Good Friday

Now that I'm all caught up, I figure it would be good to not wait a month before posting again. Consistency...that's the goal...

Two weeks ago was was Holy Week. Church wise, Holy Week is my favorite week of the year. It is power-packed with goodness. Sure, I love the Christmas pageant, the Christmas Eve service, the general spirit of Advent, the deep mystery of the Incarnation, the Christmas carols. There isn't much that tops Christmas. But it's Holy Week that houses my favorite service of the year: Good Friday.

Maybe that's weird. Maybe it's strange that I look forward to a service that centers around the death of Jesus, that focuses on His agony and barely even glimpses to Sunday morning so as not to rush too quickly from death to resurrection. Historically, I have not enjoyed Good Friday services. I much prefer the Easter Eve vigil type of service, one that is triumphant and celebratory and even somewhat raucous in its exultation. But for the past two years, my church has celebrated Good Friday in a very particular way. Last year we went through the 7 words of Christ from the cross. This year, we did 8 stations of the cross, following Christ's journey from Pilot's sentence to Jesus' death.

I've been to 3-hour-long Good Friday services where several local churches come together and the pastors each share a mini-sermon on one or two of the last words of Christ. From what I remember, those services were dry and dull and intentionally depressing. Granted, I was young. Even now, I don't really do "sad" well and even less so then when I would rather be skipping around sheep fields in my pigtails than sitting inside a dark church on a beautiful spring day that I had off of school.

But my church goes through these meditations through the eyes of lay people, each sharing their insights and gifts in a different way. Each person has a different perspective, a different way of looking at Good Friday. And even though each person and each reflection is so unique, the service flows together seamlessly, a perfect tapestry displaying the beauty of the body of Christ. It is deeply beautiful and profoundly powerful. This service models what I think the Church should look like, each person using his or her gifts to benefit the rest of the community.

This year, we included several art-based reflections: two drawings and a song. Music is a staple of any Christian gathering, but I loved the presence and valuing of physical art in the service. Recently, Andy Crouch came to Gordon College and spoke about culture-making and the need for the local church to encourage and promote all sorts of making. This is an issue that is very close to my heart. I struggle a lot with what it means to be a Christian artist...not a person who produces art that has outright Christian themes and messaging, but a Christian who is also an artist (or an artist who is also a Christian) and the intersection of those two classifications. I struggle with how so labeled "Christian art" is often of a lesser quality than what those outside of the church are producing. I blame this somewhat on limited resources but Christians are plugged into the ultimate resource: an infinitely creative God. So that is really no excuse. I think the bigger issue is that the church is very good at accepting people's "offerings" of their gifts and encouraging them for trying. This is evidenced by church camp talent shows where the people who get the loudest applause are those who are trying rather than succeeding. We celebrate their courage and their effort. We're good at doing that, and that's good. But I think we fall short in two equally important and equally compassionate areas: 1) guiding people who are not gifted in certain areas toward areas in which they are gifted, and 2) training up and encouraging people who are gifted in certain areas to become more excellent and promoting excellence as a worthy and God-glorifying value. Okay, I'm going to end my soapbox rant there and go back to the Good Friday service...

Last year, I put together a masterpiece I entitled "The Blood Medley." It is an arrangement of all of the best good old Methodist blood hymns: Nothing but the Blood, When I Survey, Hallelujah What a Savior (Yes, I used a song with Hallelujah during Lent. All you good high church people, know that I struggled with this and found it to be unavoidable.), There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood, Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb, and And Can It Be. Because I was working with such quality source material, The Blood Medley is nothing short of brilliant. Solid gold.

My pastor asked me to do The Blood Medley again the next time we did Communion at church. Sadly, though brilliant, The Blood Medley is also very vocally challenging, and it requires two voices, and every time communion rolled around (which is sadly only once a month), either Jason or I was sick and incapable of producing the necessary vocal range for a performance worthy of The Blood Medley in all its glory. This was the case for this year's Good Friday service as well. Sorry, Blood Medley. You'll have to lie dormant for at least another month.

