more cosmos in chaos

Seth sits in the dark on our bed with a guitar, and his fingers individually know how to string a sound never once made before. In the dark, he hums. And I don’t know what he’s saying,

                  but I do. Something about him always sings of Home and of not fitting here. His tune is joy – and simultaneously sad.

Cocooned in a blanket, my Jude tells me the trees will walk, asks me if they are good trees, will they hurt him. He says they talk. A story line crescendos, and I mother-reason with him, and he doesn’t believe me. He believes the story. Find out what is good and what is bad. There is both.

My backdoor neighbor, close girlfriend, is an engineer. She wants even numbers and clean, straight lines. It just makes calming sense to her. She works until it gets there – in the right order.

My daddy rides an hour to work every day. He likes complete silence unless he’s singing God songs that he makes up on the spot. They are haunting songs with memories older than he is. 

Some of my brother’s graphics make me gulp so big it hurts my throat. Other’s do that to me, too.

I know of one whose art is attachment parenting and baby wearing, one who rewrites history, one who makes aprons, one who plants. Some find order in the horrific and comedic. Some find it in poemas

Aren’t human-beings otherworldly and beautiful? What do you consider your art, whether common or uncommon? 

Watch what this one does:

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Tweet with me? I’m Amberrunsamuck.

Comments

  1. Living – I know people who do this without trying. Without declaring their right to do it, they breathe and work and play and live and love and don’t even notice they are doing it, because it is just what they do, who they are.

  2. my life is my art. . .and my art changes with the seasons.

    for i mother, and write, and study. i love uncontrolably, and weep compassionately. i listen intently, and i sing sweet melodies.

    my art ebbs and flows, but never flees. the seasons may change, but they always return in God’s perfect time.

    yes, my life is my art. . .and my art completes me.

  3. I don’t know what I consider my art. I’d like to just copy what Amy said, except that my art does flee. I’ve gone through whole spells of life separated from the piece of me that finds meaning in creating and interpreting. And it’s dry and depressing and robotic. When the art (whatever it is) pulled me back in, it felt like I traded binary code for breathing and seeing for the first time. I felt like a kid who had uncovered a long abandoned play room, and every toy seemed new.

  4. Oh, Amber. This is lovely. I think about this. A lot. How God shows up in the art of others. As a reader, I think of Him when the power of a story rocks me, empowers me, inflames me. I think of Him – the first Author, the Author of life. I think of Him in music and in gardens and in the wild and in photographs and in carefully constructed clothing sewn by hand.

    Cosmos in chaos. Undeniably.

    And even as I was typing this comment, my (just weeks away from being) two year old came up to me with fingers covered in poop. Yes, poop. (Sorry if I’ve offended anyone’s delicate sensibilities!) And I think about how this is the reality of our daily pursuit of art, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s hard to acknowledge it as art because there are parts that stink, that are messy and dirty and the bad kind of surprise. It can be so hard to pull that lens back and see the art dancing through the daily.

    Thank you for reminding me pull that lens back and view the big picture – His picture – today. Thank for the video of the sand art – just astonishing. Thank you for turning my thoughts towards cosmos today.

    (and thank you for the gracious mention. I’m crawl-under-my-desk humbled.)

  5. My husband’s art is his fly fishing. Watching him is watching art in action. Hearing him talk about why it is that fly fishing is his passion is like hearing a painter talk about painting or a yogini talking about practicing yoga.

    My art is my writing, but I’m still at the point where the real art stays hidden in the journal and doesn’t make it out to the blog or further. It feels to personal to put it out there where it might not be appreciated or understood. I also love to paint, but as a mama of 3 little ones I don’t have enough free time to write *and* paint, so the canvas stayed tucked away for now.

    By the way, Amber, I have to tell you how much I enjoy reading your writing. It isn’t just what you write, but how you write it. Since I have discovered your blog, there are other blogs I had to stop reading simply because I have raised my standards of what I will spend my time reading. You have real talent.

    • Boy Crazy, you are crazy! and maybe also my doppleganger. Seth’s art, besides story telling, guitar playing, song writing, and gourmet cooking, is FLY-FISHING!

      It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he started crying one day just thinking about fly-fishing.

      Thank you guys for encouraging me in my writing.

      Love,
      Amber

  6. My mother is my art. Her love and selflessness and giving Spirit still makes me want to be like her when I grow up.

  7. I almost wrote about fly-fishing this morning. Then opted to work instead.

    Fly fishing is art. Standing knee-deep in your canvas, raising and lowering your own type of paint brush as the line streams behind you from arc to flat, then forward back into arc, the flat as it lays across the canvas. Your art is well-done when the silvery flash of the sun across the lateral line indicates a firm hook setting.

    It’s an art that is enjoyed only by the particular artist–not the trout by any means–but it is art nonetheless.

  8. And where is Hamster, or Brock? I want to hear those guys talk about writing, and etching, and such.

  9. i’m here. over here to the side. got to dabble in the homeworks and then come back. Your Husband plucks a mean dark string.

