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Day One: Perspective

· November 17, 2013

12 Days of Thanksgiving

I’m starting my annual thanksgiving writing tradition today — 12 Days of Thanksgiving. I started it several years ago as a way to cultivate a more grateful heart during this busy time of year and hopefully to gain a deeper understanding of how the act of giving thanks can impact more of life than just a day in November.

Every year I’ve learned something through this writing experiment. Something about myself. Something about God. Something about discipline. And, yes, something about Thanksgiving. But, it is sometimes hard work. To figure out ways to delve into my soul every day during this harried time of year.

This year seems more harried. I think I probably say that every year, of course, but it seems that lately I’m spending a few more moments at the point of frustration or desperation than normal. I’m a year into adjusting to life as a single mother now. The sole provider, the chief taxi service for our schedules, the lone educator and encourager — spiritually, emotionally, physically and mentally for my three little ones. I tell myself that I was really all these things already through the last few years of Mike’s illness, but it’s not much consolation. Some days, the simple fact that I’m the only adult in my home is my single biggest barrier to peace. For, it leaves the responsibility for all our well-being squarely and completely on my shoulders. I suppose the difference is in the expectations. Something I expected and imagined from childhood to be a life shouldered and experienced by two, is now mine alone.

There’s never been a time in my mothering when I felt the weight of my own limitations more. And there’s never been a time when I felt as dumb-struck by the level of distraction in need of weeding through. This, paired with the conviction that I simply CAN’T get this wrong has me wide-eyed most days. It is admittedly stretching and confusing and overwhelming to find the most important need to address at any given moment — for a client, for a child, for myself. Sounds like a pretty good time to consider gratitude, huh?

To be honest, I almost didn’t take on the 12 Days for 2013. After all, I’ve barely written anything this year. I’ve even considered letting EyeJunkie go (a post for another day), but I just wasn’t ready yet to give it up and it’s connection to my soul. “Tradition” was pretty much the only thing that tethered my heart to this process this year. But, really, any motivation will do. I predict that the outcome for my emotional adjustment will be no less a change of course.

Clutch. Shift.

Earlier this Fall, my parents and I took the kids to Memphis for our school’s Fall Break. I booked our stay in a Downtown hotel this time because I wanted to give the children some more urban scenery. Some new experience. A new perspective.

I spent some time on our walks encouraging them to look up. After all, we rarely see buildings much taller than a couple of stories. I challenged them to think about how walking on Main Street in Memphis with it’s canopy of buildings and bricked walks and bustling traffic — the lights and sounds and movement of a big city — was different from walking on Main Street in Starkville. Their response was an alternating combination of that just barely perceptible rolling of the eyes, looks of confusion and exuberance of un-contained wonder. From riding on trolleys and in horse-drawn carriages to street tumblers on Beale and people pushing their belongings in shopping carts, the experience was quite a change from what they know of a “town.” A shift in perspective.

Of course I took my camera. I was very excited to capture the “space” and details in Downtown Memphis. Some of my encouragement to the kids to “look up” was spent in trying to capture building details, painted murals and roof ornament. I used my Canon Powershot, which has a pretty nice on-board zoom feature. Invariably, after I shifted the zoom lever, watching the details get closer, and used my arms somehow to steady my hands on the camera, I had to look away or bring the camera down to answer a question or make sure no one had moved too far out of my reach. To bring the camera back to my eye was completely disorienting. I knew where I should be looking, but I couldn’t find any reference points in that altered micro-cosmic view. Every time I had to zoom back out, find my bearings and re-focus on the detail of interest. Perspective.

I’m approaching the 12 Days a little differently this year. I’ve decided to write each day contributing to an overall theme. That theme is PERSPECTIVE. It’s the thing I think I’m most thankful for this year.

