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Saturday, December 17, 2011
Friday, November 25, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Marxy in the Sower - September 1985
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Bullying Children and Art
All over the museum, there were people with their cell phones extended, recording every image in the gallery, muttering to themselves, and no one said a word to them. Americans now experience live events, art, and even family life via their cell phones. They're so busy watching life go by in the display screen that genuine human emotion and interaction are no longer a part of the equation. But a child squeals with delight at a piece of art, and it's a federal offense.We have become experts at capturing images, but often fail to see deeply. Our children should be encouraged to have honest reactions to the world around them and not bullied into silence when they attempt to interact. (Of Thee I Zing, p 225)
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Activity on the Facebook Page
Monday, June 20, 2011
Scribd update and Marxhausen Exhibit
Friday, June 17, 2011
I and Thou in the Here and Now by Kay Anderson
The book I and Thou in the Here and Now is a book about finding joy in life and dealing with how life can be sad and feel like a drudgery. In it, the author shares short stories of her experiences. Several of these are about her memories of Reinhold Marxhausen. Karl Marxhausen shared a copy of this book with me which includes a note from the author addressed to Reinhold.
Stories which were about Reinhold were marked with stars in the text. Here is the note written by Kay Anderson and the relevant quotes from the book:
8/15/77
For Marx—
This book was launched after meeting you. Your spirit joined mine…and you will find yourself clearly reflected on the star marked pages. You are the “senior robin” in the Fantasy Finale. Thanks for BEING you!
With love,
Kay
(The FLURRY is super! Thanks J)
p. 16
At a conference, an artist loaned me his eyes until I was able to see with my own.
Marx shared himself and gave me a world of new awareness. Suddenly, common things took on great significance. I stooped to study a dried and crumbling leaf, and saw the sun move through it casting a lacy shadow on my path.
p. 48
The conference is long past, and I feel like a child whose hands are still cupped to hold a shimmering bubble that once drifted away on a breeze.
It’s hard for me to let go of something or someone that completes me. Although the longing makes me painfully aware of my needs, it also makes me aware of beautiful memories. I chose to recall and remember the joy. I chose to reach out again.
p. 77
A man told me that his father had always wanted him to become a minister, but he became an artist instead. Now in his fifties, he drives himself in his work seeking to minister to others through his medium, not yet certain that he’s fulfilled his father’s dream.
He and I and others have placed excessive demands on Self, all because of unresolved and long-ago, external expectations. To become aware, to be gentle with Self, to accept the kind of reflections of others—that is a beginning. The past need not consume us.
p. 116
“Look there!” my friend said, and pointed in my tea cup. I presumed he meant a speck of dust or some lint. “It’s okay,” I assured him, and poured myself some tea. Then he had to take another cup to patiently show me a heart-shaped reflection that the sunlight cast in the cup.
At least for now, it takes a conscious effort for me to remain silent and receptive. I would like to give others time to reflect, to share, to be.
Fantasy Finale
The Great Escape
After being at a luncheon with friends one day, I came home to think through the conversations of that noon hour. I felt frustrated by the lack of fulfillment expressed by some of my friends. I felt saddened by their willingness to accept their “lot in life.” I felt separated from them when I shared some of my flying experiences.
And then I had a fantasy. Within the fertile garden of thoughts and wishes and dreams, I saw the birds and butterflies of the world held captive on the wheels of life. Though their wings flapped and fluttered, a clasp was closed around their bodies, and they were seemingly hopeless captives.
Around and around they went on their particular wheels, pouring out their life force in pursuit of life’s daily needs. They were limited to experiences within the scope of that wheel. There they saw their fellow winged beings. There they all dipped down to eat and rest at the end of the day’s “journey.”
“That’s life,” I imagined they’d say, just as my friends were saying without actually voicing that conviction. But I couldn’t bear it! Not for myself. Not for them.
Then into my fantasy came an old butterfly and a senior robin. They had been “flying” for most of their lives. They had seen sunsets over the lake, sunrises on the hills of the forest. They had tasted of flowers and worms. They had climbed to great heights. They had been driven against their will in sudden unexpected squalls. They had taken their chances away from the security of the wheel.
Now they had come home. In a mutual pact, they had agreed to try once more to free their friends from captivity.
“Lift your eyes,” they butterfly whispered in a flutter of demonstration. “Look up!”
“Raise your vision,” chirped the old robin. “There’s more to life than worms. I eat so that I can fly and drift and splash in rain puddles. Lift your heads, my friends.”
Still the wheels turned. The lovely creatures remained passively secure within the clasp of life’s practicalities. Around and around they flew, though I question the use of that verb. Their only change of pace came at meal times and at dusk.
On the next morning, the old butterfly visited flowers that flourished beyond the well-worn and quite barren and of wheels. And the senior robin sang freely from the branches of a lush leafy oak.
Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps it was a plan. But the uncommon song of the robin caused two birds to life their heads suddenly, almost in unison.
With that individual choice, two clasps flew open. Two birds abandoned the plodding plight of the wheel. The responsive birds were free, free at last. Together they flew, they truly flew to join the senior robin. They flew to participate in life.
As if on cue, the old butterfly winged close to one wheel, settling, lifting, dipping her wings, faltering a bit. She caught the attention of an eager young captive. Excitedly the old butterfly fluttered forth toward the blue and waiting sky. And the young one looked up!
Again a clasp flew open. And for a while the fragile and untested young wings moved more quickly. Then they stopped. The wheel moved forward, relentlessly, and the young one was almost swept away in the down draft.
Just in time, the old butterfly flew close and flapped and flapped and flapped, until a kindly breeze developed to set the young butterfly right again. They away she flew, up and up and up.
“I’m flying,” came the song of the lovely butterfly. “Flying, really flying.”
All that day and the next, which would be like years in the life of men, the old butterfly and the young, along with senior robin and his friends, called out to those still trapped on the wheel.
“Look up! There is more to life than the cares of daily existence. Try your wings. Security can be hopelessness. Lift up your vision, your hopes, and you will be set free.”
Slowly, one by one, others dared to trust the uncommon call of shared flight. “Trust in Good,” said the robin. “Good created this world. Good gave us wings to carry us beyond hopelessness.”
And then, late in the afternoon, they were gone. These harbingers of freedom moved on to other wheels, to other trapped beings. There was not time to free them all. Life is of the essence. And the essence vanishes.
I and Thou in the Here and Now
Kay Anderson
1977, Word, inc.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Marxhausen's Family Site
Friday, June 3, 2011
Article referencing Marxhausen and Seeing
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Phantom Tollbooth and Seeing
'Many years ago, on this very spot, there was a beautiful city of fine houses and inviting spaces, and no one who lived here was ever in a hurry. The streets were full of wonderful things to see and the people would often stop to look at them.''Didn't they have any place to go?' asked Milo.'To be sure,' continued Alec; 'but, as you know, the most important reason for going from one place to another is to another is to see what's in between, and they took great pleasure in doing just that. Then one day someone discovered that if you walked as fast as possible and looked at nothing but your shoes you would arrive at your destination much more quickly. Soon everyone was doing it. They all rushed down the avenues and hurried along the boulevards seeing nothing of the wonders and beauties of their city as they went.'...'No one paid any attention to how things looked, and as they moved faster and faster everything grew uglier and dirtier, and as everything grew uglier and dirtier they moved faster and faster, and at last a very strange thing began to happen. Because nobody cared, the city began to disappear. Day by day the buildings grew fainter and fainter, and the streets faded away, until at last it was entirely invisible. There was nothing to see at all.'...'they can never see what they're in too much of a hurry to look for...it's just as bad to live in a place where what you do see isn't there as it is to live in one where what you don't see is.'
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Two books by Reinhold
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Marxhausen Chapel Message
Hello blog readers! Tomorrow, I leave for France, and will return May 22. You'll have to wait til then for new posts, so today I'm just going to let you know what I've been working on recently. I've been scanning a few books created by Reinhold. These books were entrusted to me by Karl Marxhausen.
So far, I have completely scanned two books, one of which is titled A Time to See and contains photos he showed and discussed in the film of the same name. It also includes many more photos not shown in the film, and tells the stories of the interesting things he saw and how he found them. I'll be sharing my favorite highlights from his many sketches and notes here shortly after I return, so check back later this month!
For today, I'd like to share this text of a school chapel Reinhold wrote. Pastor Bruick of St. John Lutheran Church in Seward shared this story at the memorial service for Reinhold. When Reinhold originally delivered this message, the pine coffin he built was sitting on stage.
My Capsule Just Fits
Reinhold Pieper Marxhausen, 1981—St. John Lutheran Church—School Chapel
“I used to be afraid of death
As anyone else.
Even though we know that Christ has conquered death.
My hair used to be black. I’m changing. I’m dying.
This is my casket. I paid $130.00 for it.
When it came to my house in a cardboard box as a kit,
I put it in the garage.
I did not open it for a long time because I was afraid.
Last summer I glued the pieces together.
It sits in my studio.
I see it whenever I work.
I stand in it most every day.
I am no longer afraid.
I think about death often.
When I open my eyes in the morning,
I’m surprised and happy.
Another day for me.
A gift unexpected.
But this day may be my last.
I know you are young,
full of life ahead to look forward to.
This is important.
I’m 59.
Some of you will die before me.
Farmers don’t throw their seeds away.
They plant them.
Old and shriveled people and seeds become new after death.
Like these beautiful flowers.
This box is a symbol.
A new space capsule for my meeting with God.
A great new adventure lies before me.
This box reminds me every day of God’s grace and love.
May it be for you also.”