"I'm the typical"

Come on, can’t I dream for one day

There’s nothing that can’t be done

But how long should it take somebody

Before they can be someone?

~

‘Cause I know there’s got to be another level

Somewhere closer to the other side

And I’m feeling like it’s now or never

Can I break the spell of the typical

~

I’ve lived through my share of misfortune

And I’ve worked in the blazing sun

But how long should it take somebody

Before they can be someone

~

Cause I know there’s got to be another level

Somewhere closer to the other side

And I’m feeling like it’s now or never

Can I break the spell of the typical, the typical, the typical, uh huh

~

I'm the typical

I'm the typical

Can I break the spell of the typical

Because it’s dragging me down

I’d like to know about when

When does it all turn around

I'm just the typical

I'm just the typical

~MUTEMATH

My sweet friends - passers by - artists - precious ones...

~I have not uttered “why me?” throughout this entire too-many-funerals-many-years ride… not for the 12 days as I sat next to my Mom dying in the hospital - swatting away some of the death-mongering medical staff that deem the elderly spent and useless. I did not utter against God as Mom faced a wicked month in “rehab” (aka a nursing-home-dying-depot)… I didn’t argue that she was handed a mortal blow in the form of a great big engraving across her forehead that read “Metastasic Breast Cancer at age 84 / Doomed” … the “doomed” part was wholley the result of the cruelty of words; the way things are spoken carelessly; the lies that are thoughtlessly sputtered by so many fools.

~I came close to questioning the reactions from extended family members who didn’t get the big picture … and when I tried to get them to spend time with Mom (for their sakes not mine) I was met with my own anger and frustration...a tall hurdle for me. Even when I went through several months of my own head-spinning, breath-sucking cancer testing which resulted in a lumpectomy for my birthday last June - I fought hard to not allow the language of death or the lies so easily spoken by those so well-intended, but oh so ill-informed, to crush me. I separated myself from liars and fools. I have not found comfort in phrases like “why me” ~ not because I am strong or wise, but because it just does not matter. Did Job not say “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him” ?

~God has made His presence known in very real ways to me. He gave me literal messengers and very tangible messages. I am not a flamboyant woo-woo zombie surface-believer type; I am a Christian who is completely reliant on the mercy and grace of God - and He met me in very real ways throughout this very real war I have been plunged into.

~I have come to realize that making it through one monumental battle does not award me the respite of facing less, or better yet, NO more battles. In fact, they seem to get closer and uglier as I move ahead. I am intrigued that the enemy of my soul is frightened enough of my sure and eternal standing in Christ that he attempts to derail me again and again. Loser.

~Am I typical? I am. No trial or temptation or wicked circumstance or foolish voice or insensitive stranger or dark diagnosis has befallen me that is not common to all of us.

~Why then do the song lyrics capture my attention when I hear “Cause I know there’s got to be another level. Somewhere closer to the other side - And I’m feeling like it’s now or never - Can I break the spell of the typical” -- because it is all about how I react and what I do with these very typical, common complaints of life… no matter how many I face and how often. I am called to rise above the typical - to be more than I am right now and be a light in a dark world. “Come on, can’t I dream for one day - There’s nothing that can’t be done, but how long should it take somebody before they can be someone?”

~' I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…' that’s it... however long it takes. period.

...Philippians 4:13

 

xoKatey

Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice that you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed. If you are insulted because of the name of Christ, you are blessed, for the Spirit of glory and of God rests on you. If you suffer, it should not be as a murderer or thief or any other kind of criminal, or even as a meddler. However, if you suffer as a Christian, do not be ashamed, but praise God that you bear that name. For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God; and if it begins with us, what will the outcome be for those who do not obey the gospel of God? And, "If it is hard for the righteous to be saved, what will become of the ungodly and the sinner?"So then, those who suffer according to God's will should commit themselves to their faithful Creator and continue to do good. ~ 1 Peter 4:12-19 (NIV)

~

(The Message): verse 12 - Friends, when life gets really difficult, don't jump to the conclusion that God isn't on the job. Instead, be glad that you are in the very thick of what Christ experienced. This is a spiritual refining process, with glory just around the corner.