This year, I was asked not to provide a bonus musical number but rather to give one of the actual meditations in song form. My station was the crucifixion, Jesus being nailed to the cross, the thieves on His right and left, the mocking of the crowd. I've been thinking about the song for weeks. I wanted to write a hymn. I had the opening line of each verse and a haunting melody that is probably a combination of several hymn melodies already in existence. I had a framework for what I wanted each verse to communicate. I had a few ideas for words and lines that fit in my rhythmic scheme. So I figured it would be a relatively easy song to write. I would string together some of the best loved phrases from the classic hymns and paint them into a new story. Well, an old story but told in a new way, like those photo mosaics that use tiny photographs to recreate a classic image (like this one)...existing pieces of art used together in a new way to display a grander scheme. So with so many puzzle pieces in hand, I thought this would be an easy song to write. Just put it all together and fill in the gaps. Easy peasy, right? Wrong.

I had the hardest time bringing it all together. I just couldn't communicate what I wanted to communicate. I spent a long time bashing myself on the head with this song. I asked Jason for help. We talked through the significance of the crucifixion, the depths of Christ's suffering, the deep realities of the cross. And the song just wouldn't write. So I walked away from it for a few days, weeks, whatever. And then Good Friday came up and I still didn't have a song for the service that night. So I sat down and I tried again.

It's generally hard for me to get in the spirit of Good Friday. There is a part of me that minimalizes Christ's suffering on the cross because I feel like anything is endurable for a short amount of time, especially when you know it won't last forever and something good will come out of it and you'll be fully restored in the end. In a season marked by an unclear future and purpose--a season in which I feel like swiss cheese and uncertainty is the holes--the cross does not stir the proper emotions of compassion and conviction because Jesus knew it didn't end there. He knew the victory to come. He knew the pain wouldn't last forever. Maybe I'm wrong about that. Maybe His scars still burn with the sins of the world. I don't know. Maybe that's completely theologically off-base. But all that being said, I had a very hard time writing a stirring song about the crucifixion.

So I decided to scrap it all, all the partial verses I had trudged through, the neat little framework I had built. And I added a chorus. A simple, "Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy on me." I ended up scrapping the chorus for the final performance of the song, but it was a necessary starting point in writing the song...the pencil lines behind the sketch that made the whole thing meaningful for me. And I started writing.

As I wrote, I was called to remember that the hands and feet that bore the nails belonged to a Person. And not just any person...a Person who performed miracles with those very same hands and feet. I thought about the people He healed, the children He encountered, His gentle touch as He imparted healing and love and forgiveness for sins. I remembered the places He walked, the dust He gathered on His sandaled feet and the hems of His robes. I remembered that He was a person. A person who went places and did amazing things. And how tragic it was for His followers, His friends, the world, to lose such a person as that to a bloody and humiliating death.

I remembered the mocking. I condemned the mockers for their impudence and audacity. How dare they shout curses at a dying, seemingly helpless man, let alone a man they bowed down and worshiped days before? I was angry at them. Disgusted. Ready to call down fire from heaven.

I wanted to remind those people about just Who it was that they were crucifying. I wanted them to know that they were killing and cursing the Person who gave them life and held more power than they could imagine. I wanted them to know that He was innocent and they were guilty. And that's why He was dying before their eyes.

And then I tried to imagine the baseness and hardness of heart that would stir those people to be so angry and cruel. I thought about their expectations of Messiah, their oppression from the Romans, their hope that He would come and free them from years of subjection and derision and restore them to a favor with God that would be witnessed and feared by their captors. They wanted justice, violent and triumphant justice. They expected a conquering King. And He was finally there. They knew the kind of power He had displayed. And then they saw Him hanging on a cross, giving up on the cause, not fighting back...silent like a lamb being led to slaughter. Powerless. Weak. A failure. Their deepest longings, all their hopes and expectations, all the ways they dreamed the prophesies would be fulfilled, were hanging on a Roman cross. And to them, that meant that this man was not the Christ as He had claimed to be. And to lie about something so sacred, to manipulate their deepest and most heartfelt expectations, was a sin guilty of a public and torturous death. I don't know anger or indignation that would compel me to mock a dying man. But I do know what it's like to have an expectation of what it will look like when God shows up, to feel as though He has promised me grand deliverance, and to have my hopes thoroughly disappointed. I know that it doesn't make me sad. It makes me angry. It makes me question who God says He is. It makes me feel as though I am entitled to a more powerful God. And now I know, that when I demand anything of God other than Who He is and what He does, it makes me just like those people shouting at Jesus to come down off the cross and save Himself. He could have. But He didn't. And those people are the reason. I am the reason. He cared more about saving me than about sparing Himself. His desire and passion for a restored relationship with His creation was greater than the pain, the shame, the death. And that is why the cross is a symbol of strength and of victory. Because He was able to forsake and restrain His power and to love a twisted and corrupted people and to say, "Father, forgive them. They don't know what they're doing."

