The Glen Workshop Part Three: Instant Transformation Takes Its Time

I began my series on The Glen Workshop claiming, as Glen organizers claim, that a week can change a life. My change came in a flash of clarity that has been spilling its light onto practical, nuts-and-bolts decisions since my return. Those decisions have been surprisingly easy. That flash was hard. It was Wednesday afternoon and I was listening to Jeffery Overstreet's session at the Glen. Rather than simply read from his work, as most other presenters did, Jeffery had prepared a talk. Or perhaps the talk had pounced upon him, unprepared. He had adjusted his talk in a frenzy of last minute inspiration. The Spirit, it seemed, was moving. I listened intently to tales of Jeffery Overstreet's journey as an artist. I recount the talk, but scenes have lodged themselves in my memory. His story was full of failures and falters. Jeffery was wounded early on by love, and became afraid to love again. That fear held him back, not only in love, but in his desire and ability to create. He became starved for beauty.

I know from experience those terrible, suffocating walls of fear, closing in. I could feel their claustrophobia as Overstreet shared.

He had moved into a job where his creative calling was not front-and-center, but he eventually found life and hope in a late-night poetry reading group who met in some dark and mystic hideout. He told of meeting his wife, Anne, and wanting to journey with her but not knowing if his fragile heart could make the trip. His own brokenness was keeping beauty at bay. It was at this point, I think, that my own fragile heart began to crack. Jeffery's story then moved to what should have been the pinnacle of his career – publishing the series of fantasy novels he had envisioned for years, The Auralia Thread. A series, we learned, that echoed many of his own struggles with beauty and creativity and brokenness.

All four books in his 'thread' were out now and Jeffery Overstreet was still not sure what success meant. He still found himself wrestling between job and vocation. His own brokenness, and the brokenness around him, had not simply vanished in a magic 'poof' of achievement. As he shared that Wednesday, he was in the midst of a very difficult year, surrounded by tragedies too close to home. He was still searching for a beauty strong enough to pull him through.

But there was this moment. Facing deadline, Jeffrey Overstreet was struggling through a difficult scene in his novel. He went for a walk. He discovered his breakthrough in a form so small that many would have missed it. Jeff's personal mantra seems to be 'looking closer', and he must have been looking very closely that afternoon, through the Seattle mist, to spot a single leaf dancing in midair. He got out his camera. We watched the video. That leaf danced, suspended like pure magic, for well over a minute or two. The video stopped before the leaf fell. And that was it. Just a little dancing leaf. But it was a gift and Jeffery Overstreet recognized it. And I recognized it.

I recognized the voice of God in that moment whispering that there is still beauty in the world and even though life can be difficult and even though I can feel alone in my calling, He is right there. I need to look closer, but He is here.

In that moment I heard God say that my fragile heart can go one more round. I felt my excuses rise to pull that dancing leaf to the ground. I work too much to spare time for my dreams. Sometimes my wife's shift-work schedule makes it difficult to commit to things. Our single car makes travel difficult. I don't feel strong enough, inside, to do what I feel called to do. And so on. Then I heard God respond.

What if the obstacles in my life never go away? What if I can never pursue my calling full time? What if I never make much money from it? What if I always feel this broken? If this is what I'm given to work with, what then? Will I just walk away? Am I okay with that? Can I just set my calling down? Am I done searching for beauty?

And then my fragile heart broke.

Tears welled up and all I could do at the end of Jeffrey Overstreet's talk was blubber a thank you and make plans to chat later. Once I gathered my composure, I began to piece this awakening together. What had I heard? Why had my heart broke open? What was God up to and what was I to do?

I had not been avoiding my calling but I had been holding back, hiding behind those excuses. For the past few years I have been content to rest in the shadows and support my wife's career. It has been my delight to support her, as she has so often supported me. These have been good years, and I remain grateful, but I was feeling a push from the shadows and into the light. As my wife and I would discuss later, the season was changing yet again.

