Make useless things

““I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” ~ Bilbo Baggins”

I am tired down to my bones this morning and I have been this way for several days. The weekend was full, and while I was able to sneak in a nap Sunday afternoon, it was not quite enough to overcome the complete weariness of my emotions and my body. Some of you feel this way all the time and I’m sorry. I am never full of energy, but I usually do okay and this slow-down is hard. I am tired because the body of a woman gets that way regularly, and on top of that my life is full of good things that are exhausting.

But I’m also tired of the world, in a way that I will not write about here and now because I don’t want to feed the weariness that may also be in you. The world is gifted to us by God, and I need to turn again to truth, to goodness, to beauty. 

This world is housing all of our bodies growing old, our minds growing cynical, our hearts fighting to stay soft; this is true. Creation is groaning; that in itself is beautiful, because nature holds a knowledge that is a mystery to us and in its groaning we can be sure it longs and waits for something better. The rocks and trees have lived longer than us, and if we pay attention we’ll learn a lesson. 

Pay attention. How good it is to be aware of what we’re paying for. Something is only as expensive or valuable as what you are willing to give for it, and if we give our attention as payment, what do we get in return?

I try to give attention to beauty. Look at the birds, Jesus says, and I watch the robins pull fat worms out of the yard or the chickadees pick seeds out of the feeder. They can be perfectly content and provided for without my intervention, but once I introduce a feast to the birds, they expect it. Maybe they depend on it now. Maybe I’ve upset the whole order of nature and ruined Jesus’ parable by providing something for the birds that makes them depend on me—inconsistent, forgetful me. They look stressed when the seeds run out. Maybe I’m imagining that.

I don’t have a great theology about how God wants us to deal with the all the beauty in the world, and I can’t really say what the point of it is except to know it’s not the thing to be worshipped, but rather the herald of Beauty, Himself. He made everything so needlessly good, so extravagantly rich with glory. Watching the birds is a reminder that God is marvelously beneficent and I need not be stingy.

Life is hard and weariness is only one symptom of our fallen nature; this is true. To those who are truth-heavy and heavy laden, a good God gives a senseless amount of beautiful things with which to make our own art. But sometimes I wonder what the point is in making something that’s just pretty and not necessarily useful.  If I can’t wear it or eat it or use it for something practical, what is the point? Am I wasting time feeding birds that can find their own food without me? (And yes, I am implying that feeding the birds is art.)

A defense:

Make useless art because you like the textures;

Because your kids/spouse/dog/roommate want you to be still;

Because your body is tired but your mind won’t rest;

Because color looks good on paper.

Layers are a wardrobe for life

And you need glue to hold them together. Glue stuff to the page.

Make useless art that’s not for consumption,

Not for a commodity,

Not on the agenda.

Because you like it.

Make everything art because God made time,

Not you.

You make art with the time God made

Because God made art and in time it was you.

I’m worried about becoming a bitter old woman. I read the gospel story and am comforted because I still want to change, to touch the hem of His garment and know in an instant that I am made well. I still want to follow Him. I still want to come away with Him and be rested deep down to my bones, in a way that allows me to thrive while the world around me strives for a power and the peace that only comes from getting your own way. I want my own way, but I still want His way, more. I mean: I want my own way to be His. I am selfish to the core and I want to always know this and to know my deep need for transformation. I run out of my own steam. Jesus is living water.

I remember that when I’m tired. Jesus is living water. 

I also remember that the birds don’t need me as much as I need them, but the things I feed and water and nourish will thrive here, in this place, with me. The things I neglect will die or go elsewhere. I have to choose what to feed and what to forget. I glue and cut and scribble and paint in my art journal. I clean floors. I bake. I observe. Listen. I pay attention to goodness and beauty, and I lose focus on those things that rage in the world around me.  I add a slow pour of honey to my coffee, offsetting the bitterness.

Everything beautiful will last, even if it’s only a meal for an evening or the aesthetics of a moment, sealed up with peace. Everything beautiful will last. I will last and you will last and all the beautiful things we can make or imagine or squeeze out of this existence will last, because they form us; beauty forms us. That seems like reason enough to continue making “useless things”.