(Revised)
I don't know if you've noticed lately, but there
is a bit of a revolution going on in the world of Believers who
are not satisfied with what is being done today in the name of
Christianity. It's a simmering stew of folks from all walks of life who
are looking at this whole thing a little differently. And when I say
simmering, I don't mean as about to boil into an angry mob, I mean
simmering as in slow-cooking, great smells in the air all day, ready
for a feast when it's ready-type simmering. It's a Love Stew and it's
on the menu in cities big and small all over the country; a menu that
does not say "we reserve the right to refuse service to everyone."
Actually living the life of the Jesus we claim to follow is the main
course and knowing we are walking His way is the dessert.
Way
back in the late 60's, I was part of an amazing thing that moved across
America. Hippies found Jesus and suddenly The Way of the Master was a
cool thing and the Jesus Movement somehow made its way into even my
little Southern Baptist church in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I was about
14-ish when I heard my first message by a groovy guy with hair long
enough to give Moses a run for his manna...and being a girl who never
in her life had the word cool attached to a sentence with her name in
it...well I was hooked. Here was a way....One Way...as we groovy people
called it...to love me some Jesus and be accepted all in one fell
swoop.
But a revolution, as this surely was, by
definition means turning the people around to a whole new way of life
and leaving the old behind. The Jesus Movement didn't go over so well
with the old guard who wanted things to stay the same. We had a new
American Revolution on the march....one that took the words of Jesus
seriously. ("The Red Letters are coming! The Red Letters are
coming!") Some didn't like these young up-starts telling them how to
love their neighbor. They knew perfectly well how to do that...as long
as neighbor was defined as someone who looked like you, talked like you
and didn't rock the boat you had built. They were not so big on
melding a family out of just any old material. The Anointed Groovy Ones
tried to show them a different way....a way of accepting all peoples
and reaching out to the least of these...not just bringing things to
the poor every Christmas, but asking the poor to join them every day of
the year. The Elders (those Non-Melders) didn't want those words
pointed out to them...at all. They stuck to their preferred passages
and ignored the ones about loving your neighbor and giving your coat to
the cold. I think they were just a little more comfy with a God who was
angry and cast people out...their kind of guy.
I
see
it happening again....this 21st century version of the Jesus
Movement...complete with Jesus Freaks and enough Love to sink an
Ark...and enough anger coming back at us to remind us that this Walk is
not an easy one. That the anger is coming from fellow Christians is not
surprising...disappointing...but not surprising. Guess it's hard to
accept folks whose sin looks different from your sin.
I am old enough now to dig this
new revolution in a way I couldn't at 14. This time I get the
love-thing in a way that you can only get when you have spent your life
looking out for you....selfish...self-absorbed...me with a capital
M...like I have done.
Suddenly there is an answer to the dreariness that long ago took over
your interior weather patterns because YOU have been the only cloud in
the sky. Love 'em like Jesus. That's what's in my forecast...and it
doesn't even have to be hard! Just set out everyday to be kind to those
who cross your path. To help someone when you have the means to help
them. You can join us in our work on the Pine Ridge Reservation
or you can serve up the meal of love and and caring right in your own
neighborhood. Do for one person what you wish you could do for everyone
and we could put an end to what so many fear....taking care of the
poor. That would be the war on poverty...and it would be won in the trenches of compassion.
When
books like "Crazy Love", "Under the Overpass,"
Radical" and "Irresistible Revolution" are bestsellers...then I'm
feelin' the winds of change and I'm praying for a big ol' storm. When
you see it coming....don't run for the basement. Stand on the roof and
say "Here! Over Here!" I for one am truly welcoming this revolution
that is sick and tired of things being done in the name of Jesus that
don't have anything to do with the life He gave us as an example. Love.
He was all about the love. Mercy. Justice. Walk humbly with your God.
I won't get it right all the time...but I will be doing something that matters with the days I have left.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The Book of Eli
They call him the "Godfather of Whiteclay." He chuckles when
someone refers to him that way....but his eyes don't smile. He can
probably think of a lot of other things he'd rather be called than the
king of the streets in a place where the streets are dark even in
daylight; the place where the Lakota have committed death by Budwieser
for decades. I can usually smell him before I see him...and still I am
happy to see him. If you look at him through eyes that don't see him as
the gift he is, then he is torn and tattered and beyond saving. But
look again. His spirit shines through. With human contact and the
calling of his name...his spirit shines through. When he sees me he
says "There she is!" and my spirit shines through. I love him like the Son loves me...fully, joyfully, even when my sin makes me stink too.
