone had just pulled the rug out from under us and the world was rocking off its foundation, I found an online friend who had undergone similar crises with grace and humor: Miss Heidi Ashworth. Heidi had written some beautiful posts like this one that gave me hope and perspective. Heidi also had something that many of us merely dream of...a little widget in the upper corner of her blog counting down the actual days until her publisher released her first novel, Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind !

Of course I was among the first to order it. I LOVED the title. I LOVED Heidi. And I LOVED the idea of reading a book written by someone I actually KNEW...even if it was just through blogging. As I read Heidi’s book, literally chuckling on every page, and delighting at the witty banter, I kept saying to myself, “I can’t believe Heidi wrote this!” when what I was really thinking was, “I can’t believe I actually know someone this clever and talented and amazing--a nationally published author of a book I am thoroughly enjoying!” Because, while Regency Romance is not a genre I’d put at the top of my list (it probably wouldn’t make the list at all) Heidi’s book read like a romantic comedy. There was no stuffiness, sappiness, or sexual steaminess. Just a very clever plot with lots of witty banter...which just happened to take place in Jane Austen’s era. :) It read like a Regency version of “It Happened One Night”, --that classic Clark Gable movie where two attractive characters are trapped on a road trip together, pretending to hate each other, but their witty banter whips up so much chemistry between them they actually end up...well, that would be a spoiler now, wouldn’t it? You’ll have to rent it on Netflix instead.

Altruistically wanting to help promote Heidi’s new book, and selfishly wanting very much to meet her in person, I arranged to host a live reading in my home. I enlisted my book group—and asked my friend Kazzy and her book group to join us as well—in hopes of giving Heidi a hearty roomful of adoring fans (and lots of new book sales).

Since roses figure prominently in Heidi’s book, I had placed a giant bouquet of multicolored roses as a centerpiece on the table with all the lovely snacks. At the end of the evening, as the last guests said their goodbyes, clutching their books to their hearts, I wished there was a way to package up the whole experience and save it forever. I glanced at the roses on the table, and was so enamored with all those perfect buds, I determined to paint them. And I created this watercolor, entitled “Miss Delacourt’s Roses”:




I’m sure you can imagine how excited I was to hear that Heidi had written a SEQUEL to that first delicious romp! I was quite literally counting the days until it arrived. As soon as I opened the package I quite literally (and this speaks VOLUMES) set aside the latest Leif Enger novel I was reading and dove into Miss Delacourt Has Her Day. (Yes, I also LOVE this title! I have a thing for titles.) The graphic designer in me also LOVES the cover! So beautiful! (And yes, I DO judge books by them!) Surprise number one: Little old me was mentioned in the acknowledgments. Woohoo! I of course expected to read more about the lovely Miss Delacourt and the dashing Sir Anthony and the dowager duchess. But right away came surprise number two: There was an enormous plot twist right in the prologue! We’re talking page one-and-a half. I didn’t have to turn very many more pages to discover that the hilariously annoying buffoons, Lord Avery and Lucinda, reemerge in the sequel, adding a never-ending sprinkling of humor and foolishness. AND there’s a villainess. A rich, beautiful, widowed villainess. GRRR.... Needless to say I romped through the sequel in what seemed like no time at all. It's a fast, fun read. The book is very well researched, but that doesn’t get in the way of the plot or the humor. There was no road trip this time--no quarantine either--but they’re replaced with a boxing match, an Italian butler, a chariot-race (of sorts) and a hot air balloon ride! What could be more fun? Or, dare I say, ROMANTIC? And while I anticipated the ending, I enjoyed it down to the very last drop...er, um, I mean lift.

Congratulations, Heidi!


This time around I’m once again wishing Heidi much success with her new novel. Instead of hosting a live reading in my living room, though, I’m offering three wonderful gifts for stopping by today: I’m purchasing a copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day for you to read and enjoy, and a set of notecards of Miss Delacourt’s Roses for you to pretend you’re all regency and send pretty notes to people. :) In addition, I have donated the ORIGINAL 9 x 12 watercolor, valued at $530, to Heidi’s giveaway. I urge you to head right over there and participate. Then come back here and tell me what you did, (facebook, twitter, Goodreads, Amazon, etc.) and I’ll enter you in my drawing too.

So. To be perfectly clear:

1 - Leave a comment here.
2 - Participate in Heidi’s giveaway there.
3 - Come back here and leave a comment telling me what you did there.
4 - Win big. (I’m crossing my fingers for you.)

The Year Santa Forgave Me

One year, when I was about seven, it dawned on me the afternoon of Christmas Eve...I wasn’t good enough. Not in a self-esteem-in-a-vacuum sort of way, but in a naughty-vs-nice sort of way. I’d been mean to my sister WAY too many times. I’d whined when my mom asked me to help her clean the kitchen. I’d taken cookies without asking. My room was a mess. But mostly I knew it was that mean part that made me not good enough. And I was seriously worried that Santa might not come.