And it is in that spirit that I wrote this song and that I now share it with you. Without any further ado, I give you my Good Friday offering...

"They Nailed My Jesus to a Cross"


They nailed my Jesus to a cross.
They nailed His hands and feet,
The hands that made the leper clean
And caused the blind to see,
The feet that walked upon the waves,
Those wondrous feet and hands
now covered with Messiah's blood.
Behold! The Son of Man.

They nailed my Jesus to a cross,
A thief on either side.
And all around the crowd demands
My Lord be crucified.
He could have called the angels down
So justice would be served,
But He Himself bore all the wrath
Their guilty souls deserved.

They nailed my Jesus to a cross,
God's one and only Son,
Light of the world, the Word made flesh,
The Christ, the Holy One.
Behold Him now, the mighty King,
His glory veiled in shame.
My Lord was broken and condemned
Though I deserve the blame.

I nailed my Jesus to a cross.
'Twas I who drove the nails
With all my sin and all my pride
And all the ways I've failed.
Yet Jesus looks down from the cross,
So ready to forgive.
He says, "My child, do not fear.
I died so you could live."


Once again, this is a weak and partial half-disclosure. Without the intro, the melody, Jason's brilliant piano accompaniment, this is just a poem, and not an excellent one at that. I felt bound, limited within the constructs of the song. There's so much more I wanted to communicate. I found myself repeatedly complaining, "There just isn't enough room!" Maybe the chorus would have helped that. Maybe not. But there you have it. Another song. My 3rd in 8 weeks of this 2nd year of weekly makes. I've had one awful, one brilliant, and one good enough. Which is exciting to me after a full year of creativity unmarked by music. I might finish this song with a resurrection verse. Maybe not. We'll see. I think if I went back to it, I would feel the need to edit, which is not fun for me, so I probably won't. But the song served its Good Friday purpose. And it gave Jason and I another opportunity to play an original song together, which I just loved. So I am satisfied.

Show #5

So back at the end of February, there was another Kalos coffee house. This one was to celebrate the 2nd issue of the arts journal put out by the seminary community. The theme was "Light." Here is the post about my submission to the journal. I had both of my cathedral window wall-hangings on display:
The night before the coffee house, I still didn't have any way to hang either wall-hanging, so I was working on sewing sleeves on the back to hold a dowel so they could hang. And then the power went out. So there I was, sitting on the living room floor, hand-sewing by candlelight. It felt so lovely and colonial. (But I must tell you...my candle-light stitching was far from impeccable.)

I got some really positive reactions to my cathedral windows. People seemed to like them. But it is a little difficult because I'm the only person who has submitted any sort of textile anything to the 2 editions of Kalos so far. So I don't know if people really get what I'm doing or not, if they see what I do as "art." I guess it doesn't really matter because these cathedral windows are really important to me and grew me in so many ways. Even so, I do hope that a fellow sewer or crafter of some sort steps up for the next issue. There are quite a few talented writers and photographers who contribute to the journal, but I think a little more diversity of media would make it better. Just my opinion.

This time, the coffee house was in a smaller, darker room, with strings of lights hung overhead. The feel was much cozier than the first coffee house, which was held in the great hall, which has terrible acoustics and is not really conducive to listening or focusing attention on the stage. Once again, I played in the open mic section of the evening. (I'm not sure what one has to do to be a part of the "regular program," but I'm not going to get into that right now.)

I asked Jason to play with me, which was a great call. I know that I'm capable of performing by myself, but when I do, all I can think about afterward are the many mistakes I made on the guitar which then made my voice a little shaky for a beat or two. It's fun for me to share my songs, but it's much more fun to have a little back-up. Enter Jason. Jason and I have tried to play my music together before. It's always been a little frustrating and slightly awkward because so many of my best songs were from a period when our relationship was really shaky, and the main content is about not wanting to marry Jason. I write from emotional overflow, so tumultuous times produce stellar songs out of me. But it makes it hard to include Jason in those songs.

I've never wanted to do music by myself. That has never been part of the plan. So I decided to try to incorporate Jason for this coffee house and just see how things went. He is a much better guitar player than I am, and our voices blend quite nicely, so there was no reason we couldn't make it work.

