Saturday night, about 10pm

I’m sitting here late in the evening wrapping up a day’s work, serenaded by quiet yet heart-swelling music. Wearing a scarf of deep purple (a new favorite color), I feel rather writerly. I’ve always wanted to be a writer or musician. Throughout my young life I’ve wanted to be many things (architect, actress, cartoonist, animal rescuer, etc.). But the enthrallment with words and music has been there the whole time.

I’ve loved doodling all my life, but every now and then a transitory hope would rise in my heart that indeed, I had it in me to become the next sonnet-writing Shakespeare, the piano-trilling protege of renown. Hours of an afternoon would be spent deep in thought, daydreaming about my myriad ideas and all the possibilities. But somehow the conqueror spirit would leave me discouraged and the scrawled-on pages lost and forgotten.

It’s been a trouble for me, this bog of discontentment I sometimes find myself in. The Sovereign of the universe saw it fitting that He give me a particular gift, and I’ve spent countless hours wishing I had another.

A while back a saw this clip of Maurice Sendak (a famous children’s book illustrator) talk about what it means to be an illustrator: it has given definition to my frustration. Notice what he says 0:53 seconds into the clip. I remind myself of this anytime I feel discouraged about not being a writer:

(Please excuse the momentary curse—to avoid it, mute it from 2:01 to 2:05.)

So that’s what its been! “An illustrator . . . is someone who so falls in love with writing, that the closest he can get to it is illustrating it.”

I’m still slowly learning the how’s and why’s of using art to glorify my King, but it all begins with a thankful heart, praising the One who chose to give the gift.

Silent Night, by Viggo Johnson, 1891

Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!
Christ, the Savior is born
Christ, the Savior is born

Silent night, holy night
Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth

.:. .:. .:.

Listening to Bing Crosby’s Silent Night

I believe I’ve quite recovered from artist’s angst and have two sweet links to share with you.

“The Music Lesson” by Frederic Lord Leighton

Many of you are familiar with the artist Edmund Blair Leighton, but may not know it. He painted many of the most famous historically-themed pieces from the Victorian era, including “The Accolade.” You may also be unaware that he had a tremendous sense of humor, as can be read in his short story, “A Dark Deed.”

I love listening to Christmas music. Don’t you? This season we’ve had the privilege to listen to our friend Prentiss Kendall’s harp CDs, the covers of which Emily designed. Prentiss’s Why This Jubilee? has beautifully filled our house with heavenly Christmas cheer. I highly recommend it to everyone!

.:. .:. .:.

Thank you Heavenly Father for . . .

20. safe 7 hour bus ride

21. nearly butterfly-less performance

22. growing opportunities to minister through music

23. humbling realization that I must always lean on Jesus

24. God’s design for order found in beautiful music

25. fading fall colors

26. violet, frosty mornings

27. fog that clings to unharvested cornfields

28. Japanese maple by the Library

29. red berries

30. pressed leaves

31. time to read more

32. a warm home to clean

33. the God-given need to create, infuse life, and communicate

34. the black and white energy called Bentley that collapses into cuddly naps

35. the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave that we still fight for today

36. hearts of our forefathers that were wholly dedicated to the Lord

37. dangerous sea voyage and sacrifice of the Pilgrims

38. Providence of God in the forming of Plymouth plantation

39. . . . and Jamestown

40. . . . and our country

.:. .:. .:.

Mid-November I was listening to a piece of music that inspired my current art project. I drew a quick sketch of a little girl who was running home just before a rainstorm broke loose. Just as she passed over the bridge, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. She briefly stopped, just in time to catch the glimmer of something in the grass.

I wanted to make it a large drawing in full color. I decided on colored pencils (Prismacolor) because the original graphite pencil sketch came out so textured, I had to recapture it in a rich and solid medium.

The base of the bridge was a light “wash” of black, slightly erased. Then I added some sandbar brown and Mediterranean blue.

I began layering some light umber, dark brown, lime peel and violet to fill out the stones.

And that’s the beginning of my Madeleine.

For the common things of everyday
God gave man words in the ordinary way.

For the deeper things men think and feel
God gave poets words to reveal

But for the heights and depths no words can reach
God gave man music, THE SOUL’S OWN SPEECH.
~ Anonymous

(This “meterless poem” is my mental image of Bach’s wonderful Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D major. I wrote this merely to record the ideas and feelings I have when I listen to it.)

How the crisp and cool air wraps around like the fragrance of crushed petals, brushing and turning the leaves in splendid moonlight.

And those silent stars - how they sing their nocturnal anthems in the ever-rising ocean-like canopy. Oh, the glory! Is there a depth any deeper than that of the celestial bodies dancing in space? Farther and farther they reach, and all the more I cannot see. Surely their existence is spent in reveling in that Greater Glory, that deeper depth called The King of Glory!

My bare feet slowly touch the cool stepping stones; I am surrounded by violets and columbine traced in silver. The melody of a sleepless frog echoes off the sparkling fireflies. Around the damp grainy shore of the stream, to the slumbering groves my steps turn.

Resting to unearth, reclining to hunt. Nestling in the grass, I hardly mind the damp earth or the falling fog and dew. Nearly in blissful slumber, I sleepily inquire of the heavens how they were made.

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
—
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.
—
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, no doubt, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
—
I end not far from my going forth,
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

-Robert Frost