Eli is writing a book. You won't find it on Amazon, but you will see it laid bare chapter by chapter if you will just take a few minutes and speak to him.
This chapter is entitled "Hell in a Handbasket."
"Look at our young men!" he cries out in a rare moment of sobriety, pointing to the constant stream of the Seventh Generation coming and going at the liquor store across the street from the building that houses my new ministry. "They have no direction. No one to tell them go this way...don't go that way." He shakes his head and mumbles in Lakota. "I have been here for 28 years...longer than they have been alive. I would tell them don't come here...but they won't listen to me."
We talk about how the respect he has on the streets could be used to change the lives of these young men...but then we agree that the next time he gets clean and sober he needs to stay away from here. "Yeah, that's where I go wrong everytime," he admits. "I get sober and then I come here to help before I am well enough to do that." We nod our heads in unison and watch the stream across the way turn into a river. Someone needs to put a "Deadly Undertow" sign on its banks.
The last day I was on the reservation, Eli had a seizure on the front porch of our building and wrote a chapter called "All Is Grace." A woman from the tribe came in to tell me. She spoke with the same urgency that someone might have used to say they had found a pair of sunglasses in the parking lot. Someone else called 911 and I went out to Eli. By the time I got there he was coming out of it and his muscles were hurting badly from the spasms. He was shouting to God at the top of his lungs.
"Grandfather! Grandfather! You want me? Come and get me! Please come and get me! Why do you leave me here to suffer?" I held his hand and he just hung his head and whispered. "Grandfather. Grandfather. Grandfather." I found myself praying for God to save Eli from this place. He drank three bottles of water and quickly ate the sandwich we got for him. I went back inside to help someone who had stopped by and needed diapers, and came back to check on him. I heard him chuckle. "I can feel you coming. I know you are there before I see you," he said. Spirits shining through.
Once he had collected himself he began to talk to me of a Father's love. Not his earthly father...but Tunkashila...the God who created the man called Eli. The eternal Grandfather. "I sleep in that old abandoned house over there," he says. "I got nothing. But every morning when I open my eyes I say thank you my Father for another day. Thank you my Father for this gift. Today maybe I can help someone." He lowers his head and clasps his hands together. "Just like this...I say thank you my Father. And He takes me in his arms, brings me in the fold and says he has not forgotten me. And I say again...thank you my father."
And I say thank you, my friend. I think of you everyday. I pray for you everyday and I can feel you praying for me. And now I will ask you, dear reader, to dare to repeat Eli's words every morning yourself. "Thank you my Father for this gift of another day. Today maybe I can help someone."
Do that...And you will see The Spirit shining through...on the wings of Eli Bald Eagle.
To see a 2 minute video of Eli on my Facebook page...click here.
Eli is writing a book. You won't find it on Amazon, but you will see it laid bare chapter by chapter if you will just take a few minutes and speak to him.
This chapter is entitled "Hell in a Handbasket."
"Look at our young men!" he cries out in a rare moment of sobriety, pointing to the constant stream of the Seventh Generation coming and going at the liquor store across the street from the building that houses my new ministry. "They have no direction. No one to tell them go this way...don't go that way." He shakes his head and mumbles in Lakota. "I have been here for 28 years...longer than they have been alive. I would tell them don't come here...but they won't listen to me."
We talk about how the respect he has on the streets could be used to change the lives of these young men...but then we agree that the next time he gets clean and sober he needs to stay away from here. "Yeah, that's where I go wrong everytime," he admits. "I get sober and then I come here to help before I am well enough to do that." We nod our heads in unison and watch the stream across the way turn into a river. Someone needs to put a "Deadly Undertow" sign on its banks.
