Think on These Things

If any of you read what I write with regularity, I hope the message communicated is one of hope, one of encouragement, and one that might leave you with a grin, if only for that moment. If you do grin, pay it forward, for you never know when it might return to you…

One of the most challenging weeks of my life just closed, as another opens. It seems there are those whose life work is to make another’s quite miserable and obsolete. It seems there are those who thrive on controversy and diminishing the life and work of another.  It seems there are those who are just miserable themselves and know no not what to do with their time, other than to tear another down.

I took sixteen years to write 96 pages a story about my personal pain and loss, a memoir entitled OUTER EDGE OF GRACE. All of us have it, that is, pain and loss. I just chose to write mine down. My challenge is in finding something, anything, in the ashes that can equate to some kind of redemption for all the pain and loss suffered. My pain has been no worse than yours, my losses, most certainly no greater. 

It is in the redemption of all pain, of all that is lost, that I speak of the loudest. It is in truth and beauty found, I hope to never lose sight of again. It is in all color, which crosses my path each day that somehow, someway, offers solace, joy, and peace.

You see, there was a time that I might not have thought so much on redemption, on beauty, on color. There was a time I was consumed with busyness. Busyness was my price tag, and I hope you know that we all have a price tag. It took me much pain and loss to figure out just what my price tag was. It took me years to find peace with all who have worked to inflict pain. It took me years to realize that it is only in the recognition of the forgiveness I have been given that I can be wholly capable of forgiving.

However, the aforementioned lesson continues to be tried and proven as I continue to breathe. I am far from being without blemish. It is in my imperfection that I realize His perfection. It is in my naiveté that I continue to always believe the best, hope the best. It is in my child-like mind of believing that each situation, each encounter with another is a new day, if you will.

What I continue to fall short of realizing is that in some way, we are all jaded. I used to not really know what that means. I never thought about it, for I was too busy to notice another’s pain. My only supposition can be is that it must be a secondary and tertiary reaction to pain inflicted that others become jaded, become mean, if you will. There are some things that I can recognize, but can never understand.

Although I could write for years about all disclaimers regarding myself, of which there are many, it would be a boring, yet colorful litany. However, rather than write about my foibles, I choose to write about the hope I’ve found in spite of them. I choose to capture images that remind me of the eternal hope I’ve been given. It is that Hope alone that I will awake tomorrow realizing that the new day presents opportunity to learn from my foibles of yesterday.

“If there isanything of beauty, anything of good repute, meditate on these things night and day.”

©sarah_beaugez_thinkOnTheseThings~2014

Moscow: Red Square

One night while in Moscow we went to the Moscow circus. It wasn’t like any circus I had ever been to before. There were several rings with different things going on, but the one I remember the most was the one with the elephants.

We had had two interpreters while we were in Moscow. Both were beautiful people and very engaging. While we sat in front of the elephants, one of the interpreters, Svetlana had a spiral notebook of drawing paper. She drew what the elephants did as they did it. I was as spellbound by her ability to draw as I was by the elephants themselves. Never before or since have I seen anyone do what she did. It was almost like animation.

The next day we went to Red Square. Quite a moment to remember as we got off the bus in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral. It was extremely colorful, just as in the pictures I had seen and quite an architectural wonder. It was not a structure that did not demand attention. Awe-inspiring would be the catchword of the day.

Walking across the large square on bricks, so many bricks it seemed never-ending, we made our way to the Kremlin. Such history those walls held and continue to hold; the place where Communist leaders dictated a hard life for the Russian people; disallowing the Russian people freedom in all things. I felt more than one shudder run down my spine. Stalin and Lenon had been inside these walls as dictators to the people of Russia; a dictatorship that crushed the will of the people leaving them devoid of hope.

After Perestroika the Russian people had no point of reference as to how to employ capitalism or any kind of free market enterprise. This was demonstrated upon exiting the Kremlin we walked across the vast brick square to a few retail shops attempting to make money. The shops were eerily devoid of merchandise. It was as though it were a ghost town.

I remember walking out of those shops and just stopping in the middle of the square knowing I could only photograph this scene in my mind’s eye; so many people around me with blank stares seemingly going nowhere. With the Kremlin on one side of the square, St. Basil’s was on the adjacent side. So beautiful was the structure built on the order of Ivan the Terrible in 1555-61; its beauty very telling of the beauty of the Russian people themselves.

Making my way back to the bus, there were several street artists selling their work just outside of St. Basil’s. As I made my way to look at each one’s work, I was in a very somber mood. The contrast of the many faces I had seen was great when I looked at all the color in St. Basil’s. As much as color has pulled me in, I was drawn to a black and white rendering which fit my mood. For ten dollars I bought a beautiful drawing of the Cathedral.

  

Once on the bus, I began to talk to Svetlana about her artwork. I suggested that she send it to me in the States, I would sell it and send the money back to her. She burst into tears and ran off of the bus. I stood with my mouth hanging open wondering what I had said to illicit such a response.

Later, after she had calmed down a bit, I asked her what I had said that upset her so badly. She began to tell me that the government would never allow her to receive any money. They would intercept anything of value. My spirit sank as I realized the iron fist these people were continuing to be under. Although Communism was supposed to be dead, it was not.

My mind went back to the ghost-like terminal and the armed guards. Communism had officially been taken down, but the hearts and the minds of the people were still held captive by reality. Seventy years is a long time and several generations. It would take more than a few years to change the hearts and the minds of the people, but it could not change those who were in a position of power. They would continue to hold onto their ideology, sacrificing the will of the people.

It would be a decade later until I learned just how incredibly artistic the common peasant was in Russia. It was when I purchased a crystal chandelier that I bought in Jackson, Mississippi. I asked the shop owner about the history of the chandelier. Supposedly, a local Russian artist, who made one-of-a-kind pieces for the aristocracy, created it. Appreciating the cut of the glass by the hands of artisan, I learned a lot about glass.

I also learned about how a repressed people survived by appreciating simplistic beauty in all that surrounded them. I learned how very fortunate I am to be an American.