An Update and Such

HomeAtLastIt’s been the sort of semester where an empty hour is a precious rarity and face-to-face interactions have more or less replaced the virtual world. I haven’t been reading less, but most of what I’ve been reading is textbooks. I haven’t been writing less, but most of what I’ve been writing is academic papers and conversations in text messages with friends who want to talk about all the issues involved with just living and how we bring all our high ideals into gritty reality. All this is very alright and my days are as happy as ever. But when I got off for winter break and came back to the web to catch up with all of you and your Goodreads lists and your websites and your artwork and your creative minds, I sure did wish I hadn’t been away for quite so long.

My break has involved a lot of hot tea and starlight walks and the happy sounds of running water all over the farm. My little brother still cares a lot that we all sleep under the Christmas tree at night and he’s been reading The New Treasure Seekers to me by the Christmas lights while I catch up on filling in pages and pages of my commonplace book. Last night he read the saga of the Conscience Pudding in as quiet a whisper as he could manage but we couldn’t manage to keep from laughing out loud when the Bastable children washed the currants with Brown Windsor soap. I’m glad you never have to get too old for Edith Nesbit.

But the best thing about being on a break is the chance to make a studio out of the breakfast table in the kitchen and take out watercolors and ink and work on art projects for hours at a time.

The calligraphy piece at the beginning of this post is an illustration of lines taken from The Ballad of the White Horse. My first calligraphy project was a rather crooked and deficient rendition of this quotation and I thought it would be fun to make an updated version. Here are a couple of other projects I completed this week as Christmas presents:

DoNotDare - ResizedThis watercolor features Shasta and Bree from The Horse and His Boy and a quotation from that book added in ink. “You poor, proud frightened Horse,” says Aslan to the conceited and self-conscious Bree. “Draw near. Nearer still, my son. Do not dare not to dare. Touch me. Smell me. Here are my paws, here is my tail, these are my whiskers. I am a true Beast.”

It’s an era full of empty rhetoric about pursuing what we want and who hasn’t seen Shia LaBeouf yelling don’t let your dreams be dreams!! ? But when C.S. Lewis puts these words in the mouth of his Lion King, I don’t think that’s what he’s talking about. There’s a dream that is higher than ideal careers and condos in Florida. And this is the one we owe it to ourselves not to shrink back from chasing as hard as we can.

The model for this illustration was the Narnian castle Cair Paravel where the Hebrews2 ResizedPevensies reigned as kings and queens and once you’re a king or a queen in  Narnia, you’re always a king or a queen. Aren’t we Royalty in a Kingdom that’s coming and is among us and will be here even before we know it?

Later this week, I plan to write up a few reviews for the books I’ve been reading, and before I head back to school for another semester of studying, I’ll be restocking my Etsy shop with a collection of new art creations. So things should stay interesting around here for awhile. Come back! And I’d love it if you come and let me know what you’ve been doing or thinking or reading.

Etsy Launch Announcement

Well friends, I just wanted to give you an update about a little summer project of mine: I’m selling on Etsy now! I just opened a little shop over there today – a place to showcase some of my calligraphy, illumination, illustration and original artwork celebrating literary masterpieces and what they mean for the great battle of our time.

EtsyShopSnipThe shop features prints and cards created from my original artwork as well as one-of-a-kind hand-made pieces, such a little collection of laminated calligraphy bookmarks. I plan to add more items soon, but if you have a minute, you can take a look at what’s available now.

I do hope your summer is full of glory!

Budapest

100_2041It’s been pretty quiet around here. I came over to the site to check on things and was a bit startled by how long it had been since I’d said anything! Oh well. I suppose there are worse things than taking a break from talking all the time. I’ve been working on some art projects and hope to have an exciting announcement within the next couple of weeks. I’ve read some books and can’t wait to talk about them as well. What have you been reading?

100_2029In May, I went to Spain for three weeks and hiked about 200 miles of the Camino de Santiago. There was a certain thrill involved with being abroad again, with layovers in the international terminal at the airport, and the convergence of countries at the baggage claim. When I stepped out of the shuttle at the train station in Madrid and the sidewalk smelled like cigarettes and the apartments rose around me with their walls dressed in expert graffiti, I won’t say I didn’t get a little homesick.

