Creative Jucies

My senior year at Belmont I took what turned into one of my all-time favorite classes. It was titled "Theology and the Arts" and was taught in tandem by an art professor and one of the newest religion faculty members. Our class was all about the inspiration and connection between and behind theology and the arts. Our class had the privilege to study an exhibit at Cheekwood Gardens titled 100 Artists See God where 100 artists created art work relating to their interpretation of God.

One of our assignments for this class was to do something creative in response to one of the pieces in the show. We could do anything creative- write a song, draw a picture, prose, poetry, etc. I chose to write a prose work related to Marnie Weber's The Little Girl God. While I was cleaning today I found the grade copy and my professor's comments.

While I was reading the prose piece, I felt like I was reading someone else's writing. I thought I'd share it and the artwork that inspired it. I hate to hide it in my filing cabinet.

A Prose Work Inspired by Marnie Weber's The Little Girl God (pictured at left)

The house seemed so cold this morning as I woke to face the day. And facing the day was truly what it was. The time of being a little girl, free from the struggles of life seemed like a distant dream- much like prince charming when I was playing with my Barbie dolls as a child. When you are five years old the world seems so big, beautiful and good and you can hardly contain yourself from the excitement of wanting to grow up and experience it all. It didn’t seem to take very long for that disillusionment to start to fade as elementary school kids can be so mean, of which I was defiantly the worst. Childhood begins the times of materialism because whoever had the newest Barbie doll on the playground was the coolest kid. Unless it was one of the poorer children- then we would try to steal their toys. Maybe my life now is simply a pay back for the awful ways I tormented others as a child.


There is one image that reflection on my childhood always draws- it is the memory of the sweet, sweet summer. The vibrant blue sky is lit up with the sun and the only clouds in it are the big puffy ones that I have always wished I could lounge around on. My friends and I would spend days laying on our backs staring at them, watching them change shapes and form transforming into things that were familiar to us. It was the unfamiliar shapes that seemed the most fascinating to me. They were so fresh, mysterious and captivating; I wanted to be the one who someday named those shapes. There was so much mystery in life and the cloud shapes- I was fascinated and encouraged to unravel the mystery. It seems now as an adult that the more I unravel things, the more they seem to unveil more mystery and confusion. Nietzsche once said, “There are no facts, only interpretations.” As the child that lived in that summer day I would have never believed the person who told me that, but as an adult I seem to live in the haze that a fact-less world provides. One where everyone has an interpretation, so much so that I can’t even remember what mine own interpretation was.


There was no confusion on those summer days. No cloudiness. Only long, warm days filled with endless sunshine, the feeling of freshly cut grass through my bare feet and ending the day around the dinner table with a cold glass of ice tea, a plate of spaghetti and the sensation of the summer breeze being dispersed throughout the house by a ceiling fan. Life seemed so perfect and I hated it when those summer days would end. Sometimes I try to recreate that feeling of comfort and security in my own home, but the spaghetti never tastes right and as hard as I might try, my tea is never quite like Mom’s.


Nothing is like those long, country summer days, especially long summer days in the city. The summer days here consist of too much humidity that seems trapped around the sidewalk by the buildings that are so tall, if the sun were to make an appearance you would never know. Here the sun doesn’t shine, and there aren’t white puffy clouds. Instead the sky is a constant shade of gray, one that gets lighter and darker depending on whether it’s rainy or “clear”. The only cloud is one of fog and pollution. It’s no wonder that people who live in the city don’t seem to live as long- they have no fresh air, no warm memories. Just fog and gray.

Now as an adult the world not only seems foggy and confusing, it seems so cold, frozen and lifeless. Growing up in the heart of the “Bible-Belt” faith seemed so easy and God seemed so close. Now living in the heart of this city, God is not even an afterthought. It seems that the city isn’t even an afterthought of God’s. Maybe the reason the sky is so foggy and the world is so lonely is because God is so far removed. It’s a lot easier to believe in a god when life is easy, but life isn’t easy anymore and perhaps it never was. I look around as I walk from my apartment to work, and all around me are ardent examples of how removed God is from the world. I see shells of men begging for just enough change to buy a Big Mac. Where is the providential hand of God in that? Where is the love of God in the acts of violence that rip apart lives that have so much potential? I find myself struggling as I try to unravel these mysteries. For my family and friends back home the struggle seems to be nonexistent- they know God, love God and God knows and loves them. I do not know what to believe about the things of this world and I feel as though many people are simply blind to coldness like they are still in the egg state- comfortable, blind and obvious to anything outside of themselves.


The more that this mystery is opened, the more mystery there is. I’m not sure that the problem is completely that God has turned God’s back on the world and it’s pain, but perhaps the world has also turned its back on God. I really don’t know what the answer is. I think it’s all interpretations. But there is a large part of me that longs for those naive days of Barbie dolls and sweet tea. Even if I could go back, it would never be the same.


Disclaimer: While somethings are based upon real experiences- not all are. For example, I never stole anyone's Barbie Doll.