(Amplified): verse 12 - Beloved, do not be amazed and bewildered at the fiery ordeal which is taking place to test your quality, as though something strange (unusual and alien to you and your position) were befalling you.

~~

NEXT DAY POST SCRIPT:
Another side to this whole "breaking the spell of the typical" is my continued drive and restlessness to get myself out of this art-rut that captivates and holds me prisoner... where I create in spurts because that is all I am able to do. I have more in me than can get out and the result is more unproductivity than productivty (alot of good intentions left unfinished). It is "now or never" I think - or at least I want to attempt to think that. Life is going to keep happening (thank God, amen). I can look back and see why I haven't accomplished much, but I cannot use that to excuse anything. Life (and death, and accidents, and diseases, and good things too) will continue to come at full speed - right in my face. I am longing to capture all that I can while I can despite the speed of life - so that I can rise above mediocrity... typical ... usual ... average.

POST Post Script (after reading some of the responses here and on FB) I want to emphasize that
I didn't ask "why me" because I am strong or know how to handle difficult things - I am WEAK and FRAIL - and there were times when all I could utter was "Jesus" -- and it was in that weakness He came to me and held me together. In Romans 8:26-28 Paul speaks of the Holy Spirit groaning on our behalf ... I realize now (thank-you Pastor Alistair Begg) that when I had nothing left within myself Jesus was then fully there for me in my nothingness. "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will" ... amen

one year ago today

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Missing my Dad

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My Dad. My Veteran.

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~

wintersong

for any one and every one who knows loss

peace to you this holiday season and always

xo

~katey

My Dad. My Veteran.

Unforgettable - Nat King and Natalie Cole

IMPORTANT:

Press the ARROW symbol ONCE on the screen to play while you are visiting this post ~ thank-you.



He was born in 1924. He marked his years by quarters. He died 23 days ago at age 84 and 3/4s. He was not ready to go, but he walked through the veil into eternity finally surrendering to the Hand of God mere moments after he had dinner and he had a day of visitors in that hospital room. He had a procedure scheduled the next morning. This wasn’t suppose to happen.

God is sovereign. I am not mad at Him, but I am mad at a few other things and people. I didn’t really want to blog about this, yet I have thought of little else lately. I have addressed about 150 envelopes so far, I have become friends with Bud the headstone salesman, Mike the Funeral Director, and a small cast of other characters I never knew existed 23 days ago.

My Dad was not sick. In the days before this happened he insisted on making Mom drive their van around the block just to see if she still could. He made it clear he wanted me to ‘handle things’ and made an official appointment to be sure I did. He made several other eternal gestures that previous week that make us all now stand in stunned silence in hindsight.

"Twilight Regatta" acrylic n canvas board

Maybe it is weird, but inside each thank-you being mailed I tucked in a print of one of my Dad’s paintings. It is certainly one of my favorites. It showed what he was really capable of. It was done as a 4”x6” on canvas board when I had him painting postcard size. I wish it were 4 foot by six foot! I pushed him along through all my own art phases… artist trading card 2.5” x 3.5” size, postcard size, mini inchie size and so on - he always eagerly jumped into whatever whim I presented to him.

He loved the process of making art and waiting on the praise. You see, as artists that is what we do somehow. We make it and wait to see what the world says. Part of the lesson is learning to make it no matter what anyone says, but we still really get charged when there is the tiniest accolade awaiting the other side of the making of it.

My Dad was without question my biggest praiser. My art walked-on-water to him - even if it didn’t. He saw into it - the gift behind whatever I was making. Even if it was only a whiff of an idea… a plan to be rolled out and I was dealing in pieces and parts of a greater thing… he saw the thing too. He got it.

My Dad never made ‘proper’ art that we ever saw growing up, but he was unmistakably an artist. He was constantly moving and making. He was forever tearing apart a car, painting a wall (again and again), painting a car, buying a car to tear apart or paint, building something… dreaming. He rarely finished anything. He could see the end in his own head and sometimes that was enough. He made small pencil sketches when asked by a young daughter (me) or later, young grandson… we knew. Yes, he was an artist always.

