Studio Dialogue

“That color hurts, Master.” Whimpered the little canvas.

“I know it does, my dear. Do you not see my hand cramp up while I paint it on?” responded the Painter.

“You mean it hurts You too?”

“Oh yes. More than you know.”

“Well, anyway I thought You’d already painted that color on me?”

“Well, I have, sort of. You see, what you perceive the color to be is only a shadow and faint representation of what it really is from My perspective. Because actually, what you perceive to be just one color over and over is really many different shades of one category of color. I often layer them to create a new color in the end; and sometimes I use different brushes to create different textures. Also, just because I gave you this color in one area doesn’t mean I won’t ever apply it to another. But to answer your question: in a way I have already done this from your perspective, but I have truly never rendered you this shade.”

“I don’t get it.”

The Painter smiled so wide and so genuinely that the canvas thought His face was going to break, even though it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Darling, of course you don’t. You won’t until you’re finished and on my side of things.”

“When is that going to be, Master?”

This time the Painter let the laughter out that the conversation had been building in Him.

“When you learn that questions like that have only one answer.” He said, still laughing.

“What’s the answer?”

“In time. In My time.” He stated, more solemnly after a moment.

“Oh Master, Your hand is trembling...and oh! It hurts!” she breathed.

“I know, my dear, I know.”

“Master, what if we save us both the pain and skip this color?!”

“If that’s what you really want. But I just want to remind you....”

“I know, I know...You say it every time.”

“I say what?”

“What You were just going to say.”

“And what’s that? Let’s hear it from you.”

“Well...that...that when I wanted You to be my Master and asked to look like that One over there,” she said, referring to the most beautiful painting in all the room, “You told me it would hurt but also that...”

“That what?”

“That it would be worth it. And I believed You.”

The Painter grinned again.

“That was such a beautiful moment. That was soon after I had made you a white canvas again by bleeding out the picture already there...remember when you first believed that I could do that? That was all it took. And then when you knew it didn’t stop there--”

“Yeah, I do remember that!” She cut in, excitedly. “I also remember that I used to look a lot like some other paintings around me before that day....” And she continued on that note--less excited, “Actually, sometimes I feel like the painting that I used to be was so ugly and strong that it seeps through the white and even the painting of me that You’ve begun.”

“Yes, you did bear some resemblance to those around you. Though you were always unique--just as you are now. And even now in your process you’re still ever so unique and beautiful even if I’m still working on you. Don’t forget that.”

He continued speaking to her so patiently, while she marveled at His voice. It always sounded the same overall, but she also never stopped noticing new qualities about it. This time she remarked the the soothing, innate rhythm of His speech:

“And if you ever feel like what you used to be is showing through My work, it’s because you’re letting it and even clinging to it at times. What you once were has been completely bled from your canvas. And I’ve given you everything you need to not let that old self reign over you. But it’s not easy, I know--as simple as it may sound. I know it might be hard to for you to believe at times, but there really isn’t any temptation or facet of what you go through that I don’t understand.”

“It’s just good to hear you remind me of that every once in a while, Master,” she said, still thoughtful.

“I know, and I want you to just tell me whenever you need to hear it, my dear. But I have a question for you.”

“You do?! Ask me!”

“Do you still believe Me that it’s going to be worth it?”

She paused, wishing she weren’t feeling all the emotions that seemed to be taking her over. The internal war in her seemed to come back way too often. Eventually, almost wincing, she said,

“Yes, Master, with all my heart--well, the larger part of it anyway, just to be honest. Please....”

“Please what?” said the Master with a tear in his eye.

“Oh, it hurts to even say, but please keep painting! No matter how much it hurts. It’s all so true and He’s so beautiful over there--that One I want You to make me look like....”

“He is. And I can’t even express it to you in terms you’ll understand, but I can tell you that if you let me keep going you’ll still be yourself and you’ll be as unique as ever, but you’ll look an awful lot like Him too.”

“How does that work, Master?”

He laughed again and she beamed, not understanding how such an inquiry could have given him mirth, but glad it did.

“That’s what I mean about how I can’t put it terms you’ll understand right now. I guess you’ll just have to trust Me.”

“Ok, if You say so. Oh, I do want to look like Him.”

