yet another effort to emerge from my own chaos

I used to be an organized person. Underneath the surface clutter of my life I think I still am an organized person, but you would not know it by a) looking at my house (it does not meet feng shui standards) and, b) evaluating what I manage to get done in my day-to-day stretching into month-to-month life.

I need a basic life makeover. The structural kind. Not just time management (I've got the theory down pat. Practice, not so much), and not even clutter management (I can still revamp a closet with the best of them when I set out to do that). Zen management. Yeah, that's what I need. Free the chi and let loose. I've intended to write Christmas thank you notes for, well, since Christmas, but I can't manage to clear sufficient surface area at my desk to write. Dining room table? I'm lucky if there's room for my plate without setting it down on the newspaper or a pile of the latest clipped coupons. Aaaaaaaaaaacccccccchhhhhhhh!

I have discovered in the last several years that prompts help. In the scrapbook world these come in the way of challenges: use this color, x number of photos, four words in the title, and so on. It helps! In blogging, having the friday five narrows down the field of possible subjects about which to write. Occasionally I draw on memes posted by others, or, if I've been out with the camera, participate in the monday mosaic of photos.

Thanks to my cross stitch project (it really is almost done!) I have been exercising creative muscle over the last month, but I want to do more. More, I tell you! Another cross stitch project waits in the wings, but my blogging buddy Nancy has provided a pattern for a project I'd really love to do and told me to get busy. Marching orders help, too! Feeding my inner creator is really vital to my well-being, and I am trying to find ways to get on a workable feeding schedule.

And then I came upon a blog that intends to help in that area. It's called Creative Every Day, and it offers a theme for each month as a way to focus creativity. I really like the concept. At the moment, however, the effort to create feels overwhelming. I expect the clutter has something to do with that. That, and the procrastination gene, which has gone into overdrive.

Truth is, I can conquer the clutter. I have just not made it a priority. It's true that each day that dawns comes with its own list of priorities. I have a job to do, and there's always more to do than can be accomplished. And then before I know it it's time to go to the gym, and then, well, look at the time! Lunch, and half the day is gone. Where did it go?

Today, before going to the gym, I will sit down with my calendar and allot my time for the week. I will include a minimum of 30 minutes each day to tend to the clutter in my office. I will reacquaint myself with the Fly Lady (who was a big help last summer).  I will design my own 12-step program to reclaim myself from myself. You heard it here first.

I want you to know that each and every one of you helps. Some of you inspire me in the creative realm, others in the area of following through with intentions. Well-articulated blog posts that make me think with my head or my heart stir me away from stagnancy. Others make me giggle, or outright guffaw. Nothing starts the day as well as GOL--guffawing out loud. You are all part of my friendly, informal support group, and you make my day. So, thank you.You matter.

And now, my daily banana, the first round of fuel reinforcement for my gym workout. Then I'll see if I can find my calendar buried among the clutter on my desk (insert smiley face, winking).

And for a really good laugh, please visit this web site to learn how playful icons and prayers might assist you in your hour of need! But more importantly, have a great Monday, and an even better week. Smooches!

sights and sounds

It's not unlike any weekend morning I suppose, but this morning it is something of a cacophony as I stand at the kitchen sink and look out the window. Next door the neighbor's grass is getting cut (imagine the buzz of the mower); between the two houses across the street I can see through to the neighbor on the next street over washing his truck in his driveway; through the door between the kitchen and Ken's office I hear him rehearsing one of today's hymns that is giving him fits. And I'm thinking about mustard seeds and bushes and birds seeking sanctuary even as I watch a plethora of birds in our front yard pick at the ground and find sustenance.

Mornings are the time I tend to be the most reflective. The demands of the day haven't yet succeeded in crowding into the mellowness of my post-sleep mind, and the tender shoots of hope and encouragement manage to rise and shine amidst the debris of the previous day's disappointments and discouragements. These are precious moments for me that offer glimpses of dreams and crystaline days to which I can think back when the day falls apart or obstacles like boulders emerge in my path. These are talismans of faith that hold seeds of potential and bushes of promises delivered.

This morning all those sights and sounds compete for attention, but I am trying to think about seeds and bushes. And getting into the shower and keeping an eye on the puppy and making sure that there's something for breakfast so I don't head into worship on an empty stomach. Clearly my time for reflection this morning is too short for any one thought to take root and offer nourishment for the day, and perhaps that is the piece of clarity on which to reflect. For surely we have days as disjointed and noisy as this day is beginning, just as surely as we have days that are full of silence and emptiness, dense with meaning.

