|—||Jonathan Safran Foer|
The birth of a book. I find it mesmerizing.
You told me once that you didn’t have any skeletons in your closet, just a pile of bones that didn’t have the strength to hold the weight of their grief, their shame.
Friend, I will help you haul them out one by one. And I will patiently, and lovingly piece them together with you.
And I will say nothing should you throw them in a fit of rage when you get frustrated trying to figure out where they fit, or if once again they should manage to cut you from their broken splinters. I will say nothing because it’s you who deserves to unleash your voice. Let it carry expletives if you must. Curse, dammit. Curse freely, and curse loudly. For this isn’t about censorship. This is about resurrection. And I will gently rub your back, if you want, should you clutch several bones to your chest and cry. Cry if you need. Cry hard, and cry ugly. For this isn’t about beauty. This is about resurrection, and it ain’t easy.
But I promise, we will piece those bones together, my friend. And we will lace them up with ligaments, tendons, and muscles. And we will slip them all into skin. And we will send those enfleshed skeletons on their way.
Yes, we will build back up what death sought to destroy—leaving the rubble of bones behind only to further injure you.
We will free up your closet to hold your favorite shoes that you wore to all of your favorite places. And the quilt your grandmother made, and blanket your mother knit. And a bunch of board games from your childhood—like Sorry and Clue and Battleship. And those boxes of photos of people you love and adore that you haven’t put into albums or frames just yet.
There will be so much room in your closet, and we will make it so together.
You weren’t born alone, dear friend. You won’t be reborn alone either.
I don’t write many love poems, at least not ones that lean towards romance. But a couple of weeks ago I posted a pic of one that made a home in the pages of my journal. If you couldn’t decipher my handwriting, here’s the text…with some updates.
Love has been nesting in my heart, steadily building the most awesomest fort in a big ol’ tree with deep, deep roots. And its branches are outstretched, ready to embrace. Ready to take you in.
Let’s carve our initials in the trunk of that tree, love. Let’s slowly climb the rope ladder—appreciating the slightly uneasy way it sways and giggling as we ascend. (I’ve never wanted to fall in love, I’ve wanted it to be just like this… An awkward climb marked by laughter.) And then let’s pull that ladder up so we can hideaway under the warmth of well worn flannel blankets, and the shimmer of the stars while sipping on some hot cocoa poured from a scratched up thermos. Let’s hold hands, and the silence, and someday…the memory of our climb.
Yes, rest easy in the tree house of my heart, love. It has a hammock. And it has me.
Graced with Light
For more photos and videos from the Graced with Light installation, explore the Grace Cathedral location page.
Commissioned in 2013 as Grace Cathedral’s artist in residence, Patterson strung nearly 32 kilometers (20 miles) of multicolored ribbons from the Cathedral’s vaulted ceilings. Illuminated from above and by light streaming in through the cathedral’s windows, the ribbons represent pathways of light carrying the prayers and dreams of visitors skyward.
I love this for sooooo many reasons! A church artist in residence? Yes please!
When my life was taken from me, ripped from my body by the hands of another human being who disregarded my humanity, I didn’t know I’d have to apologize. I didn’t know that I would have to say sorry for someone else’s actions as if they were mine.
I didn’t know that even in death I would have to apologize to you. You who were not there. And if you had been there, would you have stopped the slaughter? Would you have said something, or would you have looked the other way?
It’s none of your business, right? It’s none of your business until my death becomes known. Until my death becomes offensive, my blood bright red. And then my remains are forced to defend.
I’m so sorry for bleeding after he decided to tear into my flesh. Oh, did I spill on your newspaper? My sincerest apologies.
See, I never knew that I would have to apologize for the decision another human being made because I never knew I could decide for another human being…
The thing is, I can’t. I couldn’t decide for him. And he certainly couldn’t decide for me.
But he did.
I want to invite you to join me for a weekend workshop in Minneapolis!
The weekend of March 22nd & 23rd 2014.
This will be 2 days of connecting, sharing,writing and creating…and bringing wonderful folks together.
The focus will be on COLOR.
11:30 am~ 4:30 Saturday
11:30 am ~ 4:30 Sunday.
Art supplies included .
pre~ registration $342.00
reserve a space~ here
Close to wonderful shops and sweet local places to stay.
* exact address location will be revealed.
I wanna do this…
We wash our hands, wash our hands, wash our hands to stay clean, stay clean, stay clean. We wash them until they are raw, fearful of the earth’s dirt. But my friends, that so called dirt is simply soil waiting for seed, thirsty for water. Please, I beg of you and I beg of me, never be so preoccupied by trying to keep your hands clean that you fail to feel the soil between your fingers. That you fail to plant.