I flipped through my journals and songbooks to try to figure out what songs to play. Light is one of my go-to metaphors so I had quite a few to choose from. I stumbled upon this song I remembered starting a few months ago and was surprised to see it edited and finished. I don't remember doing that. It's called "Run that Darkness Down," and it is currently one of my favorite RGO's (Robin Giberson Originals)...right up there with "Orion" and "Bouncy Ball in a Blender." It saddens me that I can't upload sound clips on blogger. It seems wrong to have the lyrics here without the music. Don't get me wrong--I think they stand alone just fine, but the song is a much better experience when heard. Oh well. So as to try to include you in this lovely bit of songwriting, here are the lyrics:

Somewhere the sun is rising.
I don't know why it's hiding.
I wish it would ride out with banners flying high.
And with his tail between his legs
The dark would quickly run away
Cutting his losses, mumbling curses as he fled.
And I...I would run that darkness down.
Oh and I...I would run that darkness down.

Somewhere a breeze is blowing.
I don't know where it's going.
But if it's warm, I wish it'd pick me up on the way.
And without one backward glance
You know that I would take my chance
That breeze would carry me to a brighter kind of day.
Oh and I...I would ride out on the wind.
Yes and I...I would fly out on the wind.

It's hard to fight against the sleep
That's making all my darkest dreams
Seem like they're really real and coming after me.
So I will just turn on the light
And I will let that light fight
All of my battles 'til the morning rescues me.
And on that day...I will run that darkness down.
On that day...I will run that mean old darkness down.
Yes and I...I will run that darkness down.
Oh and I...I will run that darkness down.


So there you have it. A song that I have written in the recent past that isn't awful. Quite the contrary...I'm really proud of this song. It isn't too deep or profound. It's just a really fun song to sing and to play and it brings a little hope and sunshine to my cloudy days and instantly improves my mood. Songwriting success. Way to go, Robin.

So Jason and I played this song and "Oh Little Forgotten," aka "My Sparrow Song." I wrote that one back in my junior year of college. It's loosely based on the Matthew 6:25-34 and 10:29-31 passages that tell us not to worry because God cares about us more than the sparrows and they do just fine. That's not really the tone of the song, but that's the basic message. The tone is more, "Stop being so scared. Get up out of your ashes. God has not forgotten you. He is here even now." It's a message I need to hear continually, and this song has been really helpful in reminding me of the truth of God's presence and love and provision and challenging me to believe He is here.

So back to the coffee house...Jason and I played these two songs. He played guitar on both and sang harmony for "O Little Forgotten." And it was the most fun I've had playing music since CMC. It all went so smoothly, and I didn't have to worry so much about my guitar playing or my vocal tone because Jason had my back. So I could just focus on the words of the songs and the truths they communicated. I could just sing those truths to my soul and enjoy being filled up with them.

We got quite a good reaction, which is always my least favorite part. (I never get nervous or start to shake until it's over.) But I was pleasantly surprised when several different people asked us if we play out often at other places. We do church stuff together but never stuff like this. So that was encouraging that we seemed like we did it all the time. And one guy even came up to me to tell me that "Don't Mess with Me" was the highlight of the last coffee house. I was completely floored by that...mostly that he remembered "Don't Mess with Me" and that I was the person who did it. That was way back in October!

So this is a very long post to say that I really enjoyed the February Kalos coffee house. I'm excited to see what the next theme is. I've decided I'm going to submit a song in addition to whatever else I do to see if that'll get me into the non-open-mic portion of the night. And I'll definitely be doing more of my music with Jason from now on. And I'm excited about "Run that Darkness Down." I wish you could hear it!!

I'll Go

Two weeks ago was was my first make of my new year. (It seems that I'm not starting off the year with great timeliness in posting.) With that in mind, I felt a little pressure to be grandiose in what I chose to make. I wanted it to set the tone for a new year in which I would do bigger and better things that the year before. I also thought I should probably make something Valentine's Day oriented. I got a little stage fright knowing that (due to Jason's embarrassing promotional email--which he sent without my permission and much to my nausea-inducing chagrin) there are new people tuned into what I'm doing here. It's a pressure I hadn't experienced before in relation to this little happy place. I didn't feel up to it. I felt deflated, exhausted, embarrassed, and stressed out. To make matters even slightly more complicated, Jason and I were house-sitting. And that meant that whatever I was going to make, I would have to plan ahead and bring all of my materials and equipment with me. So that put sewing and cooking out of the question. I didn't want to bore you with yet another crochet motif, and I'm still working on the granny square blanket, which just might take me the rest of my life to finish. I didn't want to color or paint. And I wasn't inspired to felt or embroider anything. So where does that leave us?