The last day I was on the reservation, Eli had a seizure on the front porch of our building and wrote a chapter called "All Is Grace." A woman from the tribe came in to tell me. She spoke with the same urgency that someone might have used to say they had found a pair of sunglasses in the parking lot. Someone else called 911 and I went out to Eli. By the time I got there he was coming out of it and his muscles were hurting badly from the spasms. He was shouting to God at the top of his lungs.
"Grandfather! Grandfather! You want me? Come and get me! Please come and get me! Why do you leave me here to suffer?" I held his hand and he just hung his head and whispered. "Grandfather. Grandfather. Grandfather." I found myself praying for God to save Eli from this place. He drank three bottles of water and quickly ate the sandwich we got for him. I went back inside to help someone who had stopped by and needed diapers, and came back to check on him. I heard him chuckle. "I can feel you coming. I know you are there before I see you," he said. Spirits shining through.
Once he had collected himself he began to talk to me of a Father's love. Not his earthly father...but Tunkashila...the God who created the man called Eli. The eternal Grandfather. "I sleep in that old abandoned house over there," he says. "I got nothing. But every morning when I open my eyes I say thank you my Father for another day. Thank you my Father for this gift. Today maybe I can help someone." He lowers his head and clasps his hands together. "Just like this...I say thank you my Father. And He takes me in his arms, brings me in the fold and says he has not forgotten me. And I say again...thank you my father."
And I say thank you, my friend. I think of you everyday. I pray for you everyday and I can feel you praying for me. And now I will ask you, dear reader, to dare to repeat Eli's words every morning yourself. "Thank you my Father for this gift of another day. Today maybe I can help someone."
Do that...And you will see The Spirit shining through...on the wings of Eli Bald Eagle.
To see a 2 minute video of Eli on my Facebook page...click here.
Friday, April 13, 2012
La Vida Lakota
My husband, Logan, took his time off and went with me to the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota last week. His first trip to a place most of America will never see. I wanted to share with you his perspective of the Rez I have come to know and love through the eyes of my spirit. This is a note he posted on his FB.
Freshly returned from vacation trip to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.
Great learning experience. Gaining perspective was the whole point. Awesome discussions with new friends. Among other things, I saw why KC is excited about the potential for the artists there to re-shape their community's future (while supporting themselves, also).
Personally, I discovered that the Lakota culture is not American culture, nor should it be. There are problems on Pine Ridge that have rooted themselves firmly into the fabric of Indian society. Most of America acknowledges this simple description from a distance, and without much reservation, to use a pun.
However, most of America doesn't know this: The problems on the Rez need solutions that come from the Rez. There are so many stories (but also haunting physical effects, and even memorials -- more on that in days to come) about well-intentioned whites coming in and orchestrating reforms as they see fit. Iraq, anyone? Afghanistan? We arrogantly attempt to rebuild nations in our own image, without much thought to what already works. Or what's fair.
Let's be blunt: These people have had their asses kicked. The reservation is what's left of a prisoner of war camp. Look it up. The tribes were broken apart, spread across a desolate landscape, and threatened with death if they left. When gold was found on their land, US gov't claimed it.
If you think getting repeatedly screwed after being nearly wiped out would be a "downer" to most any race, think of how it affects a people of warriors. This, to me, is one of their greatest afflictions. While the majority of the women seem to be lively and motivated, many of the men are lost souls. Their spirits, by and large, have been crushed so deeply and so often, what's the point in trying to fight anymore? Pride is gone, honor long forgotten.
This is where alcoholism begins to take root. For those of you who don't know, there is an 80% rate of it here. It is not the primary demon, as most social workers will tell you. It is a symptom of a larger problem.
This is when the word "empowerment," so overused today, actually applies perfectly.
Getting these people to help themselves is paramount. Finding effective means of recovery from within is essential. Americans pride themselves on hard work, of "pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps." The Lakota, psychologically speaking, are barefoot.
Now, I've never been big on charity. But I recognize the difference between living and surviving. During my wife's winter trip, two people froze to death. It didn't even make the local paper, it's so prevalent and accepted. That's why I don't mind handing out coats and toilet paper. It's an emergency. But I'm always keeping an eye on the goal of empowerment.
I don't want Lakotas to put on suits, open savings accounts and trade stocks. I want the Rez to have it's own economy, not America's.