Two practical choices emerged, both significant. First, I could not work as many hours as I was working and get any more accomplished. The definition of insanity, they say, is doing the same thing and expecting different results. Time was something I would have to carve out, and not something that would fall in my lap. Second, we needed a second vehicle. The scheduling issues of shift work can be transcended, at least in part, with a second vehicle.

So far the changes are going well. I've just begun my new schedule working two days a week, rather than three or four. I am finding more time to write and to grow The Bleeding Heart Art Space. I've had some wonderful coffees with friends new and old. A few weeks ago we bought an old Subaru Forester. I am still struggling with becoming a two-car family, but that's for another post. For now I will admit that the colder it gets, the more at peace I feel with that decision.

Taking time away to think and pray and feel and commune with the Holy Spirit and the Body of Christ, I heard some things. Perhaps more than the Glen Workshop itself, it is this act of listening that is changing me.

My prayer now, back in the routine rush of the everyday, is that I continue to listen, and when I hear, to respond courageously.

Here is another poem written from the Glen, about waking up.

The Opening and Closing of a Door

The opening and closing of a door awakens me with recognition The sound and speed of it creaking hesitation The timbre and pitch of a careless slam

In my murky waking it rings like church bells And I am not here in a college dorm bed too small for two under threadbare scratchy blankets tossed and turned

I am in my basement bedroom coolness squinting sideways toward my wife still sleeping soft as sheets so it is too early But tell that to the kids upstairs crowing good morning with their loudest opening and closing of a door

As soon as I approach they all become mirage and I am left with my self missing deeply Scrunching my sunburned forehead

Yesterday I walked alone in brightness

Near canyon road I saw a massive sculpted portal white as a promise Circles circling circles daring entry A Narnian gate

And I wish that I could rise and dress my suitcase in hand To turn the creaking handle toward unthinkable light then step across the rot-wood threshold of home

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This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

The Glen Workshop Part Two: A Banquet of Beauty

Having arrived at the Glen Workshop late but in one piece, and having awoken my poor roommate, and not for the last time, I woke up to my first taste of Santa Fe sunshine. I headed to breakfast, gawking at the gorgeous landscape on every side. Turquise brush met turquoise trim on burnt sienna buildings hiding on burnt sienna hills. I crossed the adobe campus of St.John's College, past the tranquil Koi pond, towards the first of many abundant, delicious feasts. I ate very well in Santa Fe. From my first breakfast, I met incredible people. I challenged myself to join the conversation of a new group each meal. I learned a lot this way. I learned about art spaces and projects like The Bleeding Heart that had soaked up time, money and passion like sponges, rarely giving large returns on investment, but always worthwhile. This shared struggle somehow encouraged me. In other settings I could whine how difficult it was to get a crazy project like The Bleeding Heart Art Space off of the ground. I could bemoan being misunderstood. But here was total understanding. Here were those who fought in the same war, and having been wounded, rose to fight again. And again. Beyond my own excuses these were beautiful artists who made art work in their context, regardless of perceived success or failure.

Over the week I met remarkable men and women, most of whom have not made a living solely by their art, but have surrendered to its vocational calling nonetheless. They have simply found ways to create. Sometimes to not create for long seasons. Sometimes after raising families and establishing careers, to return to their first love of art making. But regardless where they had meandered across a lifetime, the artist's call remained a constant thorn and comfort.

You may recall my questions about what a real life artist looks like 20 years down the road from me. I met so many, with a kaleidoscope of answers. A few common truths emerged.

Artists are called and love or hate it they cannot shake that call. Artists find a way to make their work and surrender to their calling. Sometimes that way is their job. Oftentimes it is not. But they find a way or they suffocate. Artists are often on the margins of their communities, misunderstood and taken for granted. This is why the Glen Workshop is bread and water for so many creatives. It is a week of mutual understanding, where relationships put down last summer can be picked up at that same spot, and carried forward without disruption. Lastly, artists have an absolute overwhelming abundance of beauty to offer up to those who would only watch and listen.