Perspective is filled with irony, to me. I’ve gained a lot of it in the process of grief. In the realities of losing a husband to suicide. In the process of trying to live prior to that. And after. Dear friends told me that although a one year anniversary isn’t magic in the grieving process, it IS significant. It allows clearer perspective, and I’ve seen that. The time helps to organize the life-and-death with the simply and lovingly mundane. And yet, as much as I know I’ve gained, perspective remains the thing that seems most easily and quickly lost. The more I feel I have a handle on, the easier it seems to see what still needs to be handled better or even handled at all.

I don’t know yet where my thinking on perspective will lead. I guess we’ll see over these twelve days. I know that God has gently moved the lever on the zoom feature of my life, shifting the view in and back out again in profound ways over the last fourteen months. I know each new phase in our process is one of seeing some things more clearly and accepting some things for their inherent blurry-ness. I know we have been in this process together. And with Him. I know I’m grateful to see in ever clearer ways how this process is bringing us back to life.

Categories : on faith

Christmas Gaze

Posted by haley montgomery

· December 24, 2011

Sometimes my kids just make me smile. You don’t have to hang out around here long to figure that out, and Christmas time is ripe for smiles. Drummer Boy, Bug and Baby Girl are getting to the ages when they can remember the traditions, decorations and fun activities from previous years. They are beginning to have their own memories of Christmas and their own treasured moments.

We have Christmas everywhere at my house. My mom shared with me the joy of celebration from a very young age and filled our holidays with memories and special decorations I looked forward to each year. I’ve tried to do those same things with my own kids and it’s very special to me to see their eyes fill with wonder and excitement as they see the traditions — and even remember some of them from last year.

Of course, my babies already seem to have their own take on the process of celebrating Christmas. I have several nativity scenes around the house — some I’ve gotten just so they can play with them. Most are inexpensive versions given to me or picked up from the dollar store for their particular kid-like cuteness. They each have the requisite super-glued parts — evidence that they have just enough combination of doll and action figure familiarity to make them attractive for playing and storytelling.

I always set them up in the same way. The way most folks do I guess. The baby is in the center, flanked by Mary and Joseph. The wise men file in from the baby’s left with the occasional camel in tow. They were, after all, from the East. The shepherds and members of their flock take their places to the right and the barn’s resident cow and donkey stand wherever available. An angel usually stands behind the babe overseeing the scene. Oddly, the people always seem to be facing outward — so we can see them, I guess. I’m not sure why they logically have those assigned seats in my mind, but they do.

A funny thing happened this year. One of the $5 dollar store versions sits on a table next to our couch. It’s a tiny porcelain collection of child characters painted with sweet smiles and pastel colors. A week ago I noticed that every time I walked by the table, the figures were moved to the same position. At first I didn’t really pay attention. The kids like to play with the set, which makes me smile. So, when I saw the rearrangement, I simply moved the figures back to their assigned spots and went on about my business.

Only, they caught my attention again later. The figures were again shifted from the standard positions I’d given them. And they were shifted to the same new positions. In fact, I noticed the same reorganization of players in some of our other crèches. Hmmm. Cue the mommy brain. I think my kids were demonstrating their own preferences for the nativity scene.

So, I looked closer. Baby Jesus was in the center, to be sure, but the others weren’t stretched out in a pageant-esque tableau. No, the onlookers were standing shoulder to shoulder in a tight circle around the holy child. They seemed to be crowded in as close as possible with each animal and child-like character gazing at the newborn king. You couldn’t see all their cutely painted faces from across the room. The wise men didn’t appear to be traveling together — or coming from the East, for that matter. And, although I doubt you could even tell they were supposed to be a “manger scene,” I imagine in the thoughts of my Drummer Boy, Bug and Baby Girl, each little colorful porcelain heart had a necessary unobstructed view of the tiny Savior. Each was looking full-faced and undistracted upon the baby in the hay.