This Rez is such a food desert...what I found to be the most promising efforts there were gardens. Bruce Bonfleur is starting a greenhouse, and will give the people there the know-how and the tools for growing their own food. Shannon Freed (Colorado State alum, too) is creating an immensely self-sustaining system of composting, and has planted a "food forest" (not an orchard!).
These are vital solutions. And certainly an improvement to the barren neighborhood I drove through in Sharp's Crossing. Here, where the food comes from the only convenience store within 20 miles, the families were watering dirt front yards in an attempt to imitate suburbia.
That's a good deal of darkness to speak about, but there were many moments of levity also. There are bright, shiny people on the Rez like there are stars in the night sky. Good humor is often hard to come by with a serious-natured people in a bad situation.
-- Leon Matthews, during a spirited discussion about Christianity's rejuvenation of, well, spirit...said Jesus had something of a "housing issue," too.
-- One very large and presumably homeless Lakota woman, upon learning of our supplies, wondered if we could offer her a bikini. Her eyes disappeared when she broke out in laughter, her smile taking up all of her face.
-- A proud father, Tyler LaForge, boasted of his 14-year-old son's academics while the young man, Justin, looked down and away. I was disheartened by Justin's lack of eye contact, his poor posture, his withdrawal. But when I prodded him to stick his chest out and brag for himself, he looked my in the eye, and grinned. A full-scale smile broke out when I encouraged a fist-bump. I will never, ever forget how quickly and fully he responded to me. He ran through the door when I opened it.
Tyler, incidentally, cried on my wife's shoulder because we purchased a fan belt for the muffler-less '70's Cadillac that became his only mode of transportation, and which allowed him to work.
Their family still lives without running water.
-- We drove through Wounded Knee one time while the native radio station played "Funkytown." Hmmm...
This station also played a full-length version of the old Hawaii 5-O theme song. Out...STANDING!
-- My eyes watered at the sight of so many American flags on native graves. Veterans of all our wars are buried here. They fought for the country that almost exterminated them.
One of the most promising artists here, Joe Pulliam, is a veteran. He told us he fought to honor his ancestors, all of whom had fought in their lives. His grandfather was especially proud of him, to know that he "had seen battle."
Joe, a fantastic, up-and-coming watercolor artist, is cousin to Crazy Horse and great grandson to Black Elk, both legendary warriors.
Today, Joe struggles with the idea of his military service, and shakes his head.
-- I saw an article about a Native American music group that puts its own spin on blues, jazz, and rock. They tabbed it, Alter-Native.
Lastly, KC and I stayed at the home of Bruce and Marsha Bonfleur (and son Brent). Fourteen years ago, they left family in Florida and moved with their two young children to the Rez, sight unseen. They were called, they say. Extremely hospitable and beautiful people.
They are investing themselves in the Lakota. They are there 365-24-7. These are the people worth supporting. I wish all the missionaries, who come in the spirit of selflessness but then leave to return to their own lives, would grasp this: The Natives are weary of temporary intervention that does more to soothe the faith-based pursuits of well-wishers and do-gooders than it solves any real tribulations of the tribes. Missionaries are kind people, but to be effective, they should follow the guidance of the permanently entrenched like our Bruce and Marsha. "Lakota Hope," in case you want to see more.
Freshly returned from vacation trip to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.
Great learning experience. Gaining perspective was the whole point. Awesome discussions with new friends. Among other things, I saw why KC is excited about the potential for the artists there to re-shape their community's future (while supporting themselves, also).
Personally, I discovered that the Lakota culture is not American culture, nor should it be. There are problems on Pine Ridge that have rooted themselves firmly into the fabric of Indian society. Most of America acknowledges this simple description from a distance, and without much reservation, to use a pun.
However, most of America doesn't know this: The problems on the Rez need solutions that come from the Rez. There are so many stories (but also haunting physical effects, and even memorials -- more on that in days to come) about well-intentioned whites coming in and orchestrating reforms as they see fit. Iraq, anyone? Afghanistan? We arrogantly attempt to rebuild nations in our own image, without much thought to what already works. Or what's fair.
Let's be blunt: These people have had their asses kicked. The reservation is what's left of a prisoner of war camp. Look it up. The tribes were broken apart, spread across a desolate landscape, and threatened with death if they left. When gold was found on their land, US gov't claimed it.