I got to watch and listen a lot during the Glen. It's hard to overstate the blessing of simply witnessing God's creative energies exploding from his obedient children.

Each morning I would listen to poetry from my fellow workshop participants, every one gifted in some unique way. Each voice exposed to me a new facet of God's world. I saw with new eyes. Amy Newman, my poetry workshop director, led us towards some rich wells of words, and I've been returning to drink ever since.

Each afternoon I would enjoy the beauty of creation as I walked from building to building, or sat in the sun to soak it all in. Then I would wander the aisles of Eighth Day Books - a miraculous collection of arts and faith wonders. Then I would listen to reading, or view visual works by one of the workshop leaders. And then, after supper, I would do that again. Then the worship with Richard Rohr, presenting a faith I so wanted to embrace even when I struggled against its simplicity. And finally, some days, an open mic where the floodgates would burst with beauty brought by the workshop attendees. There was no pride or pretense in these performances. It was only, 'here is what God has given me to give to you. Isn't it cool?'. And it was always cool.

On our day off, I wandered downhill into Santa Fe's downtown with two friends I'd made. I won't go into detail to avoid a travelogue, but suffice it to say any creative person must visit Santa Fe. Canyon Road alone boasts a hundred galleries in a single mile. I have never seen anything like the quantity and quality of work on display here.

Later that night I crammed into the apartment of Jeffrey and Anne Overstreet for a gathering called The Thomas Parker Society. It was an intimate night where anyone could get up and read work they'd written or work by someone else that had moved them. There was both laughter and tears. I learned that this spontaneous happening happens spontaneously every year at the Glen, and that one talented man brews special beer to share just for the occasion. Another beautiful gift offered up to community.

As the week came to a close under that final Santa Fe moon I became sad for one reason. I knew that one cannot live with so much beauty always. I knew that this was only a foretaste of glory divine, a thin space where I could not breathe for long.

But for a week I feasted. And in gratitude for that feast, I wrote this poem.

I Just Want to Say

I just want to say (And not just, because I could gush) That you are each beautiful Your particular shimmer Bright as Santa Fe And I did not expect that Gift Or the long conversation Threaded through myriad mouths Across a week of dinners and Walks and waiting Each voice building on the last You, Christ's speech To my hungry ears

I just want to say That compliments are easy But not encouragement that I can believe And I believe you all Truth in love Church

I leave larger Mended where I knew no break Seeds in my spirit A garden growing You have no idea what you've planted In me

I just want to say that

Oh, and thank you

---

This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

On Descending Into New Mexico (Glen Workshop Part One)

The first in a four part reflection on the Glen Workshop, in which Dave Von Bieker gets scared, gets brave, and almost doesn't attend the Glen Workshop.

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When you market your event with the tagline, 'a week can change a life', you're stepping out onto some high, spindly limbs. First off, for an arts workshop with rich roots in writing, it can sound a bit cliché. We artists can be jaded folk, after all. And if that line is to be taken seriously, it presents a grand promise. A promise that must be proven. It's a risk, but as this year's theme was Art and Risk, I suppose the Glen was well aware.

I can attest that the gamble paid off. A week at the Glen has changed my life, in ways both concrete and abstract beyond my comprehension. I am still not sure exactly why, in the middle of the Wednesday session with Jeffery Overstreet, I began to cry and was unable to stop completely for an hour. God was working in very real, mysterious ways throughout the Glen, and my own experience culminated in that Wednesday awakening, which I'll return to later.