I haven’t moved the figures since. They are still staring, quite focused, on the Christ child. And I have to admit my own heart is a little more focused as well because of it. My attention is drawn to the baby birthed in such humble circumstances, yet carrying the seed of heaven in his tender chest. To the little hearts running around me, full of constant energy and motion. Somehow they are my very own heart looking right back at me. I’m drawn to the simple messages of loving and giving and hoping and unabashed gazing they seem to find so easy to comprehend. The messages that are so easily clouded from my view at times. What a pleasure to turn my own full gaze to the manger and see that wonder again.

Merry Christmas.

Categories : mother's heart, on faith

Day of Rest

Posted by haley montgomery

· June 12, 2011

I’ve been thinking about rest again. It seems to happen on the weekends naturally. This being Sunday, the “day of rest,” I’ve been thinking about it again in the context of the Sabbath. The Bible says that God instituted the concept of the Sabbath on the seventh day of his creation of the world.

“On the seventh day God had finished his work of creation, so he rested from all his work. And God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy, because it was the day when he rested from all his work of creation.” (genesis 2:1-2)

Thus, the idea of a holy day of rest was born. In the account, God had surveyed the words of his mouth and the work of his hands at a stopping point the day before. He determined that it was all very good and he “rested.” Just what was this resting about, that the God of the universe chose to do it?

Was God tired? Did he need sleep after the exhaustion of his labors? That doesn’t really fit with the concept of God revealed throughout the Bible, and yet I see that pervading some of the ideas surrounding what men do with the Sabbath.

After the success of his creative endeavors, did God suddenly feel the desire to be worshipped? Did the demand for a designated day of worship somehow reveal itself on the seventh day? That doesn’t seem to fit either. No, God was no more worthy of worship on day seven in his pause of creation than he was on day six or day five. He made no command for any of his creation to join him that day in his “rest”, nor did he demand any act of worship for himself out of the day’s holiness. Although, that seems to be the popular sentiment as well. That admonition came later, and I’ll admit that I’ve always viewed it a part of the idea of Sabbath. But, it really wasn’t indoctrinated that way in this dawning of a day seven.

A year or so ago, I came across the definition of the Hebrew word for Sabbath — “shabbat”. To cease. I’ve written about it several times in this EyeJunkie space. Yet, as evidenced by this post, I keep coming back to it. I keep coming back to trying to understand it, or trying to implement it’s obvious importance into my life. Why an obvious importance? Well, God himself observed it, after all. Between the thoughts of worship services and just catching up on sleep, what does it mean to rest, to set apart a “day” of rest? What did it mean, that God would choose it?

It’s interesting to me that this was perhaps the first act in a process of worship that began as a declaration of a holy moment–a designation–and progressed into a command to remember it and continue it. To keep stopping. To keep setting it apart.

To cease. It makes perfect sense, but so often I overlook it. I breeze right through it in an attempt to get on with the business of doing something. The ceasing part so often eludes me in the process of doing and creating and living. Yet, God chose to stop, to cease. He surveyed what he had done. He evaluated it. He recognized it’s significance. And he claimed it’s success. He named it “very good.”

That’s a powerful concept. I’ve been reminded recently how important it is in roads of change to recognize milestones. To take stock and acknowledge the small (and big) successes along the way. It makes long journeys shorter. It gives difficult moments an easier comparison. And yes, it brings rest to weariness. It brings the chaos of moving forward to a welcomed cease.

I’ve had a crazy idea since I began this adventure in paying attention of creating a 12-step program for EyeJunkies — yep, one of those hare-brained notions I may or may not get around to. But, should the idea materialize, surely “to cease” is the first step. I certainly can’t pay attention to anything until I choose to stop — least of all my own progress. The choice to cease enables so many other choices. It enables that intention I crave so often. It defies the notion of busy-ness. And yet it sometimes defines the idea of accomplishment. And the emotional, mental and spiritual “rest” initiated from simply stopping and looking and calling it good is hard to come by any other way.

