Grace is in the Return

This weekend I removed the last framed artwork that hung over my mantle in my Vancouver house. Painted by a lover of nine years ago, the work is a simple 3' by 4' line drawing of an open poppy (or some such full-petaled blossom) with one red streak across the bottom of the otherwise white canvas, a crimson river of femininity. In the center of the flower is a sweet but somewhat phallic stamen and a real live dead bug caught between the canvas and glass on its journey to pollination. My lover and I laughed about that bug's aborted effort to consummate even as we wept about our own inability to fully realize our relationship. We were an affair that would never reach fruition. I started writing poetry as a result of her artwork. I wrote several pieces about this painting, but can only find this one:

Rapid thin streams,
thin crimson streams rush through ~
Petals thrown back, hotly back
on throated stems.

Does she
remember the flower?
The orchid?

The flower grows in its growing from hour to hour
while the Master flame
Destroys the dry mountain pine.
The dry
mountain pine.

At the appointed time,
a cry from the morning crow will come
Will come.
Does she know when? Do I?

Only then, can she
remember the flower.
The flower trembling
from root, to pistil, to petal.
And
Oh, the fragrance!

She can
remember the flower.
The orchid.
Again,
this hour, this instant
She can.


It was appropriate for this painting to be the last piece of art to come off the walls. I designed my entire living room around this painting...White fireplace, white carpet, white furniture, pale yellow walls, splashes of red accent throughout the room. Her artwork was a focal point of my living space. In fact, I bought the house eight years ago with the vague hope that she would eventually move in with me and we would have a life of co-creation. I painted my garage a high gloss red with the thought that it could be an art studio...Something she didn't really have in her house. My bedroom was a convent white in readiness for a new life with her. Over the years it became apparent that she wasn't going to leave her marriage and even the fact that she called me "the other side of her face" wasn't enough to liberate her from what I saw as a possessive (yet socially acceptable and secure) marriage to build a life with me. I'm acutely aware that selling this house is the final letting go of that relationship. Not that I've been mourning, moaning, and mooning away here in this house for the last eight plus years (I've had other lovers since and maintain a realistic sense of what is (and isn't). But we never really said goodbye and I've always wondered what I'd say if she showed up at my doorstep. Would I close the door in hurt and resentment and bitterness or would I welcome her return with grace?

In my spiritual direction class we practiced a breathing meditation for about 30 minutes. I found myself, as usual, drifting out of focus and coming close to nodding off to sleep in that state of relaxation. I asked the teacher how this practice could lead me to higher consciousness if I kept drifting into unconsciousness. She said that the discipline is in the return. It is not about getting to a place of meditative transcendence, it is not about judging our perceived failure and giving up, it is about recognizing that we have drifted (as we all inevitably do, often) and exercising the discipline of returning to the breath. Grace is in the return.

This week I've been reflecting on the parable of the prodigal son. I used to be annoyed by the father's reaction and would take sides with the resentful (but faithful) son who never left. I was the one who did everything right, or at least gave the impression that I was good and responsible and faithful. Then I swayed, I had an affair. I became lost to myself, my community, my family. Through this reading of the parable I was reminded of our inclination to seek what is lost. We don't focus on the $20 in our wallet, but the $10 we knew we had and can't find. Jesus searched for the one lost sheep, not the ones in constant view. I don't write as much poetry about the love that is steadfast and present in my life, but I do write volumes about lost love. In the parable, the focus and attention isn't on the one that is lost, isn't on the going away, the celebration is about the return. The return home, the return to God, the return to one another, to self.

I never noticed the title of my lover's artwork until I lifted it off the wall last week. It is called "Flight." As I leave my cocoon of a home, spread my wings and take flight in a return to my own artistry, I have hope that by removing her work of art from my wall, no longer claiming or possessing it as mine, giving it up to the church art auction for someone else to be nurtured beneath its simple strength, that she will fly home to her artistry, she will return to Grace. As I write this blog entry, revealing my secret affair, seeking release, forgiveness, homecoming, and renewal, I open myself to a return to grace. And I know now that if she finds me again, stands on the threshold, facing me in humility, I will welcome her return to my life with all the celebration and open heart of any lost love come home.