Looking back over the past year, I was shocked to see that not a single song was included in my weekly makes. How could this be? Am I not a self-proclaimed songwriter? I wrote a poem. I wrote an essay. But not a single song. Enter identity crisis and crippling despair.

If you read my post on Hope, you know that I feel like music needs to be a part of whatever direction my life is taking. I didn't elaborate there, so I'll do so here. I hardly ever listen to music. Ever. I always have a song playing in my head, so I rarely feel the need to fill the quiet with music unless I am singing along to my own internal soundtrack. I think this is part of the reason I've always written songs, even when I was little. I would walk around outside, and I would sing about what I saw, whatever popped into my head. I did it for the joy of singing and expressing myself and praising my Creator. I did it to give release to my need for the dramatic, which I have always held inside of me. I did it out of a desire to make something up that wasn't there before. I formed the habit before music was quite so mobile. If I was going to have music with me all the time, I would have to make it myself. And I did. I've done it for as long as I can remember.

But over this past year of disciplined and regular creativity, I have not been writing songs. The reasons for these are long and boring and over-trudged. But one that I haven't really talked about is that I have always written from the whim of the moment. And for all those trudged-over reasons, I have not really been open to whims of the songwriting variety.

But open or not, music is a part of me. And it's something I would like to be reconciled to. So I've been listening to more music. I know that music has a great power for mood shifting, so I've been listening to my old Christian CDs. The good ones from back in the junior high/high school days when I used to buy Christian music: Caedmon's Call (self-titled), Skillet (Hey You, I Love Your Soul), Ginny Owens (Without Condition), Sonicflood (self-titled), etc. It's been really helpful to start my day on the way to work with songs about the goodness of God, the reality of my condition, the hope I have in Christ.

I decided that if I were going to start writing again, I would need to reject the snobbery of the hierarchy of subtlety over blatant Christian messaging in my music that I adopted back in the fall of 2005. And with the beginning of this new year of weekly makes, wanting to incorporate music, feeling impossibilities in every other medium, and knowing it was about time, I wrote a Jesus song.

I debated just telling you about it and not sharing it with you. Because I wanted my first week to be something grand and wonderful, and this is...well...not. I knew that my first serious attempt at songwriting in years would not hold the former brilliance I once possessed. I know this is not a good song. The rhymes are lazy. The lyrics don't take you anywhere from the beginning to the end. The structure is sloppy. The chords are boring. And the melody is cliche and stupid. For all accounts and purposes, I really don't like this song.

But. To hide it from you would be to deny the purpose of this blog, which is to include you in my creative journey. And to be an honest account, I must include my failures as well as my victories, the things I am proud of and the things I would rather not grace with my signature. I wish I could give you a song that expressed my current state with some greater magnitude and skill. But my songwriting muscles have atrophied, and I have a feeling that it will be a long journey back to where I used to be. In the mean time, there will be quite a few craptastic songs. And this is one of them:

I'll Go

My steps have been my own.
I've wandered far.
My feet have taken me
Deeper, deeper into the dark.

I am lost, and I can't see.
It's time that You take the lead

Chorus:
I'll go
Where you want me to go.
I'll follow if You'll lead.
Say that You'll lead me.
I'll stay
Where You tell me to stay.
As long as You keep on loving me,
I'll do it Your way.
I'll do it Your way.

I'm holding all my failures
With open hands.
I'm done with my excuses.
I'm out of plans.

I am tired, and I'm confused.
It's time to follow You.

(Chorus)

You are life, and You are light.
You are faithfulness and truth.
You are mercy. You are might.
I will ever trust in You.

(Chorus)

(Blogger doesn't have a way to upload sound clips, so you'll just have to imagine what it sounds like. Maybe that way you'll imagine it's better than it actually is.)