What if I didn’t get any presents? --Or worse, what if I got coal? But what bothered me even more than the presents and the shame was my own meanness. I didn’t like it when my heart felt stingy and angry. I didn’t like thinking about how good I wasn’t.

I decided to change, right then and there. Santa was probably already soaring through the night sky over the Orient and probably wouldn’t be revising his list this late in the game, but it was still worth a try. We listened to the radar report; he’d reached the middle east. Not much time left. I tried to be extra nice to my sister. I let her play with my doll. I let her win at Yahtzee. I tried as hard as I could to do everything single little thing my mom asked me. I had already helped making candies and cookies, sending myself to batter-licking nirvana. I volunteered to wrap presents, even though I knew it was too late. Then I served my dad. I gave him one of those neck rubs he loves, then ran my fingers through his hair...and kept doing it for [what seemed like] hours. And I didn’t complain when it was time to go to bed.

I hoped it would work. I knew it was a last-ditch effort. But it was sincere.

That Christmas morning I was strangely not tempted to badger my parents to go out and see what was under the tree. I was still scared. What if my efforts weren’t enough to make up for a year of badness and meanness? Santa might not have brought me any presents at all. Fear and dread kept me from dashing out there to take a peek. I got dressed. I cleaned my room. I made my bed. I helped my mom stir orange juice for breakfast, and didn’t wince when she called it Juice-y.

Finally, I could stall no longer. Mom and Dad had us line up in the hallway and sing a Christmas carol, with me leading the way. I walked to the familiar chair where Santa always tucked my presents, and found it full-to-overflowing. Santa came after all. I could hardly believe my eyes...or my luck.

What I learned that Christmas has lasted a lifetime. Because that year I learned about mercy and grace. I knew that, despite my change of heart, no amount of effort on a cold Christmas eve could possibly right the wrongs of an entire year. And yet there were gifts. Unearned, undeserved gifts. Rewards for faith and a change of heart. Forgiveness.

It reminded me of this spread from What Think Ye of Christmas:

Some parents choose not to teach their children about the wonder of Santa Claus. (Let alone elves, reindeer, and a sleigh that circles the globe in a single night.) And I can understand why. But I would suggest that Santa is a symbol. A kind, bearded man who invites children to come and sit on his knee and tell him their dreams...”Suffer the children to come unto me”...and then showers them with gifts...is clearly a metaphor. I think believing in the goodness of Santa gives way to our faith in an all-knowing, pure-loving Lord who invites even the weakest among us to Come Unto Him. We tell him our struggles, our sorrows, our hopes...he invites us to change our hearts...and then He showers us with blessings, grace, and forgiveness.

There could be no greater gift.

Just Like Barbara Walters...except NOT

My friend Gunfighter (don't let the name scare you!) just posted an interview with me on his blog, here. I really did feel all fancy and Barbara-Walters-y answering his questions! Gunfighter is a long-time blog friend, works in law enforcement in Washington, DC (yes, overseeing cool things like the inauguration!) is a family man, and very active in his church. He asked some excellent questions, and I think you'll enjoy reading the interview and visiting his site. Which is why comments are off here. Because I want you to go over there.

And speaking of linkage and loveage, Happy Mom (who won my giveaway) also recently posted a wonderful review, here. I especially love this line: "Read it aloud...Your voice will tell you things about the text that your eyes alone will miss." Happy Mom is out of town at her daughter's wedding, but I'm sure she'd love nothing more than to come home to a sea of comments from friends like you!


I hope you're all having a wonderful Christmas! Mine is crrraaaazy-busy, but thanks to the spread from What Think Ye of Christmas about how "being busy" teaches us that "Joy is Hard Bought"...I'm not all grumpy and stressed this year! :)

Okay, off you go to comment now...

Relax Where it Hurts

“I brought you some sugar-free candy today,” she said wryly one day, “but it sort of tastes like the floor!” (We cracked up, grimacing over the image of what the floor might actually taste like.) My high school dance teacher was frequently catching us off guard, so full of creative energy there was rarely a dull moment.

The phrase from her that stayed with me the strongest (and mind you, high school was a long, long, time ago) turned out to be a life lesson as well. We’d be on the floor, trying to push our legs into the splits, and she’d say, “Stretch...stretch...now relax where it hurts.” And then, if we focused on relaxing the precise muscle that was pushed to the limit, somehow, impossibly, we were able to stretch just a little bit farther.

I think of that instruction all the time...decades later it still pops into my mind...usually after a workout at the gym, while I’m stretching my back, my calves, my thighs, because these days it seems like everything hurts! I remember what Connie Jo said, and I relax into it...and stretch a little deeper.

A couple of weeks ago I realized my heart muscle needs some serious stretching. —Okay, that was an understatement. I’ve been edgy to the extreme. Wound up so tightly, the slightest irritant would set me off...on a rampage! This was not just your garden-variety PMS. I started to scare myself. In this insane state, everything was going wrong. People were walking all over me. I started pushing back. Complaining. Grousing. Which only made things worse.

