Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

In most rooms where two or more often gather, there also stands a gray and wrinkled creature, strong and silent, bold and defiant, with a shy, but unwavering gaze.

The elephant in the room?

She has no bias. Conversations come and go. Connections are made. Decisions are determined. Days begin. Days end. She is there.

Good Morning!'s are swapped, cups of coffee are passed, newspapers are unfurled in the favorite chair. Spoons clink in the bottoms of bowls as the last bite is cornered and captured.

Here, the gray and wrinkled creature stands. She does not sleep, therefore...neither does she awaken to be in need of any morning routine.

No one speaks to her. Yet, no one speaks against her, either. When we sit to eat together, which happens less than we used to, she is not invited, but not declined. 

She hovers. Strong and silent. Bold and defiant with a shy, but unwavering gaze.

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I'm not picking on mornings as opposed to evenings, or less in favor of noontime lunching-time. She orbits the routine of food schedules with no greater fervor than all the rest of the ample in-between hours.

She has no appetite, because she is not real. But, she is just as real...most days.

Food is simply where the family tends to gather by habit. We, the family. And, by necessity.

She is no more present in the mornings than any other time of day. Yet, it is then, it is now that she is most visible; in the quiet hours when my eyes have not quite yet adjusted to what is real and what is just the echo of a memory.

My ear is the 1st to hear the rustle of the dogs in the morning. It is my knees that roll first to the edge of my mattress, dropping one foot down and then the other until standing and balanced. One hand reaches forward in the blackness to fumble for one doorknob and then the other until the early-day outdoor breeze can be felt kissing my forehead. The dogs scamper out beyond the glow of the motion sensor light.

The heaviest of our house doors clicks behind me as fingers feel for the stairway rails, then the brick of the fireplace wall, then the arched curve of our kitchen entrance.

Lights are not yet on, but I can sense the presence of my gray, wrinkly friend already. She shifts her weight slightly on her big ankles and I am reminded to not forget. She has no urgent or repetitive needs (with no recourse of messes or barks should I forget), but she refuses to be slighted, no less.

Only here in the kitchen is a light safe to switch on--far enough away from bedroom doors. They like to stay sleeping. I like to be awake in the quiet. Just me, my coffee, my dogs and my...gray friend.

Tired eyes scan for the tiny red light on the coffee maker at the far side of the kitchen...my first instinct destination after fumbling for the fourth light switch from the left and scooping kibble and water into dog bowls.

She waits patiently. She knows she will have my full attention shortly. Her appetite is not easily pacified by two scoops of anything or the tossing of crumbs, anyhow.

My eyelids digress back into tired slits while my hands go into auto-pilot. A hot cup of coffee in my favorite artisan-made ceramic mug. A hot cup. Something to hold on to before...letting go for the day.

I sit. Breathe deep. My eyes have long preferred to open at their own pace while watching steam from my coffee float backlit by the sunrise that is just now beginning to scrape the edges of the farthest field through my east window.

A peripheral twitch beckons my attention.

My gray friend's tail flickers like she is swatting away a fly--as nature and instinct does. But, there is no darting dark speck in the low light. And, there is no buzz.

Her trunk begins to sway, betraying the wrinkles and age of a once-younger matriarch. She has seen a lot. But, as is the virtue of her nature, she has her memory, just as I have mine.

She is trying to get my attention with the feign of the swatting tail and the swinging trunk. I know it and she knows it, too. She knows full well what will make my head turn away from watching my short-lived moment of peace rise into the sky with the shining colors that go with it.

My instinct to be courteous causes me to look away from the beauty of today's sunrise. In that moment, her memories become mine.

I remember again.

    Memories flood back.

        Wistful empathy of days gone by.

The sunsets of yesterday too soon take the place of my sunrise for today.

The quiet hour has been cornered and captured.

    Like the last clinking spoonful of cereal.

She smiles a wordless smile. She had done her job.

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I do not consider myself gifted in knowing what to say.