I think part of the problem is that even while I was writing this song, I knew it was a lie. I feel that even more blatantly now that I'm looking at it in retrospect and sharing it with "the world" as an expression of what's going on in my heart. The reality is that I am weary. And I have tried to direct my own steps, all the while thinking that I was being faithful to God's direction. I find myself without clear purpose or calling or identity, and I know now that part of the reason for that is that I have been fighting for everything that I want and motivated by the fear that I will never get any of it. I know now that God is for me, that He's been trying to show me that this life of fears and fighting will only wear me down. He wants to free me from the bondage I've created around my heart, the walls of protection I've made for myself that feel increasingly like a prison. I see all that now, and I am moving towards a place of trust, a place where I will be able to say, "I'll follow if You'll lead." But I'm not quite to the place where I can say, "I'll go where You want me to go. I'll stay where You want me to stay."

Perhaps the most honest line of this song is, "Say that You'll lead me." But if I am completely honest, that desire is speckled with, "Say where You'll lead me." And then I'll decide. Unfortunately, that is not generally the way that God works. He requires total surrender, total devotion, total trust, and then He shows You what's next. When God reveals His plans, it's generally not in the context of "Check yes or no." Once He's shown You, that's the path. I'm not going to get into the theological arguments behind this...all the sovereignty and predestination and free will nonsense. I only mean to say that until my heart is fully surrendered to God, the fact is that I don't really want to know what He wants. Because I'm scared that I won't want it, and where will that leave me? Alone. Further isolation and despair. Because once I have turned my back on God's plans, I am entirely abandoned to my own. And mine--when they are even existent--are pretty lousy. But in this lovely little agonizing state of limbo, I can pretend to want what God wants, all the while grasping the illusion of control.

So all that, in addition to the technical shortcomings of this song, is why this song isn't good. It's not honest. And honesty is my highest goal and virtue in the realm of songwriting. It is my barometer. And maybe that, more than anything else, is why I haven't been able to write songs in a long time. It has been years since I have had the eyes to see the honest state of my heart. It's a scary place at the moment. Too much regret, too many doubts, too many fears, too much uncertainty--the bad sort of uncertainty that steals away opportunities and blinds you to the possibility for a happy outcome. But if I'm going to be an artist of any kind, I can't be content to sew a couple seams and call it done. I need to go to the dark and scary places that stretch me beyond my current skill and past my safe boundaries. I need to start asking myself, "Is this honest?" And no, this song is not.

Unfortunately, I've never been a good editor of my own songs. I'm too emotionally connected to them to swing an axe where it needs to be swung. In my past life as a songwriter, I leaned heavily on initial inspiration for the quality of my work. I don't think this song has too much potential, so I didn't agonize over it too much. But if you have any ideas about how it can be better, I welcome your feedback. Unless your feedback is, "Robin, I love this song. It's the best song ever. You're so brilliant. Blah blah blah." Because this is not the caliber that I expect from myself, and it would not be helpful for me to have it reinforced, thus lowering my standards. So constructive criticism, come one, come all. Gushing is strictly forbidden.

Show #1

And the updates keep on coming...
2 Fridays ago, I had the Kalos coffee house. I brought my tree wall-hanging and a few embroidery hoop fabric collages (a name which I made up and am quite proud of because that's exactly what they are). Here is a picture of the hoops:
You'll probably recognize the big one as the crazy quilt square I made a few weeks back. I'm planning to sell this set and more like it at the upcoming Cranberry Fest in Chatsworth, NJ.

For the most part, my little creations were well received, especially my tree wall-hanging. I don't know if people really understood my fabric collages because they're meant to be wall art, but they were placed on a table...which kind of made them look a little silly, as if they weren't really finished.The event itself was really fun. We got to hear some really good music and some...other music. :o) There were some really amazing pieces on display (my favorites belonged to Jen and Chris Anderson, who displayed prints from linoleum and copper etchings, respectively). The Kalos journal turned out beautifully. And there was an excellent turn out, probably about 300 people. By the time I got to play during the open mic portion, that number had dwindled quite a bit. For those of you who are familiar with my music, I played "Ebony" and "Don't Mess with Me." My guitar playing was a little sloppy, but it had probably been about a year since I'd done that sort of thing, so on the whole, I was sufficiently satisfied with the performance, and I'm glad I did it. You can hear "Don't Mess with Me" here. For some reason, my myspace page looks all funky, but the music player still works.