First, let me explain what the Glen Workshop is. I attended one of two versions - the Glen West in Santa Fe, New Mexico. For one fee, you get a week's worth of art, spiritual formation, workshops, community, accommodations and food. Afternoons and evenings are packed with presentations by artists across several disciplines. We saw photographs of freckled faces. We heard the first act of a play. We viewed paintings and soaked in poetry. Richard Rohr, a Franciscan Priest led us in brief but deep evening ecumenical worship. Mornings at the Glen are for workshops, in the arts discipline of your choosing. There are several options, including one for those wanting a tasty sampler, called the Explorer's Track. I chose Songwriting. At least until it was cancelled.

My road to the Glen was rather rocky, and perhaps that should have clued me in that something important was going to happen to me there. On the other side of every mountain is a valley, after all, and every peak must be climbed.

The first stumble in my journey came as an ominous email informing me the Songwriting track was cancelled due to lack of interest. I had mustered up the courage to register. My wife assured me that it was OK. It was worth the investment. I was worth the investment. I'd paid all my fees (which led to other problems I'll get into later). I'd booked my flights. My track now cancelled, I could get a refund, but not on the plane tickets. I was going to Santa Fe in July, but now I had to choose what type of artist I wanted to be.

I likely knew instantly that I should take Poetry, but Poetry terrified me. Even at a conference about Art and Risk, Poetry was too risky – too difficult. I toyed with safer options, but didn't feel right about them. I was offering up too much time and money to play this week safe. At the encouragement of friends, I signed on for the one Poetry track I felt to be the safest of two offerings.

Then the second email arrived. That Poetry track was full. Would I take the other one? I sweat it out anxiously. You see, to call myself a Poet, I felt like a fraud. Like I was playing house. And this particular workshop leader wrote poetry that scared me even more. Poetry I couldn't fully understand and poetry that sounded nothing like my own. Poetry that hovered above my head. If anyone was to call me out as a phoney, it would certainly be her. But as the line formed behind me on the sky high diving board, I could do nothing but jump.

Somewhere in the free fall, just about to be consoled by my own courage, I received another blow. An email arrived telling me that the company handling online registrations for the Glen Workshop had not been paying the Glen. They took my money, but never handed it over, and most likely would not. Because I had paid early on and all at once, I had in fact not paid. Would I have to pay twice? Could I not attend at all?

Was all of this a sign to just stay home and stop trying to be someone I am not?

Well I obviously went to the Glen Workshop, and they masterfully handled the payment situation. And no, these setbacks were not signs to stay home. But they also weren't over yet.

The morning of the Glen, alarm set to 3 AM for a 6 AM flight to Santa Fe, my answering machine picked up a robo-call from the airline. My flight was cancelled. No reason given. No alternate flight offered. Simply cancelled. I think I laughed as I rose to stumble towards my email and arrange last minute travel in a 3 AM stupor. Waiting on the phone with the airline for nearly an hour I almost fell asleep between travel site searches. In the end, I got on a flight to the Glen, arriving late but still before my Monday morning workshop. It was going to happen after all.

Knowing I had a lot riding on this Glen thing, what with the promise of life-change and all, I came prepared with two questions.

The first was simple. Am I a poet? Is what I am writing poetry – proper poetry – and would other proper poets think so?

The second question weaved itself through the week. What does a real, working artist look like? How do artists make a go of it and what life can I expect in 20 or 30 years? These foolish choices I am making now, where do they lead? I would hear answers through myriad voices across mealtime tables for seven glorious days.

These questions in hand, exhausted from a perilous journey, I touched down in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Waiting for my Santa Fe shuttle, I did what I felt I should do. I wrote the week's first poem.