Categories : beautiful ordinary, on faith

April: In Defense of Rain

Posted by haley montgomery

· April 1, 2011

Rain is just downright misunderstood sometimes. It’s true. It gets a bad rap quite often. Somehow it gets lumped with Mondays as the ultimate of downers. It gets the criticism for too much or too little, and everyone has his own opinion of that sliding scale. It seems it’s never just right with rain. It perpetually takes a backseat to the all-loving sunshine. We have trouble understanding it sometimes. And we have trouble seeing it clearly–especially when it’s pouring.

For much of this week we got an early taste of April showers, or at least the threat of showers, and I’ll admit I was quite grumpy about it. When you’ve been basking in the glow of sunny, warm days, the sudden shift to partly drizzly doesn’t sit well. And, the random downpour is even less inspiring. The weather outside had decided similarities to my inner climate where I’ve been feeling the metaphorical downpour in several areas of my life as well. You know the feeling. When your already full hands get a few more organizational or emotional or even physical balls to carry. When you start to notice the leakage in the culverts holding your heart together in that sane and safe place you call your own peace of mind. It’s been one of those kinds of weeks for me.

Today I finally began to relax and pull my hands off the plugs in all those suddenly noticeable holes in my thinking. Oddly enough, this shift in attitude happened right about the time the sun started to reappear in the skies outside. It was at that moment I realized that I have grass.

Yep. The wayward plot that was filled with brownish dormancy just a few days before–the one I call my front lawn– had suddenly sprouted new and vibrant shades of green. It sprouted a seeming multitude of blades. And, it sprouted another multitude of those purple thingies I wove into necklaces as a child, that unknown vine invading a few shrubs and a very nice crop of dandelions. Yes, I have what may charitably be described as growth.

Now, lest this somehow turn into another rain-bashing exaltation of the power of sunshine, let me say this: Rain makes things grow. This week it rained. And just like that, I have grass now. Granted, I have weeds too, but it looks like the grass may still be winning. Regardless, the lawn is actually green, and I wholeheartedly attribute that fact to a few sporadic downpours and an annoying number of drizzles. Blade or vine, Bermuda or dandelion, green is good in my book.

Here’s the thing. The opportunity to see what’s growing is a good thing, even when it’s weeds doing the growing. A pouring rain–you know, the kind that really soaks the earth–sometimes moves the much-needed process of new growth along. It brings those shoots lying dormant just under the surface right out in the open. And, whether the produce is weeds or choice blooms, at least it shows us what seeds have been planted. It shows us what’s inadvertently taken root and what’s fortunately blossoming. Only then can we know what needs to be pruned or cultivated more carefully.

It’s the same with the things we train our lives to hold, with the plots of soul we till. Whatever really soaks us, good or bad–whether it’s the blessing of a busy work schedule or the tipping point in some level of frustration–that pouring shows us our limits. It shows us our possibilities. It shows us what we want. It shows us what we need. It shows us where we flourish. It shows us where we need to cut back. It shows us where we need to fertilize. It shows us where we’re already prolific.

I love the photo in this month’s desktop wallpaper. It reminds me of that odd shift in perspective that can happen with rain, with our view of the showers that seem to erode the banks of our soul’s delicate balance. It reminds me of that moment when you take just one small step back from the downpour and are suddenly able to see a glimpse of what was only a confusing pattern of droplets before.

I think I see green.

[Feel free to click and download one of these for your desktop, phone or iPad. Enjoy!]

Categories : free art + printables, on faith

Discrepancies

Posted by haley montgomery

· February 1, 2011

It’s February, and the month invariably seems to bring our attention to love. It’s inescapable. And while I don’t always buy into the hearts and flowers mentality this time of year, I want my heart to be committed to pursuing and grasping a life characterized by love. A life centered in real and genuine love. A life that rejects the imitations. A life that acts out all the discrepancies love reveals. A life that loves in little things and big things, regardless of distractions.

