Compost Studios

Seascape Number One

She was restless,  then tense,  riding a wave of emotion pushing up and out of her chest.

Her head falls forward. She covers her face with her hands.

Nothing to do but cry now. There's no turning back.

Her throat is constricted.  She can't swallow any more disappointment. She's full.

Full and yet empty. The great paradox.

In the last year her life has been dismantled piece by piece, and each time she's been close to rebuilding it, teetering on the cusp of normality, Fate has knocked her down again.

She is a woman drowning in slow motion, bobbing to the surface but never catching her breath. She is out of her depth.

She is weary of the relentless waves, the currents pulling her out to sea, the loss of footing, the salt burning her eyes.

She is tired.  So very tired.

Not just tired of dealing with her misfortunes, but tired of giving herself away, of tossing her words into the wind, of pouring her time and talent into a sandy pit, of watching the tide rise and erase her. 

The water is getting higher.

She is stuck treading water, always waiting for a sea change.

Waiting for children.

Waiting for things to be clean.

Waiting for things to be fixed.

Waiting for rescue.

Waiting for a message.

Waiting for a reason.

Waiting for approval.

Waiting for gratitude.

Waiting to be seen.

Waiting to be loved.

Waiting for Meaning to throw her a lifeline and pull her to shore.

July 2, 2008

Guard within yourself that treasure, kindness. Know how to give without hesitation, how to lose without regret, how to acquire without meanness.

-- George Sand

If my first watercolor painting class last week was intimidating in terms of size and skill level of the participants, my first acrylics class was the opposite. There were only three other students, all beginners. We met in a cozy studio, not a cavernous gym, and when I showed up without a canvas, the instructor smiled and with a twinkle in her eye called me "A bad, bad girl! A very bad girl!" And then she gave me one she'd stretched for herself.

I knew right then this was the class for me, because beginning as a Bad Grrrl means there's only one direction for me to head--and that's UP.  (And here's a secret: I often call myself a Bad Grrrl and it's a relief to have someone else say it in the exact same forgiving spirit that I use when I reprimand myself for small lapses.)

The instructor was lively, full of energy, humor, and encouragement--eager for us to jump in, get paint on our hands, and MAKE ART. This is exactly the approach I needed. I'm definitely a member of the Just Do It School.

In 90 minutes, I did three paintings using black and white paint, a paper towel, and a sponge brush. So here, dear readers, are samples of my first acrylic paintings EVER, first paintings of any kind actually:

Black and white acrylic on canavas.

black and white acrylic on paper

June 4, 2008

Copyright 2008 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and Compost Studios. All rights reserved.

It’s a gray Sunday afternoon and the doorbell rings. She makes her child answer it, expecting it’s a neighborhood friend, but it’s not.

She hears, “Can I speak to your parents?”

She leaves the blue glow of the computer, conscious that both her face and clothes are rumpled, her hair uncombed. She is bringing her private self to the front door.

As soon as she sees the two young men in crisp white shirts, ties, and black pants, she knows they are from the Church of Latter Day Saints.

She wonders why the Mormons don’t rule the world because their missionaries are so much cuter than everyone else’s, but she doesn’t say this to the earnest young men at her door, one with dark wavy hair, hazel eyes, and perfect teeth, the other with bangs, brown eyes, and the easy smile of the boys that used to play softball on Friday nights in her hometown.

They ask her how she’s doing and she says OK.

Then they rephrase the question, say it a bit more slowly: “You had a good day--really?”

And she sees the sincerity in their eyes, their unlined faces, their unblemished cheeks, and she decides to tell them about the cracks in the basement wall, her broken foundation, the influx of muddy water. No, she did not have a good day.

And they surprise her by immediately saying, “Do you need help?”

She knows--she knows if she says she needs help they will roll up those perfectly creased white sleeves and descend into the messy dimness of her life.

And she isn’t even pretty or young or crying—all the things that normally elicit chivalry from men.

She stares down at her scruffy sheepskin slippers. She hides her hands in the pocket of her big sweatshirt. She hates that her glasses are magnifying her eyes in all their bleary weariness.

"No," she says, offering them a smile. "I don’t need help at the moment. I just need it to stop raining." 

They ask questions and listen to her answers. She confides about leaving Europe, the toughness of the move tempered by the joy of the new house, and then the terrible discovery, the financial dilemma, the breach of trust.

They don’t look bored. They don’t interrupt.

The boy with the bangs shares a story from his hometown of a similar predicament, a house with a cellar that the buyers didn't even know about, a hidden cellar that threatened to bring the whole house down. She feels the dark pull of this dirty space, can smell the dank air, the stench of secrets.

They ask how her walls and foundation can be fixed, and she tells them how everything will be dug up: the very ground they’re standing on, the flowers that are blooming on every side, the flagstone sidewalk, the view she adores. All the beauty, torn apart.