“Wanna know something?”

“Um, of course. I always do!”

“He looks a lot like Me.” He whispered, in a veritably similar manner that one would divulge a secret--though she knew it wasn’t.

When she looked and once more realized the resemblance she exclaimed in awe, “It’s true! Oh how he does! You’ve told me that before, but how come I forget to see that all the time?!”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of things going on in your process. But by pursuing conversation with Me, you can let Me be the One to remind you. That’s important, because without this dialogue, I can’t really continue to the best of my abilities--which are Ultimate.”

“You mean, if I quit paying attention to You, You can’t paint me anymore?”

“No, that’s not entirely true, for I am the Master Painter, but it’s different and certainly not as beautiful. You’ll always be in process, it just makes a difference whether it’s the process I have for you or not. I can always use whatever other process you let happen in your life, but it may not be what I could have done. But I can tell you this: the colors that get brushed on your canvas without My bidding hurt Me more than the ones that are of My will.”

She let this soak in a moment and then passionately stated, “I don’t want any one to paint me but You, Master!” Then she added, puzzled, “But I always thought that my questions would bother you. I didn’t know that you actually wanted or liked this kind of conversation.”

“On the contrary! It’s the conversations that we have that keep Me in the position of your Master and Artist. You might feel like you’re asking the same questions over and over again--kind of like you feel that you get painted with the same color over and over again--but from My perspective I see so many more nuances and shades to what’s going on than you’ll ever know. And you know what else?”

She squirmed a bit, wondering and trying to predict what was coming--as she was all too often wont to do, “What?”

“What’s amazing is that your honesty with Me shines through in your colors and gives them a brighter quality than anything else can.”

She hadn’t forseen such a response. “My questions shine through?! And that’s good?!”

He laughed again, and she felt relieved that he wasn’t angry with her perpetually inquisitive nature.

“You can only have an inkling! It’s incredible and it reminds Me over and over how much I love you! But more than that, I just love talking to you. That’s why I started you in the first place.”

“Hm. I guess it must just be me, but sometimes I’ve felt like You must just wish I would stop asking questions.”

“Never, my dear. It’s My heart’s desire that you articulate to Me what’s going on inside of you. But I do want you to be content if I don’t answer the way you want Me to sometimes.”

She sighed, “That happens a lot.”

He grinned even bigger than He had before. She never ceased to be amazed that such a thing was even possible.

“Darling one, I know it does. That’s because sometimes, if not often, the answer you want isn’t the best one.”

“But I always think it through!” She began to get a little frustrated, “I examine all of the options and pick the best answer and....”

Once more, laughter from the Master filled the studio.

“No honey, you only examine the options that you see! You cannot see everything from your flat perspective! You have to let it be and let Me be as I am. As hard as it is for you, I promise you that I always have your best interest in mind. And by best, I mean My best. Not what you think or want to be best. I will never harm you.”

“So this pain that I’m feeling isn’t harm?”

“Absolutely not. I know it feels like harm, but in reality it’s your journey to best. Best is a difficult destination. And it’s painful. But like I said, it’s worth it.”

“OK, so--just to clarify, and not to be dramatic--but this excruciating color is a part of my journey to best and to look like Him? And You?” Once more she gazed at the painting that she so wanted to resemble, and then back at the Master’s poised hand.

“Exactly.”

“Wow.” She said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Master?”

“Yes?”

“I love You.”

“I love You too.” He choked a bit on the lump in His throat that she couldn’t perceive and then breathed,

“Let’s continue with this color, shall we? Once we’re done with this we can move on. But don’t rush it either, OK?”

“OK, but I’m sorry you have to feel my pain too, Master.”

“Oh, but I’m not, my dear! For it means that you are a part of me!”

“What?! I don’t deserve that! You’re so different from me...so...perfect!”

“Yes. I am. But you should also know that it has become a possibility for you to be a part of Me because of that One who hangs on that wall over there--the One you want to look like.”

“OK, I’m gonna say it again: I don’t get it and how does that work?”