If you think getting repeatedly screwed after being nearly wiped out would be a "downer" to most any race, think of how it affects a people of warriors. This, to me, is one of their greatest afflictions. While the majority of the women seem to be lively and motivated, many of the men are lost souls. Their spirits, by and large, have been crushed so deeply and so often, what's the point in trying to fight anymore? Pride is gone, honor long forgotten.
This is where alcoholism begins to take root. For those of you who don't know, there is an 80% rate of it here. It is not the primary demon, as most social workers will tell you. It is a symptom of a larger problem.
This is when the word "empowerment," so overused today, actually applies perfectly.
Getting these people to help themselves is paramount. Finding effective means of recovery from within is essential. Americans pride themselves on hard work, of "pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps." The Lakota, psychologically speaking, are barefoot.
Now, I've never been big on charity. But I recognize the difference between living and surviving. During my wife's winter trip, two people froze to death. It didn't even make the local paper, it's so prevalent and accepted. That's why I don't mind handing out coats and toilet paper. It's an emergency. But I'm always keeping an eye on the goal of empowerment.
I don't want Lakotas to put on suits, open savings accounts and trade stocks. I want the Rez to have it's own economy, not America's.
This Rez is such a food desert...what I found to be the most promising efforts there were gardens. Bruce Bonfleur is starting a greenhouse, and will give the people there the know-how and the tools for growing their own food. Shannon Freed (Colorado State alum, too) is creating an immensely self-sustaining system of composting, and has planted a "food forest" (not an orchard!).
These are vital solutions. And certainly an improvement to the barren neighborhood I drove through in Sharp's Crossing. Here, where the food comes from the only convenience store within 20 miles, the families were watering dirt front yards in an attempt to imitate suburbia.
That's a good deal of darkness to speak about, but there were many moments of levity also. There are bright, shiny people on the Rez like there are stars in the night sky. Good humor is often hard to come by with a serious-natured people in a bad situation.
-- Leon Matthews, during a spirited discussion about Christianity's rejuvenation of, well, spirit...said Jesus had something of a "housing issue," too.
-- One very large and presumably homeless Lakota woman, upon learning of our supplies, wondered if we could offer her a bikini. Her eyes disappeared when she broke out in laughter, her smile taking up all of her face.
-- A proud father, Tyler LaForge, boasted of his 14-year-old son's academics while the young man, Justin, looked down and away. I was disheartened by Justin's lack of eye contact, his poor posture, his withdrawal. But when I prodded him to stick his chest out and brag for himself, he looked my in the eye, and grinned. A full-scale smile broke out when I encouraged a fist-bump. I will never, ever forget how quickly and fully he responded to me. He ran through the door when I opened it.
Tyler, incidentally, cried on my wife's shoulder because we purchased a fan belt for the muffler-less '70's Cadillac that became his only mode of transportation, and which allowed him to work.
Their family still lives without running water.
-- We drove through Wounded Knee one time while the native radio station played "Funkytown." Hmmm...
This station also played a full-length version of the old Hawaii 5-O theme song. Out...STANDING!
-- My eyes watered at the sight of so many American flags on native graves. Veterans of all our wars are buried here. They fought for the country that almost exterminated them.
One of the most promising artists here, Joe Pulliam, is a veteran. He told us he fought to honor his ancestors, all of whom had fought in their lives. His grandfather was especially proud of him, to know that he "had seen battle."
Joe, a fantastic, up-and-coming watercolor artist, is cousin to Crazy Horse and great grandson to Black Elk, both legendary warriors.
Today, Joe struggles with the idea of his military service, and shakes his head.
-- I saw an article about a Native American music group that puts its own spin on blues, jazz, and rock. They tabbed it, Alter-Native.
Lastly, KC and I stayed at the home of Bruce and Marsha Bonfleur (and son Brent). Fourteen years ago, they left family in Florida and moved with their two young children to the Rez, sight unseen. They were called, they say. Extremely hospitable and beautiful people.
