Tag: Art

The Art Of Eavesdropping Slash–Honing Your Observation Skills

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments


This is a story.

This is a story of yesterday.

And actually the day before yesterday too.

I drive to another zipcode to grocery shop. I know thats shocking for a one-zip-code dweller.  And I stroll down the isle of the frozen things.  The day before yesterday part of the story goes like this.  My family had a very odd on-the-way-to-church conversation on Sunday.  It was all about crazy coupon shopping.  There is a name or a title or a badge of honor that goes with that skill.  The Patient-One wants me to do this.  This is not the current me.  Might be the me he wants me to be.  Going to another zipcode to shop in a much less expensive grocery store was part of me trying to be more cost aware.

The isles are quiet.  Very quiet and calm.  There was almost an echo.  Monday must not be the day for all the mad coupon mommas.  I digress.  That story stays in the former paragraph.

And  I hear a beautiful story.  I hear a painting and I hear a poem.  I hear art. The eyes of my heart hear a sliver of a life story.  They see the art in the life moment.

The words were tender.  The transaction between two men was small but it was huge.  Beauty in the moment.   Threads of life weaving between two men.  One young.  One old.  Both working on this day.

I slow down.  I am captured by their sweet interaction.  I am moved by the exchange.  This life transaction tendered before my ears and eyes touches place in me.

Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering — Winnie The Pooh


Take a life slice, stab it with your fork, place it on the taste buds at the tippy of your tongue. And savor.  Move it around from the sweet to the savory, those buds that register different flavors.  Suck long and suck hard.  Make them last for a long forever.

Pick up the paint brush of your inner knowing and paint a picture of the life you see.  Record it in a place for keeps.  So you can know you lived. Know you live.  Remember the all.  The glorious and the unglorious.  All the parts and pieces of the mosaic that is yours.  Your one.  Your only.  Your life.

One isle over I see my special friends mother.  I am not a good friend.  I don’t mentor well.  I have not returned her child’s call.  I say I missed Quailla’s call.  She smiles and tells me all good things.  I think.  I believe it to be good.  The fact that there are changes.  I send my love.  And I bury my guilt in the knowing that they seem well. I hear of spring break and a trip and new things.  And we smile.  This time between two mothers.  And we talk about one child.  I celebrate spontaneously in this isle.  I don’t know its name.  But its a good place to celebrate change.

Go grab a pen.  Be your historian of your one life.  Scribble it down and put it in a place for safekeeping. Jot it down all messy and real, its yours.  Give it a grand heros welcome.  Roll out the red carpet for it, for them.  Memory will take good care of all that is preserved.  Guard it all.  Guard it well.

And the bees were next.  Lots and lots of bees.

Look and see all the bees.

I took pictures of bees and more.

They are there for you to see. ( Dr. Seuss may be creeping in. Oh my.  First Pooh then Dr. Seuss. smiling here)

And there were words.  Some were good and sweet and tender.  And some were not.  Some gave encouragement and were life affirming.  But I take the all and I mix it, blend it, taste it, and name it mine.  There were moments that taught and words that cut.  There was a blur of beauty and a swirl of pain.  There were pronouncements of new birth coming from across the way in the house looking out in Hope and new life.

The end.

Not really.  Its not the end of the story.  Its Tuesday. And Tuesday has a story of her own to tell.

Let’s Go On A Scavenger Hunt For Joy

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 6 Comments

Written in the front pages of an old journal are the words “We can’t remember what we don’t record.

My friends, I say

 My Heart does not remember what I do not record.

Go write down on the pages of your heart the good in this day.

Jot down joy and marinate in the moments of this single day.

Seek and find particles, pieces, and chunks to hold . Cup them in those fingers with care.

Hold a thought, a sentence, a paragraph for more than a moment.  Scribble it on paper or on heart pages.

Be the diligent record keeper of this one life.Take good notes along the way.

Let’s go on a scavenger hunt for joy.

Paint the beautiful.  Write the wonderful. Click the lense with a curious eye. Capture the amazing grace.

Press a flower, preserve the worth preserving in a can, a jar, a journal.

Then be joy, and share joy with others in this one day.

And my friends I say deep down thank yous for being Gift and being here.

Make Art from and in your day.

And to Him, The Artist and The Creator God be all the Glory.