“Well, that painting is of My Son. That’s where the resemblance comes in. He became like you and spent His life in process and letting me paint Him perfectly and without blemish so that You could have that opportunity as well. There’s a lot more to the story, but if you look at my hands and the scars that are left from Me painting His journey--and let Me tell you it hurt--you may understand a bit more why I can feel your pain and how it is that you can be a part of Me. And these scars may also help you remember where the blood came from that bled your past image away to make your canvas so clean. Don’t worry, though, if you don’t fully grasp it. It’s something that you may never fully apprehend while you exist as the canvas that you are. But you’ll get it one day when you’re finished and you can jump off that flat thing and into my arms. Until then, just believe. It’s your belief that allowed Me to whitewash you when We started, but it will be your perseverant faith in My abilities as your Artist and belief that it’s worth it that will get you where we both want you to go: I want you to look like Him too.”

“I think I might be starting to get it. But I may need You to tell me again soon after I think about it for a bit. And probably when another color comes that hurts again.”

“Well, my dear creation, I never tire of telling this story.”

“Master?”

“Yes?”

“I love You.”

“I love you too.”

“And I am going to learn to love these...um...colors.”

“OK, but be patient with yourself. That’s attainable, albeit ambitious.”

“I want to see me from Your perspective someday.”

“That, my dear, is a promise. Someday and in My time.”

“There’s that answer again....” She sighed once more, only this time just slightly more contentedly.

And the Painter, knowing that words were not always necessary just smiled and winked at her--His eyes seeming to glisten even more than usual. Indeed, He was beautiful.

This is for Mary: I thought of you while writing this.
-T. Emerson

[sans titre]

Il y avait une fois, tu te souviens, j’éspère, où nous faisions de la randonné avec nos amis et nous parlions de la littérature--toi et moi. Nous ignorions nos amis et ils nous ignoraient aussi--qui sait ce dont ils parlaient, eux. Il faisait trop beau ce jour-là. Nous étions en Alaska et nous avions peur des ours. Il y en avait, en fait, trop près, je me souviens, mais on ne l’a pas vu, heuresement. Je pense de temps en temps à cette belle journée que nous avons tous passé ensemble.

Je crois que tu me raccontais d’Ernest Hemmingway. Comme tu l’aimais! Et probablement je t’écoutais en te disant que je ne l’ai jamais vraiment lu. Et puis je t’ai regardé pendant que tu as ramassé une petite roche.

Tu m’as dit que tu les collectionnais, ces “roches”. Que, parfois lorsque tu étais en train d’avoir une bonne conversation avec quelqu’un, tu cherchais à trouver une petite chose à garder pour te faire souvenir et non oublier cette conversation dans laquelle tu existais à l’instant. C’était parfois une roche--comme cette fois--et parfois d’autre chose insignificante. C’était une vraiment belle chose...je ne l’ai jamais vraiment oublié.

Je t’aimais, tu sais. Mais pas comme tu voulais ou comme tu m’aimais, toi. Je t'aimais bien. Mais même dans ce moment-là j’étais désolée que je ne pouvais jamais t’aimer comme tu probablement voulais. Il est tant vrai que je n’aurais jamais rien pu changer à propos aux sentiments. Je suis encore désolée que je t’ai blessé. Mais je t’aimais. Ne le doute jamais. Et tu me manques, maintenant, quand-même.

Mais tu n’étais point personne contente ou complète. Je t’aimais, mais pas comme ça. Je ne sais quoi dire.

J’éspère qu’un jour tu trouves ce que tu cherches. Pas même ce que tu crois que tu cherche--mais ce que tu cherches vraiment et profondement. Un jour, je prie que tes questions--par lesquelles ton âme est un peu hanté--soient répondues.

Je t’aime mon ami. Encore. Je pense souvent à toi, et je te donne à Dieu. Et un jour, je vais adorer Hemmingway aussi. Je vais apprendre.

Impressionism (Revamped)

'Tis not the time of life
To be merely suffered through
It's rather to be savoured--
Every moment known as true.

The Painter has a vision
To which the Canvas is not privy,
Tis only for the Canvas,
Her postion to go on living.

She wimpers all the while, impatient
Wondering what the Painter sees
He smiles and continues, just pliant
He to has plead with her to be.

He talks her, from time to time,
To remind her that He loves her
This small creation in the making,
Forgets often that she's authored.