They nod with sympathy. Their black pants are so dark against her white porch under the gray sky. With all her faults revealed, they open a conversation about Jesus, and she listens because they have listened to her and because it is comforting to bask in the warmth of their youth, their innocence, their faith.

Once upon a time, she was like they are.

Once upon a time.

They ask her how Jesus manifests himself in her life and without thinking she says, “I’m still here… I’m still here.”

But that’s another story, too complicated, too personal to share, so she quickly retreats to a safer topic.

She says that she is an Episcopalian, and they ask her what that means to her.

And that’s when she lies to them, claiming membership in a local church she has not attended. She hasn't been to church since she arrived in America months ago. 

Her untruth hangs in the air and pings their radar. It seems they're testing her veracity when they ask, “Where is St. XXXXX’s? Is it near here?”

Yes, she says, it’s downtown.

She doesn’t say, “It’s the church with the Tiffany window, tall steeple, and gay rights activists.”

But it is.

These Mormon boys seem so pure and she feels so shabby, her sins clinging to her like burrs on a sweater. Lying about church, unwilling to admit how lost she is,  how the church located only a mile away feels like it’s in an alternative universe and exerts no gravity on her.

They continue to talk to her about God.

Then, repentant, she shares a big truth: the work of her faith now is to forgive, to let go, to move forward after being betrayed, to trust again.

And they know it’s about more than the basement.

Or maybe she just imagines that they understand. They're only boys. But then she thinks, they're old enough to have had their hearts broken.

They once again offer to help her. "Can we  move plants before the excavators come and put them back later?"

And she is touched by their willingness to try and salvage her life and restore it to some semblance of normality, some former state of beauty.

They add a bit conspiratorially: “If we do some service hours, then we get to get out of these shirts and ties.”

She laughs then. “When you see how dirty the work is, you’ll be wishing for a tie instead.”

They give her a brochure with their names and phone numbers on it and tell her to call if she needs them.

She smiles. She thanks them. She wishes them a good evening.

The door clicks shut.

Her family ambushes her as soon as they leave.

Her smirking husband says, “Why didn’t you invite them in and offer them a beer or cup of coffee?”

Her kids are impressed that these young men were willing to help strangers. She tells them they did that because they’re Christians. She then gives them a 60-second summary of Joseph Smith and the Mormon faith. She tells them all the young men in the church spend a year as missionaries.

Her daughter says, “Sounds cool but they shouldn’t HAVE to go door to door in order to belong to the church.”

Her husband says, “I heard you tell them we’re Episcopalians! I bet they’re writing our address in a little black book with a note that says, ‘Family here is condemned to hell.’"

She laughs.

But she holds onto the brochure they gave her, the one with Jesus cradling a lamb on the cover.

She’s holding onto their faith.

Holding onto their promises.

Holding on.

May 19, 2008

the prompt: what are you afraid of? really afraid of?

i'm afraid:

i will turn into a shapeless dumpling

of the day i won't be able to go out walking in the woods

the meds won't work

i will never be loved that way again

i will never love that way again

i've fallen off the pedestal he put me on years ago

i will hide behind khakis, loafers, my address, his income

i will be silenced

people will discover i'm not so smart after all

i'll stop sharing the truth of who i am

i'm a fool for sharing the truth of who i am

i'll be forgotten by people i want to remember me

i'll never again be held just for the sake of being held

i'll never be able to support myself

i've lost my faith

i will never see you again

and never get over it

i'll travel to the end of my life still hungry

with no one to hold my hand. 

What are you afraid of?

May 4, 2008

Copyright 2008 Compost Studios and Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Be on my side, I'll be on your side, baby
There is no reason for you to hide
It's so hard for me staying here all alone
When you could be taking me for a ride.

Neil Young--Down by the River

April 16, 2008

A recent revelation:   Bullies don't grow up, they just get bigger.

Is there someone in your life who tries to gets their way through harassment, ridicule, and threats?

Tantrums and tears?

 By shouting the loudest and the longest?

By heaping guilt on your head?

Who's the one creating the manure that goes on your personal compost pile?

April 2, 2008

March 12, 2008

I’m an old dog on the porch

Who should be guarding

The house

Assessing the threat posed

By strangers and strays

Sounding an alarm and

Threatening to attack

When boundaries are breached.

Instead

When someone approaches

The gate

I leap to my feet:

If hope is a thing with feathers

I’m a hound in perfect point.

Still.

Expectant.

When the gate latch

Is lifted

Affection not caution

Is unleashed.

I bound forward

Ready to receive

Whatever

Is tossed my way.

Content with leftovers

Bare bones

A few words

A moment of being seen.

It’s what

I love most about myself.

And it’s what I despise.

Perhaps I’m wise

To be open

To every face

That smiles from the gate

But often I feel

I’m just a fool

Welcoming plunderers.

February 29, 2008