On Descending Into New Mexico

Descending into New Mexico I glimpse the red rock And mottling bush And hear Bugs Bunny Pronouncing Albuquerque Al-bee-coyk-ee! And I finally know why

It's obvious that this is where the road runner Chased the coyote past Endlessly repeating backdrops Of burnt siena desert

This defining palate of turquoise and burnt peach Sunburn and dusted green Straining to look fertile

Everything in this landscape dances in duotone Every sign in the ABQ airport (Which they tell me is a sunport) Is sunburned skin and moss Dusty rose and sand-storm teal

I rise in my seat and lean for the window New food for old eyes I feel like a boy I taste dormant wonder Then I hear the bleep of the cell phone My seat mate has turned on, After undoing his seatbelt Both before allowed Tiny rebellions

We each have our ways to stay young

The airport is small and old And not surprisingly dusty rose and teal Salmon and powdered turquoise The seats are leather and ranchwood and rivets in brass I see, for the first time today, no signs for free wi-fi It is deceptively cold with air conditioning And the water doesn't taste like home

A step outside reveals hot evening Hot enough in the day, I am sure, to burn a peach Or drain the green from kale

The word 'southwest' rings out like a 10 gallon hat in Calgary, I have yet to peel the cartoon from reality

We shall see for here we are Me and the roadrunner On an adventure

Meep meep.

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This post is part three of a four part series. Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

Beauty At The Table: Our First Arts Potluck in Review

Just one week ago, we held our first Arts Potluck. It will not be our last. The invitation was simple. Bring some art and bring some snacks. In my living room, propped up on every chair we could find, 15 of us shared, listened and saw wonder-full art.

I began the night by sharing its inspiration – an event held during the Glen Workshop called The Thomas Parker Society (at least, I'm fairly certain that was the name). A few dozen people had crammed into a rented suite on the college campus where the Glen Workshop was held. We read stories, essays and poetry long into the night. It was beautiful, intimate, moving, and sometimes hysterically funny. It left me hungry for more.

Of course, we have plenty of creative folks right here in our city. Heck, right here in my neighbourhood. We could do this. In our own version, The Bleeding Heart Arts Potluck, the evening expanded to encompass any art form.

Here's how it worked for us.

TJ McLachlan shared first, with a bit of an extended time and focus, seeing as he was with us all the way from Vancouver's and Emily Carr University. Having worked with TJ McLachlan on some pre-Carr projects, it was inspiring to see how far he's come, how his ideas about what art is and what art does have evolved, and what his grand hopes for future projects are. TJ talked about large-scale sculpture, installed in nature, outside the culturally loaded context of the "white box gallery". He spoke about work that is not a metaphor for something, like 'tension' for instance, but is tension itself, showing us an example of a sculpture whose very materials are in tension. There were some big ideas (should art convey meaning and how?) and some great conversation. We even talked a bit about what it means to be pretentious, or not, and how those of us who label others as such may be the most pretentious of all.

More than all of that, our time with TJ and his very artistic wife Cora was a visit with friends. Community was perhaps the most beautiful thing on display all evening.

What followed – the work you all shared – was a kaleidoscope of creativity. Almost everyone brought something (in one case it was samosas wrapped in swiss chard – some very creative food). There were poetry readings. We heard an excellent concert review of The Replacements. An original song. Ink sketches of the Canadian North. A capella vocal performance. Paintings. Art made in collaboration with children in India. Lego and collage by my two kids.

But here is what sticks out for me.

It's the last piece before my kids – up too late – have to go to bed. Aaron and April Au are with us. Aaron, a part-time player with the ESO, pulls out his violin, stands just outside the circle, and plays Bach. Intricate, incredibly full Bach on a single violin. The sound is perfect. No one moves. We barely breathe. Except my kids. Jack is play conducting and they stifle nervous laughter. But they are listening. I survey the room. We are all listening. We are all realizing, at this moment, just how incredible this is.

It hits me all at once. I've been with hundreds of creative people for an intensive week, hundreds of miles away, at The Glen Workshop. But I don't need to travel at all to experience art, faith and community. I am blessed. I live here, on the fringe of Alberta Ave. Blocks away from this violin virtuoso. So close that here, in my living room, my kids get to experience something I never did. A house blessing. I choke back a few good tears.

Moments like this are why we do Bleeding Heart Arts Potlucks – why The Bleeding Heart does anything at all.