The show was a little bitter sweet for me. I had a bit of a "fan base" from my friends from the seminary--you guys rock! thanks for your support!!--but for the most part, the people who got the best reactions during the "open mic" section of music were the people who were...on the other side of awesome, and I think it's a shame that people find it so necessary to rave over the courage of minimally talented people and end up encouraging mediocre performances. Maybe that makes me a bad person. It probably makes me selfish. I just want people to listen to my music, to really hear it and appreciate it. But the truth is that for the most part, people don't really listen unless they already have an invested interest in me. And that's hard to come to grips with because I never know if my stuff is any good or if people are just complimenting my music because they're my friends and that's why they like it.

Oh well. I saw the remake of Fame a few weeks back with a friend of mine. It basically comes down to this depressing moral: you can have either fame or a meaningful personal life. You have to throw away all your relationships in order to be successful in performing arts. You can't have both.

A part of me still wonders what would have happened if I would have been brave enough to pursue music and songwriting. My life would have been drastically different, and it's easy to fantasize that I would have been so much happier to be living my dream, even unsuccessfully. But I know I would have had to sacrifice in other areas...big areas that are really important to me. So even though the movie made me all sad and nostalgic for my days being part of a lively and challenging artistic community, it was comforting to see other people (albeit fictional people) fail because they chose relationships over success, rather than some big romanticizing, fairy tale portrayal of the performing arts (which is what I expected it to be).

Wow...this post got all depressing. I just wanted to show you all my fabric collages and give you an update on the coffee house. Sorry for the existential despair. :o/ More lively and chipper crafting posts coming soon, documenting the results of the nothing-to-sell-at-upcoming-craft-shows panic. :o)

Little Go-oats!!!

I found this Mighty Big Giveaway link on Soule Mama. It is for 5 angora goats and a little barn in which to house them. Now, the fact of the matter is that I would love to have 5 angora goats and a little barn in which to house them, but I'm not even allowed to have a goldfish on campus. Seriously. Not. Even. A. Goldfish. But this giveaway was much too cool to pass up. So I thought that my mom might like to own some angora goats. Because that's a cool thing to do that I don't think she's done yet. So I entered her into the giveaway with this essay, which I now include for your reading enjoyment:

Our story begins in 1975 when Niki Negus began working at Towne of Historic Smithville in South Jersey. Although she was raised in Princeton where her father was a professor of graduate level 18th century German literature, Niki had found her way to folk and fiber arts at Stockton College, where she majored in Early American Crafts and Culture, a combination of art, history, and business. She had originally intended to be an animal behavioralist, but upon failing chemistry, she took a year off from her studies to apprentice under a weaver and spinner in Batsto, New Jersey, learning all sorts of wonderful things about fibers and how to turn them into something new. So after developing a new major and upon graduation, she found her way to the Towne of Historic Smithville. Smithville was a community of craftspeople and actors designed to transport people back in time to the Federalist Period of American history. Niki was hired to be a demonstrating weaver and spinner. She dressed in period costume and worked her craft while talking to visitors as if she were from 1825. Our story begins here in Smithville because this is where she met Gary Giberson, who was the demonstrating duck decoy carver at the village. Gary was a talented artist and a natural performer. Niki was thoroughly captivated by him as he spoke to the crowds, carving away on his schnitzelbank (a traditional carving bench). Gary soon took a liking to Niki and began courting her in costume. He would bring her wildflowers and chocolate eclairs, and to give himself an extra edge, he would sneak into her studio and take a wedge out of her loom so that it shook while she was weaving. Naturally, she would have to call on the village carver to fix it, and he would whittle a wedge on the spot that was the perfect fit. She was very impressed, unaware that Gary knew what size to carve the wedge because he had taken out the original. Before too long, the two fell in love and were married. Niki joined Gary on his property in Port Republic, New Jersey, a 33 acre plot of land, which has been in his family since 1680 when it was granted to his ancestors by the King of England. The couple started a family and worked for the owners of Historic Smithville, even after it closed.