And all God’s people say amen, and amen.

Why Seeking The Silent And Simple Soothe The Soul

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

simple soothes with her less and her love

quietly providing the just enough

she raises up the now and crowns her as glorious

all the eye needs to see is framed by her sweet fingers

all the ear needs to hear is spoken by her soft breathe

all fragrance rests in the still and the calm and lingers for inhale

grace and gratitude flow  in her presence

and the present is just as it should be

a restful place for the soul


BEAUTY AND THE BARNACLES

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

Head down, eyes down, I walk.  And decide that  the vast seashore of this glorious beach on this day after super high tides and wind and moon  will contain a vast trove of treasures deposited on this very beach.

So I walk and I look.  I vary my path, zigzag from high in the dunes to down by the sea.  I think as a collector of beach beauty ,what will seem special, what will be treasure, what will look like art from the hand of The Artist, creator God. What beauty lies here to be found and gathered and picked.

No basket, no bucket nothing to gather but my hands I makeshift my coverup into a place to hold my findings.

And at the end of this day, as we leave by boat I force myself to decide which pieces to take with me back to the land.  I have a heavy load of beautiful conch shells, all chosen because they were perfect.  Their colors, their shapes, their uniqueness, they are beautiful each one.

Two olive shells would go with me to my bowl of shells, collected over time.

But I found the greatest beauty lay in the oyster shell covered in barnacles.  Blemish to some, beauty to others.  They added their layer of interest to the original shell.  And the moon shell, too she’s covered up.  She bears the passengers, barnacles, attached to her.  Giving her, this moon shell, an added radiance.  Added depth of interest.
We return to shore, my flawed treasures in tow.

And later, as we slowly put along the creek in the little Boston Whaler, with day ending and night beginning we soak in more.  And I record what makes this village special. What marks her uniqueness as a seaside town, unlike any other.

I look back at what was beautiful.  I think back on what seemed beautiful.  And while all the white boats and white houses against blue sky were and are, the little rusty Miss Candace caught my eye and I want to know her story.

Like a historian digging into her past  with the hope of finding more by digging deep in discovery as the archeologist would, I guess.  She has seen much.  She may need a fresh coat of paint.  She is perfect the way she is.

Her battleship gray and rust stand strong.  She wears weather well.  She has a life of stories that out last and outshine superficial exteriors. Her patina speaks softly of life and the sea.  She wears weathered storms like a beauty mark. She is strength.  She is beautiful.

And her neighbor Sarah.  Her name means lady of high ranking or high standing.  In Hebrew, princess. She wears her name well with dignity and pride, this little warrior of the ocean This shrimp boat whom others depend on to return to the docks with a bountiful harvest after long days and nights of labor.

She is small, but she is strong.  I wonder at her past.  I wonder of her hard times.  And below the water line I know she too carries barnacles, firmly attached.  Holding on, catching a ride through life on the sea.

They look steady.  They look strong.  They look useful.  And as we pass through on a little ride through their harbor they seem peaceful.  At rest.  No pitching and tossing on the sea, in search of shrimp.  Purposeful trips to the ocean postponed for a respite.

Story.  Their story.  Our stories.  My story.  Don’t they include the rust and the barnacle.

Isn’t the trip to sea which added the ding and the dent, one I want to hear.  One that has depth and meaning and lesson.  Isn’t it the one that added strength and charachter.

Didn’t the time she went out and almost didn’t return the one that shows she was tested out in that sea, that time when all seemed dark.  Wouldn’t I ask her to tell me more of that.

Is the time of full nets and blue skies and calm seas the story I most want to hear from her.  Don’t I want to know her overcoming times, her coming through rough sea times.

As I see her calm and at rest, covered up in peace and the still of her harbor, her dock.  I share her joy in this time of preparation.  She is beautiful at peace. And I am grateful that she will go out again, barnacles and uncertain seas and unknown trials to gather the shrimp which will go on my table.  Shrimp that will delight my family, meal after meal.

Her story is of great value.

Your story is of great value.

Our stories, with all that they are, the beauty and the barnacles are there to be told.  And cherished.  Learned from. Drawn from.  Celebrated.

Our journeys to the cross and by way of the cross and in the shadow of the cross.

And all God’s people say “Amen”

“Before God can use a man greatly he must wound him deeply.” Oswald Chambers.