Swimming in Mustard

 

I have this picture from the epic Scott the Painter on my wall. I like how the detail of the hands mirror the ripples on the golden liquid. I find an immense sense of comfort when I realise that I do not have to row.

In the interest of full disclosure, I ordered it as a present for someone and it did not arrive in time, my fault entirely. I benefit from the fact that it now sits in my house. I have spent more than a little bit of time, staring and contemplating this image. I think it’s beautiful.

Anyway about a year ago, a small child asked me why I like that picture. I did not want to tell her. The mystery of art is discovering why you like it for yourself. So, I ask her the question, what does it remind you of and what do you think about, as you look at it?

Swimming in mustard is the only answer I can achieve. I giggle and mutter something about God holding me and me not needing to try. The moment passes.

She visits a few more times this five-year-old who has a way with words. The picture remains on the wall and is never mentioned.

These past few weeks have been tough, personally, financially, and relationally. Difficult, is the best way to describe them. She arrives to visit in a bundle of energy and questions! There’s a reason that I’ve written a little song where she is crowned ‘most curious girl in the whole wide world.’

We have been swimming and she’s a little tired, so I make some pizza and relax next to her on the couch. Part way through eating her pizza, she looks up and says, entirely unprompted

‘You know, God’s holding you wherever you go.’

She resumes eating pizza, as if this profound statement is as commonplace as cornflakes. I suppose that is how I want it to feel.

The point is that often, so much of learning, looks like seeing art and swimming in mustard. We get so much wrong, and that is how we learn. If the moment of unlearning had not occurred, the moment of real impact on my soul would not have occurred either. We are so quick to reach the solution, the correct answer, the resolution. Sometimes, I think we need to remember that we are held. That might just encourage us to swim in mustard a little bit more!

The Final Sign of Christmas: Trees

I have left the tree till last, mostly because I did not know what I wanted to say in this blog. There were so many ideas, but in the last few days with the changes and disruptions to our already disrupted plans for Christmas. The message has become clear in my mind. 

There was another reason that I left the tree to last; growing up the tree was the last decoration to arrive in our home. It was the sign that Christmas was finally here. Our family always had a real tree. When the tree arrived and began to die; it was a sign that the festivities really started to live. The Christmas chocolate was opened. Suddenly, the Christmas cheese was not off bounds. The tree had to die so that the festivities could live. 

I have been really struck by that idea. We kill something so that something else can live. What else in this disrupted, distorted, and sometimes a devastating year, have I had to kill off, and what things have lived because of it?
I have killed off expectation so that being at peace with reality has a chance to live.
Killed off perfectionism, so that progress can be celebrated.
Killed media consumption, so that creativity has a chance to live.
Killed time with family, so that other people can live.

In many ways, the Christmas trees and their dropping needles that fill our homes with delight are a fantastic precursor to the second half of the story. You know the one, where someone had to die so that everyone else could live. 
I have had fun writing these little thoughts about Advent, thank you for joining me on the journey.
Merry Christmas,

Serena

Here is a short piece I wrote about 9/11 for a writing competition. I had 500 words so some of the detail is left to your imagination. ENJOY

Driving Whilst The World Changed 

Remember when airports were fun? When travel by airline was a delight? No restrictions on water or shoes? When the longest line was for the duty free, and you didn’t spend hours agonizing over little bottles of conditioner? I do. I remember. 

Claire had arrived that morning. Into my newly familiar world came an old friend. In my exuberance to make her feel part; I was there at the airport. Closer, I was in the departures lounge. Closer. I was at the gate at 6:18 central standard time. I was there with coffee and a croissant. It was a Tuesday, and work beckoned. An assembly to greet the new students, at our new school. But first Claire.

Arriving to study, arriving to be my friend,to be a familiar in this new world. She came down the gangplank exhausted but excited. We hugged. We walked through the airport catching up on gossip from home. Sophie had started university, Chris and Fi were planning their wedding. Claire and I were starting new adventures. We waited for the bags, three of them. We left the airport, unhindered.  

We piled everything into the car and drove,with the top down in a borrowed BMW, into the early September sun. It could have been the start of a movie.It was 6:46 central.I noticed the palindrome,as we drove into the sunlight and reached for sunglasses simultaneously. Green Day was blaring, I hope you have the time of your life. It was a 10-mile trip while the world changed and stayed the same all at once. 

The perfection of that trip would have been lost had I known how to change the CD to the radio. 

Claire’s host family for this adventure were bleary eyed, pre coffee watching the news, greeting an unknown guest. They drew us into the lounge around the various news reports. We paused together and watched the world change. I touched her hand and that moment communicated all the ‘could have beens.' We drove as the world changed.


The image in my head is my dial up internet clicking agonizingly slowly. CNN’s new website, frozen with a picture of plane two approaching tower two.No students had mobile phones; parents started calling. Do you have a terror attack strategy? Our school had been open six days, we barely knew where the bathrooms were located. 

In the assembly that day we talked about new safety procedures before the students had opportunity to understand the old safety procedures. We called parents to comfort, and in a mess of unknown panic, parents cancelled classes. It was Sarah’s birthday; I brought her a Snickers and a Doctor Pepper. The ordinary things in the heart of an extraordinary tragedy. I’ve never greeted a friend at the gate again.

Sunlight on Snow Fall

Isolated on the plains of Illinois,
The farmers greeted us with hospitality,
Weary travellers, entertained by angels;
Kinship, solely sojourners share.
We were welcomed there.

A hot meal, around a wooden table, on long benches
Simple food, flavoured with love.
A campfire conversation,
In the warmth of a home.
Built board by board, with rugged splintered hands.
We were welcomed there.

Hospitality birthed ownership
As we shared heart and light with those new friends
Their story became ours

Welcome rest, on washed worn sheets
Duvets ripped open in darkness.
Feathery snow covered our farm
The world is silent when snow falls
Humanity on pause

Sunrise on snowfall
Dazzling distraction of light on white.
Brighter than the noon sun.
Deafening bright silence

Our story of hospitality
Shared hearts, Bright Lights.
No divisions, quickly creates
A family from strangers
Bonded by light
Sunlight on snow fall