The Weight of Words

For most of my life I have hesitated to express myself, to put words to how I feel, what I want and what I am doing. Though I often doubt that anyone is actually interested, the main reason is that I fear rejection. I think it is only "safe" when I have the right diction, imagery, tone, proper syntax and iambic pentameter, etc.--basically if I am a natural Walt Whitman or RobertFrost. Thus, I am intimidated and have rarely ever ventured to write this way unless forced in school, which was only occasional. What I lack is courage to write, to feebly attempt articulation of what is vague but pressing on my mind. The simple advise in Finding Forrester that "the first step to writing is to write" challenges me but has also freed me to make mistakes and wonder at the weight of words. I wrote this last spring while having coffee in London reflecting on how arduous making a simple blog post felt:)

New Birth
My writing emerges from a pregnant mind and heart
Slowly, painfully with both fear and excitement
Anxiety of what might be-too soon? Too late?
How will it be received? How will it resemble me?
What trials might it face?
YET
The wonder always wins out
It’s finally here! What will it look like?
What life will it lead? Who will it meet on the way?
Whose lives will be impacted?
Oh, what a treasure! This is mine, my gift to the world.
No matter how it is received by others
I will always claim, value and love it
I wonder, truly wonder at one thought made real…

My words arrive so vulnerable, weak, dependent,
The letters are naked and messy
The phrases so full of erratic emotion, fearful of
This new world, being constrained to pen and paper
Yet bursting with potential barely contained in its new form
They are so feeble, foreign yet formidable with each stroke
Simultaneously taking a life of its own and giving to the lives around it

New writing, new birth
Filled with the same expectations, hopes and dreams
Met with the same scrutiny, overwhelmed expressions
Though small, it seems to shake the world
A product of a couple, familiar with a few, yet distinct from all
The sounds form tone, the words structure, the phrases meaning
As they crawl, and walk and run into being
And oh how they run!
So bold, so free, so full of unadulterated wonder
Not completely understood but monumental in every way

AND the writing grows like any child I suppose…

Editing would be the rough adolescent stage (identity formation, acceptance)
Publication would be the hard earned, but sweet adult stage (satisfied, validated and valued)
And then parenting! -how words meet, bond and amazingly create new words, new birth…again
Hmmm, I wonder…(and so I write!)

A Morning with SAM

A few weeks ago I went to the Seattle Art Museum (SAM) with some friends. I had not been inside since the remodeling began years ago and like so many places in Seattle, I was never intentional about "playing tourist." Thankfully my friends were interested AND also had an inside connection for free entry, so I went. Once I walked up the staircase while looking at the floating cars speared with shards of light, I realized "remodel" was the wrong word to use-it really was a new museum from the ground up, a "reconstruction." They had permanent galleries: Modern and Contemporary, Native American, NW artists, African, American, Australian and Oceanic, Asian, Ancient Mediterranean and Islamic, and Textiles yet we first went to the Special Exhibits-"Alexander Calder: A Balancing Act" and "Michelango Public and Private."

Calder was a master sculptor in the mid 20th c. creating an array of work as small as jewelry to as large as room-size mobiles. There were trinkets and toys and abstract designs. Mobiles were hanging all over the ceiling, perfectly balanced yet seemingly unstructured, without pattern or consistency though any fraction of weight difference in any direction would ruin the whole. It was interesting to see the process of his work, his ingenuity and inspiration but it did not capture me. There was almost too much left to interpret. Yes I can get lazy and want a full explanation of the artist's intention but like so much modern art, depth and wonder are often replaced with shallow "appreciation" in light of plain or simplistic or even elementary elements.

A contrast would be the next exhibit I saw on Michelango. We often think of Da Vinci being the Renaissance man who was plagued by ambition from overwhelming ability and imagination. Yet Michelango had his struggles as well, to a deeper level in some ways. This exhibit focused on his preliminary work for the Sistine Chapel. SAM was able to get a very rare collection of his sketches and drawings, his trial and error so to speak. There are only 12 in the US total and SAM acquired 12 more from the Cada Buonarroti in Florence. There are so few because he habitually burnt his preliminary work. I felt privileged in some way to be able to compare the drafts with the final product, having seen the Sistine Chapel in August last year (in the Vatican Museums, entrance shown in the picture).

