I’m not a tree-hugging granola or anything, but it took me almost 10 minutes to shred all of the junk mail credit card offers I received in the mail a few days ago, and it leaves me to wonder how many trees we kill every year in the name of the precious dollar.
There’s a dangerous line that Believer artists walk, I think. Or any artist, for that matter. Because we love what we create. Each of my poems or scripts or stories becomes sort of a child to me, and I’m fiercely protective of it, of its inherent integrity as a creative work, regardless of its quality. I become instantly at odds with the community of faith to which I belong when I hear the phrase, “hold your gifts loosely.” Yet, if you’ve ever had one of your scripts come to life before you on the stage..if you’ve ever experienced what’s holy about that…then you’re quick to ward off any perceived attacks to it, however well-intentioned they are. Our passion that makes what we’re writing/painting/acting/playing the most important thing in the world at that moment is a mystery to others, who like to say things like “presenting Jesus is really the most important thing,” and, “…but its not about you.” If only they knew…
I read a fascinating post this morning about an artist who recognized her perpetual state of standing against the status quo.
The ability of music to connect us to our memories never ceases to amaze me. Whatever it is about those carefully crafted sound waves that causes all of the electricity to fire in our brains, it takes me a bit by surprise when I encounter a song from my distant past and the rush of memories it brings.