100_2033In Spain I stayed in the “albergue” hostels and walked through more small villages than I could ever keep track of. I drank café con leche with buttery croissants and cold tuna empanada. I had that white lemon ice cream that I’ve been missing so much. I had it quite a lot. I took my one semester of elementary Spanish to its utmost limits. But of course, none of this is of much consequence to you if you weren’t there. Most likely it is quite uninteresting.

Plot twist: I didn’t go to Budapest.

But up in the Galician mountains, on the days of moist sky and paths threading through the mist, I sang sometimes. I sang all the happiest songs I could think of, which were mostly hymns, of course, because it’s hard to get happier than I Will Sing of My Redeemer or O! For a Thousand Tongues To Sing. One thing I sang over and over was a song about Budapest. I bet you know it.

My house in Budapest
My, my hidden treasure chest
Golden grand piano
My beautiful Castillo

You, you,
You, you
I’d lose it all.
Oh, for you, you
You, you
I’d lose it all.

Because out in the fullness of the landscapes and the cultures I’ve so often coveted, it was good to be abandoned to a better Homecoming, to belong to a plenty good enough Lover. It was good to go away just as glad as I came in, without the least relic of discontentment.

My many artifacts
The list goes on….

We Should Talk More About The Country

Nasmith
We walk roads that seem endless but we know they’ll be tapering off like a candle with a thread all out of wax. And if you’re on a trail of tears, the finish line might seem like a release. But if this little jaunt has been a party, the fact that it gives way to long strings of funerals sometimes makes everything seem like a pretty expensive waste. I wish we would talk more about the country we’re coming home to – in friend groups speculating about the future and in worship and at work and with the scores of somebodies on the street.

I tried to express this some months ago in a little poem. This week, that poem won a quite special prize over Utmost Christian Writers, and so I thought I would share it with all of you.

Have a glad week, all you born-abroad ambassadors of the Kingdom of Heaven!

WE SHOULD TALK MORE ABOUT THE COUNTRY

I.
The summer had besieged us like armies, like slow wildfire, like cruelty
and when the high sea broke open and bled white water it was high time.
We did not see it like that: with eyes greedy for justice and gaping.
We were growing older, expected less and less, and celebrated everything:
the crinkled white leaves in the wet hearts of beans, bellicose mosquitoes,
gnats like stardust in the fire-wind, charred asparagus needles,
thin tea, and the yellow teeth under the tongues of purple snapdragons.
We were old enough to be thoroughly happy about the pond hosting
black-winged whistler ducks with beaks like bursts of flame, the garden
making a home for rugged white parsnips and the green pebbles of peas;
to relish donuts like spun sugar, trees shedding water like tears,
nightbirds in the moonful sky, and the steady drip of rain through our dreams.

II.
After a time, even drought-break and jubilation begin to taste of sadness.
When we stand in the pool of our contentment, wearing each other’s presence
like a coat of many smiles, we will never stand here again, never with the
water hurtling off of the shingles, and the ants chewing our naked toes,
never with the baby tangling his pink fingers in our hair and our mouths
glad with songs, and our hearts full like hosed cells of celery.

III.
We should talk more of the country we are coming home to, and less
of the land we are living in like unhomed swallows on the waves of the sky,
like beached sailboats straining at the bar, their wings clapping the salty air.
Talk of the houses that are waiting behind yellow curtains to be filled
with laughing and the lilting piano, and puddled crushed citrus spiking the rooms.
Swaying in our rocking-chairs and wrapped in our respective twilights,
we should not speak of our histories as though we stood before the banquet
of delights and were too easy on our dinnerware. We should not speak
of what has been and will never be again. We should talk about what has
never been, though we have been waiting for it all our lives. Talk of the gold
city that shall break on our sight like rain on brittle grass, when we shall go
up from the house of slavery and swing over the threshold of the promised land.