One of the realities about love I’m continuing to learn as I travel this road toward paying attention is that to love is always to risk. It’s true. Having my children has taught me that lesson more than any other experience, for sometimes even the simple act of letting them out of my sight is an assault on my heart. There is no love without risking myself — risking damage to that core of who I really am, where I live and breathe. Real love always involves opening and exposing myself. Giving myself. Acting outside of myself. And in the face of all the discrepancies inherent in pursuing a life of love, I find myself committed to that openness.

I made a decision in my life a long time ago that having an open heart was important to me. That remaining open despite circumstances was valuable. That exposing my heart to the full weight life (and love) have to offer was the only way to really infuse that life with true meaning, certainly the only way to really see and be moved by the people around me. The only way to distinguish true love from its pale comparisons. Yes, it’s a risky endeavor. Inspite of the risk and even my own disappointments, the opportunity to love is everywhere.

But, love can be a struggle. I don’t know about you, but I’ve experienced those times when the simple opportunities to love those around me were lost in a sea of roles. A sea of expectations — many of which I place on myself. In the day-to-day of life, I’m a parent, a designer, a cook, an organizer, a cleaner, the all-knowing finder of favorite toys and lost clothing, the ever-present referee for playtime games and stories, and the obligatory standard for kind and “loving” behavior. In the pursuit of love, at times I’ve been a trophy. I’ve been somewhere down someone’s list. I’ve been the caretaker, the mother, the unheard voice of reason. I’ve been the assumption, the provider and the significant “other.” It’s hard not to see myself only as a reflection of those things. And certainly of my choices to continue in whatever roles may stifle me, and even inhibit my ability to love. It’s hard to continually pull myself out of those roles and be generous or giving or creative or whatever else is required to live that open life I mentioned. It’s hard to keep my heart open when it means being able to feel the brunt of those roles and positions head-on. The discrepancies of life and love can be staggering.

Here’s the thing. Love is finding joy. Love is a place of peace and acceptance. Love is hoping and blessing. Love is giving away. And, love is hurting and being disappointed. Love is misunderstanding. Love is trying and sometimes failing. Love is discrepancy.

I want to run from the discrepancy. My soul wants to fly from it as fast as it can go and never look back. My heart wants to close itself up tight and pull the covers over its head. But, it doesn’t. It won’t. For love is far too important a vehicle for experiencing the world. And love is far too important a lifestyle to teach. Real life and real love are about those discrepancies. They are about slippage and imperfections. About disorder and unpredictability. And at the end of the day, they are about hope and faith. The assurances that a life of love is worth it — whatever it takes. Whatever letting go, whatever grasping, whatever denying or embracing, whatever ending or beginning, whatever exposure of myself. A life of love is worth it. It’s worth the full measure of all that I have.

In keeping with that realization, this month’s desktop wallpaper takes its lesson from Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The encouragement is to love both to the full “depth and breadth and height” my soul can achieve as well as back to the simple response of “everyday’s most quiet need.” Yes, that’s a life worthy of pursuing.

[Click the desktop wallpaper version above to download and enjoy with your technology and grab this iphone wallpaper version as well. Happy February!]

Categories : free art + printables, on faith

Hello & welcome! I’m Haley Montgomery, and I’m the designer and owner of Small Pond Graphics. I sometimes fancy myself a frog kisser— a documentarian coaxing poignant moments from unexpected places. This blog has evolved from those moments.

The small Pond FIELD GUIDE is part diary, part sketchbook, and part wish list – an archive of ordinary wonders. For years, this space has housed my stories – creative ideas, vintage inspiration, our forays into curious places, and the simple artifacts of quiet of conscious living. Through watercolor, photography, and illustrated tales, these pages uncover the blessing of ordinary days and the wonder found in authentic places and pursuits.

I invite you to open the boxes.
Peek into the drawers.
Rustle through the pages.
I’m honored to have you here.