If you were not with us, and now, having read this, wish you were, I have succeeded.

What will you bring next time?

All the Art of Summer

As summer waves her slow goodbye, I need to take a moment and give thanks for all of the art I've experienced these past two months. I have seen and heard beauty that will fuel my creativity and passion this coming year. My work with The Bleeding Heart Art Space will be stronger for the art this summer has brought. Perhaps you'll enjoy some of it, too. Our tour begins in Sandpoint, Idaho, then moves west across the arid Washington desert into Portland, Oregon. After a brief break, we board a plane to Santa Fe, New Mexico and finally, drive west to settle oceanside, in Vancouver, BC.

Sandpoint, Idaho

Sandpoint, a mere stopover on the long family drive to Portland, became the shining surprise of this summer. A small lake town, it is full of happy hippies, organic veggies, antique and thrift shops, tasty, cheap restaurants, and a fair amount of art. And, for some reason, Subaru Outbacks. It was here that we first witnessed the overuse of the word 'Artisan' this summer, but perhaps it belonged here most. One man sold artisanal cheese at the farmers market where every vegetable stall was arranged like a floral bouquet.

The same farmer's market had a pottery stall, and this is where I fell in love with my mug.

I'd been looking for a good, handmade mug to replace my crumbling Krispy Kreme standby. I found it from Whiskey Jack Pottery in Sandpoint. A bright turquoise rim to accent the red-brown base. A perfectly shaped handle. I'm sipping coffee from it now, and have most days since my return. I'm very thankful that a true artisan took the time to make a coffee mug so beautiful – to make it art. Perhaps art is best this way, freed from the walls?

Portland, Oregon

I'd say the real art of Portland is to be eaten. From crazy Voodoo Doughnut to hundreds of food carts lining entire city blocks, there is beauty to be savoured in Portland. It was inspiring to see the love each chef put into their creations. I could taste the art in a cup of Barista coffee. What could be more creative than blue cheese and pear, or strawberry and basil ice cream from Salt and Straw (actual flavours may stray from my shoddy memory)? Slappy Cakes let us be the artists, with a giant pancake griddle in the middle of our table and bottles of batter in hand.

There were more traditional art forms to see as well – the kind you'd hang on your wall. Alberta Street (strikingly close to Alberta Ave) was the most colourful and creative neighbourhood we visited. Blocks and blocks of boutiques and galleries made wandering aimlessly a joy.

If you visit PDX, be sure you get to Alberta Street.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

My trip to Santa Fe for the Glen Workshop, a week of 'art, faith and mystery', requires a post of its own (and mark my words, it will get one). I attended this workshop, put on by Image Journal, as a poet (a decision informed by circumstances I'll save for that other post). I spent my mornings with 14 other poets, and each day got to hear their wonder-full words. I was introduced to the poetry of Amy Newman, my workshop leader. I bought her book, Fall, made up of dozens of poems reflecting on the myriad meanings of the word 'fall' found in the dictionary.

I came to love poetry at the Glen – and even to understand it a little bit more.

On our day off, I walked Santa Fe's Canyon Road – a mere mile-long stretch housing a hundred galleries! I've never seen anything like the quantity and quality of the work there. One stand out were the bronze sculptures of Kevin Box, made to look light weightless origami. You need to see his work. Go ahead and look. I'll wait. http://outsidetheboxstudio.com.

The Chuck Jones Gallery (and Centre for Creativity) was showing paintings and sculptures by Dr.Suess alongside animation stills and work by Jones himself (creator of Bugs Bunny).

Even the buildings are art in Santa Fe – smooth adobe structures the colour of tanned sunburn, accented in various shades of teal trim.

To mention only these things, and not the overflow of beauty that poured from every Glen Workshop participant I encountered, feels unjust. But for time, we head for the coast.

Vancouver, British Columbia

My family and I finished our journeys in Vancouver for a longer stretch – to relax. For us, relaxing means shopping without buying, except for an 'artisan' coffee or treat along the way.