Then a few nights ago, just as I was drifting off to sleep, with my last ounce of energy I picked up this book. And the words of the brilliant M. Catherine Thomas taught me exactly what I needed to hear.

The contamination [of negative thought] is what Tibetan philosophy calls drip. He explains that drip is like a dark, heavy goo that thickens our mind; it accumulates through cultivating negativity, and then life seems to get dark and difficult. This contaminated mental state causes us to engage in “nonvirtue” — unkind acts against ourselves and others— and then the drip gets thicker. Thus we engage in an endless cycle of suffering.

On reflection, we see that our gravest problem does not lie in our circumstances, but in our lack of a truer perception of reality, a larger frame of reference, which could liberate our mind from self-will and self-absorption. Much spiritual change can come simply as we become aware of the truth.... Just becoming aware can lessen the power of the negative feelings, as insight and release often go together.

I literally saw myself in that "life gets dark and difficult" line. It was so humbling to encounter myself on this page describing drip! She then quotes Deepak Chopra:

Watch this wave of feeling travel away from you—watch it grow fainter and fainter. Breathe.... Cross the invisible boundary between the ego and the real self.... If you follow any emotion far enough, it will end in silence.

And she says Eckhart Tolle suggests a similar process:

...when somebody says something to you that is rude or designed to hurt, “instead of going into unconscious reaction and negativity, such as attack, defense, or withdrawal, you let it pass through you” as though you were transparent, so that it no longer hits a solid “wall” inside you.

In other words, Relax where it hurts.

As I read, I initially found chastisement, realizing that most of the negativity I encountered around me initiated inside my head. Then I experienced real healing, as I literally felt that anger release.

I’m still learning to apply that “relax where it hurts” principle to my relationships. Because when I find myself angry or hurt (and mind you, I'm not easily offended!), more often than not it’s my own heart that needs stretching. When I remember to literally relax where it hurts — try not to tighten up or take offense when something rubs me the wrong way; Try to loosen that piece of my heart that feels the most pain; Allow my heart to soften and stretch — it seems like the universe stretches with me. And everything improves.

Remember The Grinch, whose heart “grew three sizes that day”?
That was me. I promise you, the “two sizes too small” pinch was what hurt. I could feel it as though the tightening were literal and physical. But what feels great? is the stretching.

* * * * *

There are some reviews of the book out right now that you do not want to miss.
Mommy J posted a lovely one here. There's also a bit of sweetness from Shari, here. Scribbit has a great review here (and her giveaway is still open until midnight on Saturday).
And you simply must read what Deb posted here. Be sure to read all the way to the bottom for her "pay it forward" idea...a Random Act of Kindness she'll perform for every order of five or more. Oh, how I love my readers! Thank you one and all!

Why This Girl Amazes Me

When I was a teenager I was obsessed with being “the best” --and simultaneously gripped with a fear of failure. I wouldn’t play sports...whether it was a high school team or just a game of tennis with my friends...because I couldn’t stand that I wasn’t good enough. My loss.

This girl? has no problem signing up for the baseball team, the volleyball team, the golf team, the tennis team...and doesn’t mind at all if she spends most of the game on the sidelines, cheering on her teammates. She plays for the fun and the friendship. And wins.

Raising children doesn’t come easy for me. I always want to be some amalgamation of Olivia Walton, Caroline Ingalls and Maria von Trapp. (See “the best” above.) :) But when it comes to crowd control I often turn into the Bossy Big Sister, and sometimes even the Wicked Stepmother. I am not fond of this side of myself.

This girl? is a natural nurturer. She has a rare knack for entertaining children, with just the right balance of firmness and fun. I can already see the amazing mother she'll be someday.

I artfully dodge all cameras...as a public service. I have a penchant for ruining photos. My husband is in awe of the sheer odds that we could take x number of photos...and my eyes would be closed/and or my face distorted in every. single. one.

This girl? loves the camera. In fact, knowing we didn’t have a lot of spare cash for gifts this year, for her birthday she asked my hubby to do a photo shoot with her and her friends. And look how it turned out!

On my sixteenth birthday my mom made me a special dinner at home, let me choose the menu, and let me invite one friend to join us.

This girl? had the party of the century! Her friends wanted to throw her a big dance party / surprise party. We told them 100 was too many people. They responded, "Your daughter is friends with EVERYBODY, and we don't want to leave anyone out." (Can't argue with that.) We told them we basically had no budget. One friend offered her vacant garage (which is bigger than our whole house) and flew up for the big day. Her dad hired a sound designer and a lighting specialist to deck it out for the party. Another friend, whose dad owns Magleby’s Restaurant, made their famous chocolate cake (among the best I’ve ever eaten). The girls chose playlists and handled the guest lists. All I had to do was coordinate, communicate, and go to Costco and buy all the food. About 100 people came to wish my little girl happy birthday!

What more could any mother want than to have her own daughter "best" her in nearly every way?
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p.s. If you stop in on Scribbit right now, there's a review of my book and a giveaway, here.
p.p.s. There's also a wonderful review you may have missed here, by Mommy J.