  10. It is a lovely thing to know who you are and what you are good at, what you know that you were put here for.

    I think I’m still working on figuring that out.

  11. YES Amanda! That’s it. What is it that makes us US? Why are we here? What pleases us – reverberates from us in the way I imagine the stars can’t help but sing? What makes your art ART? That is the question I want to explore. What makes even the art of a crackhead something worth considering?

    How do we reach into the invisible and pull out tangible or sensory versions of our invisible needs? I think we’re trying to see the Invisible in the brush stroke, to hear it in the euro-trashed-up techno beat, to taste some God-goodness in the Coq au vin.

  12. Where you ever in a class, high school or college, and usually you were the top of the class. Had all the answers and never backed away for letting everyone know you did. Then there was this one day you just weren’t in it. You wanted to be over looked. Sit in the back. Have no comment. Not talk at all. Because you were afraid to speak. Because there was something in there you were afraid that it all would come out in some sort of word vomit splashing onto the floor as you topple over after it. Moaning that you would be better tomorrow. Has that ever happened to you?

    Well, today I got an email. One that for me was like reading “the president of the united states” in the received from spot. I got excited. Then nervous. What was this about? This person does not have time to email me…just for no reason. Then you asked. What was my take? NO!!! Don’t ask me. Not this time. I have too much nonsense to say.

    Your answer. What is my art? It seems so obvious but the truth is I have been wrestling with the Spirit for years. He has asked me to do something that I don’t see the outcome of. I don’t see the future. I can’t see my success. I don’t want it to be my art. I have my art. I am a painter. A sculpture. A fiber artist. I am a fighter for the right to art. Not that sort of…artist. Still He lit the flame. I have toyed with His prompting and suggestions. All I feel is over whelmed and lost and totally unworthy. Please take this from me and give it to someone else! It’s an awesome idea. It’s just not my expertise. You should know Lord. I mean you made me.

    So I bent. I started to write. Did you know I’ve been kicked out of an English class? I argued with the teacher about what the meaning of the rose bush was in the Scarlet Letter. Actually I just suggested another thought. She said I was wrong. I asked her why. She didn’t like that. Anyway, where was I? Oh, I can’t spell either. Still He prompts. I have finished my first draft. It makes me want to throw up. Now I’ve fought with a painting or sculpture. There are ugly times but I was always in control. I’m not in control with this. Every time I start I have to cry out, “Do this, ‘cause I can’t!”

    I guess my art is now Jesus and what He wants from me. Autumn’s art was beautiful and meaningful and so wonderful and never even close to the perfection of His Love and His plan. My art is the struggle of letting go of what I had planned and instead giving Him my canvas, me, and saying, “Paint, Your Portrait, not mine.”

    So there it is. My word vomit and me all over your blog’s floor.

    Secondly, yes I have more, my heart just does some hurtin’ for those Frenchies. Does yours? I mean I am assuming she was French cause of the language. Which after four years of studying I should have more of a grasp on the French language than cuss words and counting to ten. Anyways, all that that country and those people went through. It seems so rich with sadness but then it seems so happy to still exist. Hmmmm…us after Christ? And then did I catch, Nothing Else Matters (Metallica)? How true!

  13. I had forgotten that I love to write, but I know now that I do. It’s only a piece of what I’m made to do, but sometimes I feel like the drummers in the movie, The Visitor. Like I’m just pounding and sweating over my keyboard or pen, it just pours from my soul and I love that.

    The same thing happens for me in mothering. It just flows. I was made for this. To mother, in a million different ways.

  14. I’ve had this open on my computer since yesterday- meaning to comment. I can not get over how inspiring and amazing that video is! Thank you so much for sharing. Thank God for giving you a voice through your fingers and your heart. Your art.

    Steph

  15. Autumn! I figured you knew by now that all I ever do is throw up on my blog’s floor – happens to be my art. I failed English in 9th grade, by the way, and I also have a degree in it. (Seth said he remembers when you got kicked out of class!)

    I love that I have no idea the language in that video, and I still know what’s going on – maybe not to explain it to someone else – but I know. Something in good art might be familiar.

    I’m still very interested to hear the ways you are artists.

  16. Writing is my first art, my oldest art, the one that is as natural to me as breathing. Words are my paint, the page is my canvas.

    But as I get older, I see that I feel the God-ness in me rise up when I pick up my camera. I love looking at the world He has made through my viewfinder.

    And cooking. Ahhh, there’s a new art for me. The last few years, an evening in the kitchen with some fresh, colorful produce, a sharp knife and some butter and I’m in heaven. My soul sings praise, and the rest of my senses are invigorated.

  17. I’m in awe of your writing. It’s breathtaking.

  18. Oh my. This was incredible. My husband knows some Russian, so he could tell me this was Ukrainian. It doesn’t matter. It was universal. Thank you so much for sharing this. Watching her create a story, her art, with sand was like reading your stories, your art, with words. Moving, mesmerizing, real.

  19. That video moves me. Thank you for sharing it.

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