Around his 81st birthday I set him up with ‘real’ art supplies. He was championing me in my eBay art selling endeavors and he was just bubbling inside. When he had his own paint, brushes, and the right sizes and kinds of papers and canvases he went to work quickly and prolifically. Many years of dreaming came spilling out. He made it then waited quietly for the praise. I wanted him to be content in the process regardless of praise (or none) - but he found plenty of applause from everyone and his small format art sold well on eBay when I offered it!

He painted nearly 2 years until potential changes in living location prompted his art supplies to be packed away. He struggled with his things gone, but slowly gained them back and bought new things, and began painting again as much as he could. I stopped selling his work after that initial pack-up of his studio since I didn’t know when or if he would paint again. I felt the need to hoard his work after that time knowing it was so limited. It was never the same as in those first two years he painted and made messes so freely, but it was clear once again he was an artist and no one could take that from him.

You can take the studio away from the artist, but you can’t take the soul out of the artist. You were expecting “you can take the artist out of the studio, but you can’t take the studio (art) out of the artist”… but I like my first version better.

The morning my husband was ironing my Dad's clothes for the funeral he noticed red paint on the nice white shirt Mom had given us for Dad to wear. I had to smile as I glanced up at myself in the bathroom mirror near where the ironing board was and saw green paint on the cuff of my own white sleeve.

I am the youngest of six. He was different with me. That is just the way it was. I have observed that where a teenager might have discord with his parents, he finds a special bond with his grandparents. Sometimes I wonder if Dad and I were more like that. We were past the kid-parent contention and more into the grandparent-grandchild magic - maybe because he was 40 when I was born and maybe because I went away to college and didn’t move back to our hometown for such a long time. Maybe it was because I 'got' him (I didn’t agree with him a lot but I got him… and he got me). When we did share a view point (especially about people) - we were like amalgamated metals.

I became the family historian and genealogy researcher about 15 years ago. Dad’s war stories became my war stories. I asked and listened over and over to get them inside of my head. This past July we set up a 10’ x 20’ tent at a local air show - featuring our collection of WWII photos and memorabilia - with Sam telling his experience live-in-person. He was fantastic and he was given the respect and praise so deserved.

He flew 38 missions over Europe in the belly of a B-17 Bomber. He was a waist gunner as well as an occasional tail gunner. I could go on for days telling you his stories.

He was honest. He was fair. He was sensitive. He was blunt.

I really only wanted to say that I miss him and I always will.

He called me Jayne.

~katey~D
http://www.blueyeduckstudios.etsy.com/

Read more about Sam from my previous blog posts.... please look

I wrote a little about him here (personal WWII photos): http://blueyeduckstudios.blogspot.com/2007/10/world-war-ii-thank-you-ken-burns.html

And I featured a little bit about his art here: http://blueyeduckstudios.blogspot.com/2007/06/d-day.html

Goodbye Friend...

I will be your friend...

Every day - and it seems like any time of day, I see a man walking his dog.


Strangely enough there isn't often much walking going on. Rather, the dog is reclined in the grassy treelawn watching cars and the man is standing nearby loosely holding the leash.



No matter morning, noon, or evening the two of them can be seen along a pretty stretch of our street near the woods. I was surprised one day recently to see them on the opposite side of the street, on the bike path, actually walking. The dog was sniffing the well groomed planters along the path.



The man always has on nice clothes. The dog looks absolutely royal. I imagine him (the dog) to be some sort of descendant from some great Japanese Emporer's dog. We first noticed them a few months ago - and our first thoughts were about how regal the dog was.

Seeing them daily - usually many times daily - we began to speculate that there was more to this than simply 'taking a walk'. I suggested that the man was recovering from surgery - and was perhaps a widower. The dog was helping him get out and back into health.



Each day we see them we think about the story of why they are there (since really, there isn't much "walking" going on). The man never smiles. He appears to be in distant thought.



About a week ago we saw the man and not the dog. He was holding a bag, so I thought he was out retrieving the dog's waste (as dog walkers are in the habit of doing around here thankfully).


I saw the man very early this morning. Again, alone.


He had a bag again...


He was sprinkling the dusty contents on the edge of the tree lawn in the woods where he and his regal friend had spent so much time this summer.


It finally dawned on me.






I looked into what sort of dog this beautiful friend was. I am pretty certain he was a Shiba Inu. I see clearly now what sort of friend he had. God Bless the man.