Adoring ever is this Painter,
More so than his subject
Who forgets to love the process
And the becoming of the object.

It's not the end that matters
It's the progress that is made,
For truly no stroke is formed
That the Artist has not bade.
-T. Emerson

Noiseless

Oh for the state of the noiseless soul
To release in me, encompassing and whole

That no static and soundless noise may intrude
On the subtle, mute, waveless interludes

Of a soul so engrossed in a pure existence
Total and aware of true purpose and instance.

I long for the peace of a seeming isolation
That never dispermits any other relation.

A balance--that for which it must be striven
Effort or more must hitherto be given.
-T. Emerson

Once Upon a Time and Someday

I believe in the rest of the story
I believe there's still ink in the pen
I have wasted my very last day
Trying to change what happened way back when

I believe it's the human condition
We all need to have answers to why
More than ever, I'm ready to say that I
Will still sleep peacefully
With answers out of reach from me until?

Someday all that's crazy
All that's unexplained
Will fall into place
And someday all that's hazy
Through a clouded glass
Will be clear at last
And sometimes we're just waiting
For someday

We are born with a lingering hunger
We are born to be unsatisfied
We are strangers who can't help but wander
And dream about the other side of?

Every puzzle's missing piece
Every unsolved mystery
More than half of every whole
Rests in the Hands that hold you for someday?
-Nichole Nordeman

It is mind boggling to think or imagine that even the most beautiful things we experience now are only divorced and compartmentalized facets of what used to perhaps all fit together, and now cannot. Someday it'll once more be as it was once upon a time. And maybe be even more real because Man will know the difference.

Listening

Invisible and between the lines
Sing shades we may only see sometimes:
When looking beyond the Obvious,
In quest for those things more dubious.

A symphony plays in shades untold,
As Clandestine yearns herself to unfold.
Only regard and no judgment cast--
The two become friends, meeting alast.

The synergy then is so worth the wait,
Understanding now reaches penultimate state.
-T.Emerson

So, Funny Story....

I went to get my hair done last week. For me, this means I went to get it cut. I’ve never dyed my hair so this lady got pretty excited about my “virgin hair”. More on her to come. I hadn’t had it cut since June when I (regrettably) chopped it off and I just wanted to get it trimmed again, and whatever.

I just dropped into the place without making an appointment and actually ended up getting the person that my friend Amanda recommended to me, so I was thrilled, I thought. Her name was Michele (pronounced Michael). She was interesting, she made me laugh to be sure. She asked ALL about me, my family, etc. She was pretty excited that somebody had recommended her to me. I’m always struck by the hair salon culture when I go in there. It’s so like how they depict it in the movies: feminine and gossipy. I get a kick out of it, usually.

So, eventually, it came up that I had worked in Alaska for a couple of summers. She asked what I did up there. I paused for a moment to think of how to, once again, explain what my job up there was. She took this pause as an opportunity to ask with a slight smile “were you a dancer?”.

Trying not to laugh and process too much on the spot whether or not I was supposed to be flattered or what, I said that no, and I worked in tourism. Then I realized that I’d better qualify that too. I explained that I had waited tables on the tour train my first summer and then went back as a manager...."Oh, ok "she said, and didn’t really ask much more about it, but did say of course that it seemed really cool. I smiled, still surprised.

The conversation moved on about my family and education and where I was from. She commented that I was very well dressed for a girl from Canby. (I was wearing a skirt?) And she then asked about my ethnicity.

I shrugged, once again trying to determine where she was going with the question and non-chalantly mentioned a small percentage of Native American heritage but mostly that I was “Caucasian”. I felt like I’d just checked a box on a form. Weird. She then said “Huh, I would have thought something else.” I think she saw my puzzled look and then continued, “like, African American or something.” And then she proceeded to say something about my lips or something while I actually thanked her this time, almost reeling. Indeed, it is a compliment. I just didn’t see it coming!

We finished the haircut and she curled my hair. Something I never would have done, but whatever I said. I left and tipped well because, dancer or not, I do live on tips and I understand how it goes. Walking out to my car I was still trying to put it all together. She thinks I look like an African American stripper?! I’m still not sure what to think. At least I marginally like the haircut....