They are investing themselves in the Lakota. They are there 365-24-7. These are the people worth supporting. I wish all the missionaries, who come in the spirit of selflessness but then leave to return to their own lives, would grasp this: The Natives are weary of temporary intervention that does more to soothe the faith-based pursuits of well-wishers and do-gooders than it solves any real tribulations of the tribes. Missionaries are kind people, but to be effective, they should follow the guidance of the permanently entrenched like our Bruce and Marsha. "Lakota Hope," in case you want to see more.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
What I Might Say...To Whiteclay
Whiteclay, Nebraska is a town of approximately 14 residents and 4 liquor stores. The first one conveniently sits 250 yards from the border of the "dry" Pine Ridge Indian Reservation; a reservation that has been shattered into a million little pieces by the ravages of alcoholism. If Whiteclay could read...I might send it an e-mail something like this....
To: hey-i-am-not-breaking-any-laws@shameonyou.com
Dear Whiteclay,
You don't me...and sometimes I wish I didn't know you. But I have walked your streets, talked to your homeless, slept in your zip code, and prayed in your fields. I know you perhaps better than you know yourself. You're not fooling anyone. You fly the flag of capitalism (and when no one is looking you salute it), defending yourself all the way to the bank. In the way that matters to you, you are successful. In the way that matters to anyone who has seen you at work....you are the equivalent of
twist-off-top atomic bomb. They hand you a few dollars and you hand them destruction as complete as Hiroshima...only no one comes back to rebuild the nation.
The first time I met you, you frightened me, I'll admit it. I locked my car doors, didn't make eye contact and set my GPS to find the corner of "get me the hell out of here" and "what was I thinking?" I was kinda hoping I wouldn't run into you again, but it seemed everywhere I turned on the Pine Ridge Reservation I met people who had visited your house. You really should work on being a better host. What kind of neighbor, knowing the house next door was made of flammable material, would pour gasoline on it...and light a match?
But here's the deal. I am here to put you on notice. I believe there are spirits in the invisible realm. I believe some are so petty that a thousand of them could fit in my shoe. I also believe some are huge, having fed themselves on injustice and evil for many generations. They have gorged on unforgiveness and fear and washed it down with hopelessness. When they open their wings they cover an entire valley....or an entire first nation. There is a darkness to their shadows that lingers. But there is a renaissance afoot; a revolution marching to the beat of creativity, original language, pride, and in step with the God and His Son. The Lakota people you have tried your best to destroy are determined to be a mighty Sioux Nation again. They are warriors. They know how to stand and fight and they know how to get on their knees...and fight. You are no match for the seventh generation. You are no match for the Cross....and the God of the Angel Armies. You think you are safely surrounded by the cloak of darkness that will hide you...but in reality you are surrounded by armies of light that can only be put into motion when the people pray. And the people are praying, Whiteclay.
We may not be able to foreclose on your residence, but we can take the streets back and there is nothing you can do about. We will love you right out of the neighborhood. Feed them, clothe them, visit them....you get the picture. You tried more than once to shut down this pool of love, but we are ripping off the "Keep out" sign and jumping in the deep end. As a matter of fact your dark notoriety will be our diving board. For as surely as the world has been stunned by the sight of the shattered spirits you roll into ditches...it will have no choice but to take notice of the love that pulls them out.
Pine Ridge will be a City on a Hill...a light to show the way to other nations of first people. And you Whiteclay, the dark room that you are....will have no choice but to give way to the light. For when light enters a room...darkness has to flee.
Buh-bye....KC Willis
light-up-the-darkness@ordinaryclaypots.com
If you would like information on how you can help us with our work on The Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, please e-mail me at lakotacenter@yahoo.com. Thank you!
To: hey-i-am-not-breaking-any-laws@shameonyou.com
Dear Whiteclay,
You don't me...and sometimes I wish I didn't know you. But I have walked your streets, talked to your homeless, slept in your zip code, and prayed in your fields. I know you perhaps better than you know yourself. You're not fooling anyone. You fly the flag of capitalism (and when no one is looking you salute it), defending yourself all the way to the bank. In the way that matters to you, you are successful. In the way that matters to anyone who has seen you at work....you are the equivalent oftwist-off-top atomic bomb. They hand you a few dollars and you hand them destruction as complete as Hiroshima...only no one comes back to rebuild the nation.