More often, when the need arises to brain-draft good words quickly when someone spills their hard times into my ear, the only words that come to mind--that roll off my lips--are exactly an apology for having no words at all.

"I don't know what to say. There are no right words." Then, I tend to strike a shy and unwavering gaze, just like my gray friend.

Wether it is a death, a loss, a disappointment, a journey that ended too soon, the end of an era, a stagnating of identity, a pining for lost glory-days, a prodigal child, unwanted isolation, wistful memories with a voice that drowns out lighthearted laughter, fatigue of caregiving, denying personal interests in light of enabling our children, calloused empathy from an overextending grasp...we all have our elephants that wordlessly steal our peace with their sheer size and presence.

We, also, (I, also) overextend their welcome in the name of loyalty.

Read over that paragraph again. Where do you place yourself?

Deeply ingrained in the tapestry threads of each or any, or an ongoing accumulation of many, are the truths of the directive of Jesus. We are called to...

Love and keep loving,

    hope and keep hoping,

believe the best in others and keep believing,

    seek and keep seeking,

forgive and keep forgiving,

    help and keep helping,

give and keep giving,

    try and keep trying,

keep putting others in front of ourselves.

Even as we do, the human reality is that we don't forget the hard stuff. We are stretched thin. Our gray friend in the room grows larger and larger even though she never actually eats.

For me, it is the quiet hours of the morning--really only a few quiet minutes of the morning--when my peace is less diffused, like vanilla extract straight from Mexico untainted by fake flavors or a long American shelf life. It's just better for cooking and better for eating.

With the incoming coffee comes the slow awakening. I remember again and quite quickly the worries that stole my peace yesterday, and many yesterdays ago, too. Am I the only one with a large gray friend?

There is one question I have found I am able to put words to when a friend is going through a hard time. After the initial, "I don't know what to say." 

"Where do you find your peace? And, what is stealing it from you?"

It is one I have learned to ask myself, too. And one that Jesus asked those who followed Him to identify.

As anyone knows too well who has ever marinated in the contemplative aftermath of emotions, these are things we don't "get over".  These are only things we can only hope to learn to live with and tame like a a large and leashed wild pet in close and too-familiar confines.

We learn to cohabitate with our losses and hurts, worries and falling-shorts, like an elephant in the room. Every day. Every morning. Every time life triggers memories, peace is stolen.

The act of being stolen from is often imagined as a quick and stealth swipe--a sudden awareness of absence. My gray friend and I will argue that when peace is stolen, as opposed to a physical object, it can be as subtle as a turning of the head. It is a slow turn, a slight veering of attention that changes the trajectory of a steadfast state of heart.

You choose. I choose. Just don't let your gray friend choose for you or you can kiss your peace goodbye, just like the first morning breeze that hits your forehead when the dogs are let out at first light. And, like the last clinking spoonful of cereal.

Do we choose the sunrise of today, or, the sunset of yesterday?

"And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up." -- Galations 6:9

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A Note from Christi:

"But the picture is a rhino, not an elephant." You say?

"And, the elephant in your story was inside, not outside?" Yes. (Illustration below from a former article.)

To be honest, every article and illustration prayerfully morphs from inception to finish. As I sketched, I felt God wanted to show me a new view; a truer nature. I have long imagined my gray and wrinkled "friend" as an elephant.

Rhinos are also gray and wrinkled, but have different virtues, habits and personalities. Sometimes we view an issue for so long for what it is not, instead of what it is. The truth will set you free. 

Inspired by artwork of Michael C. Phillips, Thailand, my elephant sketch became a rhino (like his below) in the grasslands: a tame rhino that is mine to protect and harbor; a rhino whose horn has been severed, while prayer and perspective has tempered healing by the hand of an Artist of another kind.

A smile and a prayer for your day! -- Christi.

*Special thanks to Michael for permission to share. 

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"We all stumble in many ways. If anyone is never at fault in what he says, he is a perfect man, able to keep his whole body in check. When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. Or take ships as an example--although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go." -- James 3: 3-5