In 1986, Niki received a phone call saying that her great aunt Millie was dying in Florida and she would have to fly down right away if she wanted to say goodbye. So Niki and Gary packed up their three girls (Amy, Megan, and Robin) with all their favorite toys, brought them to their grandparents' house in Princeton, and flew down to Florida, leaving Gary's eighteen year old son Gregg (Niki's step son) alone in the house. In the middle of the night, the wood-stove overheated and the house caught on fire. Thankfully, Gregg was able escape safely, but before the fire company arrived, the house was ablaze. The walls burned from the inside out, leaving the house completely in ruins. Upon the family's return to Port Republic, they found that there was little left of the home where Gary was born and had lived all his life. Where could they even begin? The people of Port Republic all came together to support the Giberson family. They found them a house to rent in Port Republic. They made meals for them and donated food and clothes. They threw a shower for the family, giving them pots and pans and grocery store gift certificates and furniture and everything else they needed. The Gibersons were overwhelmed with gratitude. As they began to rebuild, they wanted to give back to the community that came to their aid in their darkest hour. So they decided that instead of putting back the original house, they would add a classroom where Niki and Gary could teach others the crafts and skills and history that had brought them together. So in 1988, Swan Bay Folk Art Center was born. Out of their new home studio, Gary taught decoy carving, and Niki taught basket-weaving classes. (She had to retire her loom when her oldest daughter relentlessly played it like a harp.) They taught classes for children, teaching history through hands-on activities: sewing, carving, colonial games, tea parties, doll-making, and shorebird painting. They cleared some land and put up fences for a small flock of sheep so that Niki could give spinning demonstrations and the children that visited could feed the sheep. Gary and Niki's three girls even joined in by teaching alongside their parents and helping to care for the flock. From the ashes of the 1986 fire, a whole world of discovery and artistry was born, and traditional crafts were rediscovered and shared with new generations.

This is the environment in which I was raised. My name is Robin, and I am the youngest of Gary and Niki's girls. My parents always encouraged us to find our passion, follow it, and share it with others, and I am deeply thankful for their encouragement to live outside of the box and to trust history and tradition to point us in the right direction. I will always feel a debt of gratitude to my parents, and especially to my mom, for their example and for the skills that they have taught me. My mother has taught me to spin and knit and felt and dye, all from the wool from our own sheep. She has welcomed me into the rich history of fiber arts and traditional crafts. Just about everything I know, I learned from her. So when I saw this giveaway, I felt that I should enter in my mother's story, hoping that her passion for history and fiber arts would be as inspiring to you as it has been to me. After twenty years of caring for a small flock of sheep, I know that my mother would be ecstatic to add angora goats to her farm. Not only will she be able to diversify the fiber crafts she creates; she will also care deeply for the animals, as she does for everything she touches. I cannot think of a more appropriate way for me to show my gratitude to her than by offering you this story, in hopes that you will award my mother--a richly experienced, equipped, and deserving shepherdess--with the angora goats.

Swan Bay Folk Art Center is still in operation today (www.handsonhistory.com). Although Gary has mostly retired from carving due to arthritis in his wrists, Niki continues to teach classes to adults and children and hosts school groups and scout troops on the farm.

And because posts are more fun when they have pictures, here are a few for your viewing enjoyment:

I'll keep you posted about the giveaway. I think that people get to vote on the winners, so I'll be counting on you when the time comes to get my mom some goats!
Little shee-eep, get ready for some new roommates! :o)

Update: I just read on the blog that's hosting the giveaway that there were 61 applicants for the goats! I still think our chances are good. I'll keep you posted.

A Sonnet for my Tree

Last week's make was inspired by a new goal I have set for myself: to read all of Shakespeare's plays by the time Jason finishes seminary. I decided to do this for two reasons: 1) because my exposure to Shakespeare is embarrassingly thin and 2) to slow the intellectual atrophy that ensues from a job that is not intellectually challenging. So far, I've read The Tempest and The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and I'm working on Troilus and Cressida. Reading so much iambic pentameter moved me to write a sonnet last week. But what to write about? I decided since I've already developed the metaphor of my tree--and since it's such an apt metaphor for my life at the moment--to write a sonnet about that. It's definitely not the most brilliant piece I've ever written. My writing is rusty. But the point was just to write something, start to finish. So without further disclaimer or ado, here it is:

I've heard it said, "The fruit defines the tree."
What shall we say when branch and leaf and root
Are all the measure that our eyes can see?
How shall we name the tree without the fruit?
We may be tempted to assign the blame
Of lacking crop to inactivity
And say the tree does not deserve a name
If idle is what it decides to be.
But if this is our verdict, we despise
The very work by which the fruit is won:
How desperately the root for water cries,
How faithfully the sapling seeks the sun.
If day by day, the tree is slowly grown
In season, by its fruit it will be known.