Unlike Calder's exhibit, Michelangelo's left me with a sense of weight, of depth, of real substance. The intensity with which he worked and the excitement and turmoil revealed in his letters are evidence of his responsibility as an artist and the weight of the themes he was seeking to contain and display through art. He was not merely trying to master a certain medium or style of art, but trying to use it to point to something greater, someone greater. Art has become an end in itself for many, yet for Michelango it served as a tool, a window, a gateway to understand the world.

As I walked through the other exhibits of SAM, I had to stop because I couldn't take it all in anymore. I have a limit on how much I can soak in at a museum, it is wearying to have a Matrix-like download of such a concise, processed collection of culture. You pay to get in so you want your money's worth I suppose. Though you have museums stocked full of artifacts and exhibits around the world so little is seen, so little is preseved of cultures long ago. Small fragments remain and few are valued appropiately. So much is lost and even more forgotten: A name, a village, a story, a culture. Which memories are kept and treasured and which do we choose to ignore, to degrade, to kill? Why?
Would I be satisfied with one room with one raw artifact without commentary, without dates or facts instead of a museum full of ones known and itemized? Would I be content wondering, pondering the mystery of that one piece? Would I be comforted yet challenged by the sheer weight and power of time, culture, history-humanity and my small yet significant existence as I reflect its place and my place woven and connected somehow in the fabric of creation? I hope so.

Of all artifacts of history, all slices of culture, art is the most insightful and deceptive, and like any power it can build and destroy, be used for good and for evil. Interpreting art requires wisdom and creating it demands responsibility and discernment. I fear both interpreting and creating art today demands too little of us. You must grasp something in order to bend it, otherwise you may break it and something broken has no value but to learn what to do next time. Even Picasso understood this: "Art is a lie which helps us see the truth." We forget the goal of seeing the truth when we treasure the lie more, when we prefer to be blind than to see.

My stomach rumbled, someone suggested lunch at Pike Place and the day moved on and less heavy thoughts filled my head but I am glad I had that morning with SAM.

Reconnecting

Though I lived in Seattle from age 6 to 18 and then for 10 months before going to London in 2008, I did not return having many friends in Seattle. I mentioned in my last post how the culture shock impacted that but there was also the necessity to find work, a place to live, and a community. Having fewer friends in some ways made it an easier transition. Rather than feeling the need to reconnect with tons of people and bare my soul, it was relieving to only be that intentional with a few people who had asked "how are you?" as opposed to the majority who only wanted the 5 minute answer to "how was London?". Yet I quickly became numb to the emotional stretching and tension of adjusting to a new home. When I did try to reconnect with people, to listen to their stories, to enter into where they were it came across as too intentional, too personal. I am thankful for those who did sit down, press questions into me and made me feel free to express the joys and struggles of that experience and also admit the present confusion, awkwardness and fears. My initial months back were filled with transitions, risks but most of all-blessings.

A family graciously opened up their home to me for almost two months. I was able to see my sister and brother in-law, supporting church and friends in mid Oct and started a part time job when I returned at CrossPoint Churches as their Pastoral Support Coordinator. My aunt died suddenly a few weeks later and I was able to see my dad's side of the family again during that grieving period but also have Thanksgiving with them for the first time I can remember. I returned from that trip to start a part time job with The Ballard Boys and Girls Club. A week later I was able to buy a used Honda Civic for a great deal after saving for years which helped me get around the city. One of my pastors connected me with a guy at church who wanted a housemate and by mid-Dec I was able to move into an amazing place with affordable rent. I was able to see old friends from high school, attend a wedding, settle into a new room, set up Xmas decor and cook my first turkey before leaving to see my family Christmas Day. My immediate family had not been together in 1.5 yrs and since we live in 5 different states, it was a joy to have a week to reconnect. My brother and I slept in the barn in the back and kept a fire going. We had a small Christmas, went on hikes, read, had wonderful meals and enjoyed sleeping in. It is amazing to realize that within three months of my return to the States, I had two part time jobs, housing, a new car, a new church and was able to see 40+ family members and friends-what a praise!