Our suite was equipped with a full kitchen, so I flexed my own creative muscle there, armed with the rare treat of 'artisanal' ingredients from the local organic (read: expensive) market. It's still cheaper than eating out, I assured my conscience.

Granville Island didn't disappoint with it's explosion of arts and eats. We had enough days to visit twice and take it all in. It was there, at OPUS Art supplies, that I spent my birthday money on a screen printing kit, dreaming of future projects.

On our last day, we finally bought some art. Nothing large – just prints – but the perfect set of animals-dressed-as-people drawings by Vancouver artist Andrea Hooge. We were first drawn to her market booth because my wife said a picture of a cat looked just like me. I'm not sure how to take that, but you should definitely check out her work online. Or next time you are over at our place.

And finally home

As wonderful as the summer was, it is receding into a sparse handful of memories. We are home, having returned to a city full of its own beauty and creativity. The kids and I have made our first screen prints. I've received a call from the Art Gallery to renew my membership.

Friday night, I got to see shared beauty on display at our first Arts Potluck (read more soon), and after visiting all those wonderful cities I am glad to live here. I am glad to create here, among friends. Really, I am.

If you are not, then do something about it. Seek out Edmonton's arts. Find beauty. Create some of your own.

Visit your own city.

Learning from My Garden: Lessons for Crazy, Creative, Collaborative Projects

For those who don't enjoy gardening metaphors, a caution and an apology. I am about to pack a season's worth into this single post (which will take some pruning).  -----

Over the summer The Bleeding Heart Art Space has taken a break. We've travelled. We've rested. We've reflected and reevaluated. We've dreamed. We've gardened.

As I reflect back on our first year of adventures and experiments, I'm also looking forward to what we will try this year. I've learned some things – many of them from my hours in the garden.

Let's Try This Garden Thing

I wasn't sure a garden would work in our yard. We've failed before with dried up, fruitless plants. This time, I got serious. In June, I moved our fence back 8 feet and built four garden boxes. I shovelled them full of fertile dirt. My wife Christie selected seeds. I planned. The kids and I planted. Then we waited.

I watered daily. I weeded every week, because by some cruel joke, weeds grow best. For a time – nothing. But eventually, the sprouts poked through. And then more, and to my excitement even more. The lettuce was first to show. Then the green beans. Tiny carrot greens, at first hard to tell from the weeds, joined the party. Green onions. Tomatoes bulging on the vine. Peas pulling themselves up the lattice. Finally, the peppers appeared. Just last night was the big harvest.

I am so proud I find myself showing friends pictures of carrots like they were my kids.

I tried something new. It worked.

The joys of gardening are primal. The basic cycle of sowing and reaping is reassuring when you're knee deep in a massive project like The Bleeding Heart Art Space. It turns out the two projects, both attempts to grow good things, have a lot in common.

Let's start with the seeds.

The Seed is Not the Thing, But You Need the Seed

You wouldn't want to eat a carrot seed. Believe me. They are tiny, ugly little things, so small they are tricky to plant (which may explain our erratic spread of carrots). But no seed, no carrot.

At The Bleeding Heart Art Space, we've planted a lot of seeds in our early days. We continue to try a lot of things. Sometimes tiny things, giving little indication of the fruit they may, or may not produce.

Some seeds have been duds. Perhaps others have yet to sprout. A few grew into beautiful, rich gatherings and art shows. There are shoots of community popping up in a few places.

Early on my carrots looked like duds. Most of my onions failed. Duds can be discouraging. But, I think, you'll always have more seeds than plants.

When people asked me how Bleeding Heart was going over the summer, I would cheerfully declare that we've gotten a lot of our failures out of the way. I mean that. We've learned so much from things that haven't worked.