The first time I met you, you frightened me, I'll admit it. I locked my car doors, didn't make eye contact and set my GPS to find the corner of "get me the hell out of here" and "what was I thinking?" I was kinda hoping I wouldn't run into you again, but it seemed everywhere I turned on the Pine Ridge Reservation I met people who had visited your house. You really should work on being a better host. What kind of neighbor, knowing the house next door was made of flammable material, would pour gasoline on it...and light a match?
But here's the deal. I am here to put you on notice. I believe there are spirits in the invisible realm. I believe some are so petty that a thousand of them could fit in my shoe. I also believe some are huge, having fed themselves on injustice and evil for many generations. They have gorged on unforgiveness and fear and washed it down with hopelessness. When they open their wings they cover an entire valley....or an entire first nation. There is a darkness to their shadows that lingers. But there is a renaissance afoot; a revolution marching to the beat of creativity, original language, pride, and in step with the God and His Son. The Lakota people you have tried your best to destroy are determined to be a mighty Sioux Nation again. They are warriors. They know how to stand and fight and they know how to get on their knees...and fight. You are no match for the seventh generation. You are no match for the Cross....and the God of the Angel Armies. You think you are safely surrounded by the cloak of darkness that will hide you...but in reality you are surrounded by armies of light that can only be put into motion when the people pray. And the people are praying, Whiteclay.
We may not be able to foreclose on your residence, but we can take the streets back and there is nothing you can do about. We will love you right out of the neighborhood. Feed them, clothe them, visit them....you get the picture. You tried more than once to shut down this pool of love, but we are ripping off the "Keep out" sign and jumping in the deep end. As a matter of fact your dark notoriety will be our diving board. For as surely as the world has been stunned by the sight of the shattered spirits you roll into ditches...it will have no choice but to take notice of the love that pulls them out.
 |
| New home of Lakota Center For Progress...Whiteclay, NE |
Buh-bye....KC Willis
light-up-the-darkness@ordinaryclaypots.com
If you would like information on how you can help us with our work on The Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, please e-mail me at lakotacenter@yahoo.com. Thank you!
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Flag Instructions Now on a PDF!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
North Texas Collage Conference
Ft. Worth, Texas December 5-7, 2011
Three days of Mixed Media Heaven with a dose of inspiration thrown in for good measure.
Day One.....
In the first day of our three day Conference on all thing collage we will begin a very special piece I call "The Women-The Flag." We will take coffee-stained fabrics and layer them together creating our version of the American flag...one that honors the women who were so important in making this country great. Teaching this class in Fort Worth is very special to me as the first flag I ever made was purchased by the Cowgirl Museum and unveiled as their commemoration on the first anniversary of Sept. 11th.
Day Two...
On the second day we will complete our flag AND make a 12x18 wall piece, based on my signature style. Using a favorite photo I will teach you everything I do to age and layer for dramatic texture that looks a hundred years old.
Day Three...
This very special project is among the favorites of my students. Using a selection of old drawers and old boxes that I will bring with me (or bring your own if you come across something cool) we will use old fabrics, papers and embellishments to turn something ordinary into something extraordinary. I love making shrines. I will show you my techniques for applying paint that looks like it's been there forever. Below are a few I have made through the years.
Also on Day Three....a short session on "An Artist's Attitude" and great advice on marketing your work.The Conference will be held at a lovely community center in a private residential complex in the northern part of Ft. Worth. Address given when you register.
This three day very special holiday Conference is only $340. Fee due at time of claiming your space (limited to 12) with $40 materials fees (I bring just about everything you will need) due at the time of each class. Use the Paypal button below or contact me at lipstickranch@yahoo.com to pay by check or directly with a credit card. See you in Texas!
North Texas Collage Conference....$340
Friday, September 9, 2011
Art Retreat on Beautiful Florida Farm
If you have ever wanted to spend 2 days on a beautiful equestrian facility in the heart of Florida's horse country AND hang out with creative people while making very cool mixed media art....here's your shot.
For all the info on this class and to grab one of the two remaining spaces....go to http://studioretreats.ning.com/page/on-the-road-20112012. Thanks so much!
KC
For all the info on this class and to grab one of the two remaining spaces....go to http://studioretreats.ning.com/page/on-the-road-20112012. Thanks so much!
KC
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