One of the first things I missed about London was actually the solitude, the time to myself to explore the city, to reflect on the week's activities, to zone out while cooking a meal. It was nice to walk around Seattle, to find a coffee shop and sit down and people watch, to observe language and body language and learn of my new community. I walked down 1st ave and looked through some used book stores and searched for a new map for our wall. I got to play a tourist in my hometown, which was more natural than I thought it would be. It was a huge gift to join some friends for the last regular season Sounders game and see the football craze that had swept in while I was away. It didn't compare to football matches in the UK but it still made me smile to find something here that was shared with where I had been.

One of the hardest things about reconnecting was the normalcy of life-the realization that people had not changed much while I was away and the expectation that I had not either. The desire to be understood, to find sympathy, to find acceptance was and is very strong. It was and is hard to schedule something as simple as dinner with friends. Now, even four month later, there are many people in Seattle I have not yet reconnected or connected with. Time is precious and one of the hardest things to share with, or sacrifice for, another and I feel blessed to have had time to see old friends, meet new people, and form new friendships as I settle in my home.

Culture Shock

The reality of leaving hit me in waves, periodically rising suddenly out of seemingly mundane circumstances-taking my last bus ride, walking past certain streets, hearing Indian music, working at our charity shop, or simply having dinner with my Indian family. During my last Sunday night in Sept, these waves came in abundance and the "tide" rose leaving me overwhelmed. I didn't fight or ride the waves, I was knocked over-such was the loving affirmation of having 80 Indian friends gather to say goodbye, shower me with gifts, and tell me what I mean to them. I came not knowing anyone, and left with a community of friends; it was not easy to leave, I miss them. पास इन जेसुस' नामे

(i kept a blog during my year there: www.ben-inlondon.blogspot.com)

My first few weeks back I felt like I was in a fog, knowing I was somewhere familiar but not sure what lay ahead. It honestly seemed like a holiday at first. Whenever you travel, you take some comfort in knowing that the cultural tensions do not need to be completely resolved since you'll be returning home. I was not going to return to London and once again I was in transition with lots of questions: where would I live? where will I work? who will be my friends? Plus the culture seemed very different. We have a new president, new policies. I am surrounded largely by white people instead of immigrants. Everything seems big-a group of Americans each the width of the escalator, a huge red Mustang roars down the streets in Philly, a mansion is off a main drive in Chattanooga, the roads, shopping carts, lanes, rooms. Though I lived in London, most of the culture shock came from living among the Indian community and their emphasis on relationships, hospitality, service, an uncompromising unity between their faith and their whole life. I had become accustomed to an Eastern mindset and perspective on things which added some confusion in returning to the States. It was hard not to be critical as I walked around and observed my country which would need to become home again.

I was more fragile than I realized as I coped in returning. It was easy enough to answer "Hey man what did you do over there?" It was harder to answer "how was your time? how are you now? what is next?" I had to pause and emotions bubbled up-both joy and sorrow. The demands of life kept me on the move as I tried to find work, a place to live and reconnect with people who had supported me to go. When I was still, when I went to bed, when I sat in the airport terminals reality's tide swept over me and I admitted I was not as strong as I thought-that I still had questions about the future, was afraid of new risks and decisions, and felt very alone. Yes I spoke English still and though whatever accent I had faded, my aspirated "t"s and British vocabulary still stood out as I struggled to remember basic words. I felt like an immigrant in my own country.

I had attended a church before leaving to London which would have been the most natural place to connect. But after spending most of my time in London largely isolated from the Christian community, especially any peers, I felt awkward, a little out of place-like a long lost sibling having to relearn how to be part of the family. Like anyone in transition, it was and is hard to start over again, to find and build a new community of friends and learn to call a place home.

As soon as I could, I went to the mountains. I definitely missed those while I was away. It was refreshing to hike in the sun, see God's creation and be alone again and pray and unload my thoughts and fears. The shock wasn't over and questions, risks and fears were still there but I felt more courage as I went back knowing that friendships would come, that a job would open, that I would find joy and rest soon and that Seattle would slowly become home again.