The suite where I stayed during our holidays had a bookshelf, and fortuitously, that bookshelf held Poke The Box, a brief manifesto by Seth Godin on trying new things. Initiating. I read it hungrily. I believe Seth Godin would tell us to plant more seeds. And keep planting.

I'm proud of our Bleeding Heart team because we've continued to plant seeds, and here we are looking at a new season, seeds in hand, ready to plant again.

The Water and The Weeds: Day by Day the Garden Grows

Gardening is little work repeated over much time. You cannot rush it. You cannot decide you feel like gardening one day, so you're going to weed and water double to speed up the process. You go out for 10 minutes one day, five minutes another, half an hour on the weekend, and on it goes. You don't do a ton each visit, but you must visit often. A garden loves a consistent, faithful gardener.

Some days I wish I could push The Bleeding Heart Art Space forward a couple of years. I wish I could force the extra effort and reap the rewards of a beautiful, inspiring, challenging arts community and space today. But today, all I can do is plan a gathering, write an email, or perhaps this blog post.

To believe that these blog posts and events and coffee conversations string together to cultivate something of value over time – that takes faith. I pray I have it. Today I do.

The Sun: Miracles and Mystery

A garden, my friends, is a mystery.

Those weird little seeds – dropped an inch into dirt, of all things – they disappear. And you, a mad fool, water and watch and wait, praying the sun appears to work its alchemy. And it does. And then, one day, from the ground, like a newborn baby's hand reading out for contact, a bean plant bursts through the crust of earth. And it was all true. There is life! And it is mystery. And it is wonder.

And even after all your labor, you did not make this happen. You could not bring the sun. There is mystery. There is holy awe.

These early days of The Bleeding Heart are spent below the crust of earth. The seeds we plant are shifting towards light. Some poke through. We rely on the sun to meet our labours. We surrender to a Mystery. We pray for a harvest.

We pray.

The Harvest: Many Hands Make Joyful Work

Last night, our family harvested our little garden, together.

I won't lie. I did most of the work growing the garden. I weeded, I watered, I planned. I built the boxes. I shovelled the dirt. I pushed and prodded and begged the kids to help me plant the seeds. Then I weeded and watered some more.

But last night, we all harvested. I hope this was as magical for them as for me, pulling those huge, hiding carrots from the unassuming earth. I hope they felt amazed at the three bulging bags of green beans. Sometimes they laughed the way a kid laughs when a bug, thought dead, starts to wriggle with life. Not a funny laugh, but a laugh of wonder.

The little red hen, baking her bread in smarmy, solitary superiority, got something wrong. That bread, eaten alone, would not taste half so good as if eaten among friends, even if they didn't help bake it.

Sure, community gets the work done. Even a small garden is a lot of work, and I'd have been out there for three hours picking last night if it weren't for the family's help. And they did help along the way. But last night was not about getting the work done. Last night was about a shared joy at this miracle of life. Last night was community.

The Bleeding Heart Art Space needs many hands to move forward. It is a project much larger than a garden, and beyond the reach of a single gardener. But here's something I'm learning. The work is not the deepest reason we need you to join us. It's the joy. It's the love. It's the community.

Last night's harvest is the reason I'll plant again next spring. I'll remember my smiling kids yanking carrots from dirt. I'll remember my wife shucking peas on the kitchen table like some pioneer. And I will smile.

A New Season Awaits

As the tomatoes ripen on the vine, my garden's season is almost over. But a new season is about to begin for The Bleeding Heart Art Space.

We've got some new ideas (like the Arts Potluck next week), a handful of seeds ready to plant, and we've learned some things. We've also got some spaces to fill to round out our community of gardeners and make this crazy, creative, collaborative vision a reality.

Will you consider joining us this year as we plan, plant, water and wonder together and what sprouts up?

I cannot promise a huge harvest, but I guarantee the laugh of wonder from time to time, and the fellowship of those who wait on the sun.

If you'd like to get involved, let's chat. Email hello@bleedingheartspace.ca.