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recollections of an artist

c is for cookieThere is something about baking that makes the end result extra special.  Not only have you accomplished and successfully made a delicious treat, but you also get to enjoy eating it.  Since Saturday, I have been trying to thoughtfully do one thing a day that brings me joy.  It doesn’t have to be anything grandiose.  It just needs to be fueled by the intention for joy and joy alone.  Not because I ‘should’ or ‘have to’.

This past Saturday was when I baked the cookies.  When I saw my Lady on Sunday, I shared with her the fruits of  my labor.  After taking a bite, she realized my joy had spread to her too.  Call it the gift of sharing baked goods. That’s when she said, “C is for Courtney* and C is for cookie”. Truth Lady, truth.

*her actual name does begin with a C but has been changed to protect her identity.

Hands, by Jewel
If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we’re all OK
And not to worry ’cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I won’t be made useless
I won’t be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear
My hands are small, I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn’t steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn’t ever after
We’ll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what’s right
‘Cause where there’s a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing
My hands are small I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
But they’re not yours, they are my own
I am never broken
In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
My hands are small I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
My hands are small I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
We are never broken
We are God’s eyes
God’s hands
God’s mind
We are God’s eyes
God’s hands
God’s heart
We are God’s eyes
God’s hands
God’s eyes
We are God’s hands
We are God’s hands

For the majority of us, the image of a lobster often presents in one of these two ways- free in the ocean or rubber banded in the tank at the restaurant.  A lot happens in between these two states, but we are most familiar with those two stages.

Recently, I discovered that my well being all goes back to the lobster.  In the wild, they need their claws to hunt, defend themselves and in my delusional thinking, hold claws when they find their life-long mate.  So when they are banded, not only do they become defenseless, but they also are safe from themselves.  Yes, I said it; themselves.  On one hand I see that they can’t clip the grocery store employee’s hands when their claws are closed shut.  And also, I see how they can’t turn their claws back on themselves.  Similar to being in restraints back in the day in a psychiatric facility.  Again, a lot happens between these two states.

What I am now asking is how can I live with my lobster claws and use them for their intended use only?  Can I live with them unbounded and not self sabotage?  How will I know what to do with them?  Is it obvious?  More obvious than what not to do with them?  Or is it just as obscure as a rock lobster?

Those close to me have had to deal with me verbalizing this lobster claw idea every time a situation with an unclear solution comes up by saying, “lobster clawwwss”.  So this week, as an ode to this conundrum, I’ve decided that Rock Lobster by the B-52’s is just the right song of the week. How do you handle your lobster claws? Is it anything like the B-52’s or more far fetched out in the ocean? As soon as I know, you can bet I will be reporting back.  Until then, LOBSTER CLAWS…..

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