I can attribute this morning's unfocused chaos to hormones and laugh, and I can try to pull from that a metaphor of food for thought for those who will hear me preach 90 minutes from now. One thing is for certain. I will hand to God the dilemma of this day, the images and opportunities that are part of this mix and ask that it be blessed for homiletic delivery. And then I will trust the Spirit to empower me to deliver it. That process works every other time. I have no reason to doubt it will work today.

soul satisfaction

My office is really beginning to come together, and it is enormously satisfying to see things finally have a place to call home. Like photos that have yet to be scrapped. The corner cabinet came with a lazy Susan--not my first choice, but I am working with it. The top level I am using as a stationary section for, you guessed it, photos and their archaic counterpart, negatives. The lower, swiveling level holds containers of ribbon, glue and heat guns, and a miscellany of other craft items. It is amazing how much space is now free elsewhere to be designated as home for other items.

Scrapping accessories are a real challenge. There are some obvious items of like kind: embellishments, for instance, and buttons. But then there is the solitary item acquired at a workshop, or which is a one-of-a-kind by virtue of its function. Does all that get stashed in a bucket collection like the Isle of Misfit Toys? I'm not overly concerned about what I do with those things, but such decisions slow down the process of putting things in place.

It is that "putting things in place" stuff that drops pearls of satisfaction into my container of joy. On the Meyers-Briggs scale I am decidedly a "J," a person who prefers order and structure in my world. I like symmetry and precision, and the poetry of coordinated movement (hence my attraction to Scottish country dancing, and the heart-tugging "missing man" formation of military aviation). I enjoy the bonus of having very good spatial relations skills, so fitting things into spaces is a no-brainer for me. Is it any wonder that when clutter abounds in my life I feel fragmented and distracted? I am giddy with the release of energy resulting from this reorganizational coup!

My eupohoria, however, is not simply about accomplishing a task. The soul satisfying aspect of this experience reminds me of the simple (if delayed, in this case) ways available to us to connect to the inner sacred. A general label of what resonates with my inner sacred is the aesthetic. I appreciate beauty and respond to it in ways that perk up my soul. Call it spiritual endorphines. Whether it's the flowers at the nursery (since I have none in the garden this year), or music that stops me in my tracks, a certain combination of the world's elements is pleasing to me and connects me to the divine. I can appreciate the value of chaos, but balance contributes to my well-being.

So this morning I am grateful for achieving a degree of soul-satisfaction in my space. I will continue to organize and place things, aware that some things never quite "fit" anywhere, a reflection for another time, but doing my best to restore order to what has been my chaos. Who knows what will flow from the resulting peace, but I am more than ready to find out.

holy continuity

I can remember clearly the morning of my baptism 21 years ago. Heeding the counsel of a priest/mentor I immersed myself in every offering of Holy Week, and by Saturday morning I felt like spiritual pulp. In a good way. The week had done its work on me, and I remember stating that I felt like I was dead. In a good way. Empty. Void. My soul was shrouded in a kind of silence that echoed the tomb and offered no balm for the hearts broken by Jesus' death. And yet there was peace. Calm.

As I headed to church last night for our Good Friday liturgy the skies were gray and upheaval was on my mind. Earlier in the day members of the parish gathered for Stations of the Cross, aware as we did so that severe weather was headed our way. We felt that we would safely complete our liturgy and send people on their way before there was any danger.

During the stations the heavens opened, lightning flashed and thunder boomed. Love it when that happens. Holy timing. But when we had concluded the liturgy the tornado siren was singing its song and we headed to the church basement. Built into a mild incline our bathrooms are very safe in such weather, and we felt confident that we were secure in our cinderblock haven. To the south of us, lives and homes were about to be shredded. Literally.

Murfreesboro is a booming bedroom community of Nashville, home to Middle Tennessee State University and locale of a lot of Ken's work. We also know a fair number of people from my days there as interim at St. Paul's. A tornado cut a ten-mile swath through sections of town at about the time we were holding our Stations. Two are dead and others injured. There is ruin. So much ruin.

Upheaval was on my mind. The news from NPR about the continuing piracy standoff suggested its own kind of chaos, and the family of Richard Phillips, along with a global audience that joined them with concern, could do nothing but wait. Like the stillness of Holy Saturday there was nothing to do but be in anguish.

It was the stuff of Good Friday sermons, but I was not ready to preach it. Or so I thought. I did talk about the community that was born of the cross. About how suffering and anguish was made more bearable in the company of faithful others. I didn't mention Murfreesboro. I didn't refer to pirates. But the message was the same. It was a Good Friday reality for those stories and for many others around the world, I am sure.

Today Murfreesboro is cleaning up and the world continues to wait for some break from the Somalian stalemate. Chaos and stillness--the perpetual paradox that characterizes the journey that traces its way through our hearts and our lives. Like a tornado its path is unpredictable. Like a stalemate we do not know when or how it will end. What we do know is that we will move through it. Eventually. With God's help and the love and light of companions in faith and the good souls God sends our way we make our way through. And we are changed.

This morning I am heading to an Easter egg hunt. A break in this holy day of somber waiting for levity and laughter and the cuteness of children. It is all part of the mix. All holy.

Blessings to one and all, wherever life finds you this day.