life – Page 4 – jj barrows

Breaking The Rules

When I was in fifth grade my little sister had her head bashed in by a gold club. I know, it sounds morbid, and it was but bear with me, the story ends well.

It was a Sunday afternoon. We had just finished lunch and prior to that we had just finished church. To this fifth grader, church was definitely something you wanted to finish so you could hurry up and get to lunch. Lunch was something you didn’t want to end because after lunch was nap. I never liked nap time, which strikes me as odd because now I couldn’t live life without one.

My parents told everyone to go to their rooms after lunch, my mom always said the same thing, “you don’t have to go to sleep, but you do have to be quiet.” Nap time was really more for my parents, they were smart to train us young for the Sunday afternoon nap. We always knew it was coming. “Whatever you decide to do for your time is fine so long as it’s quiet and it’s in your room.” The last thing I remember my mother saying before everyone departed the kitchen was “you are not allowed to go outside.”

I remember this because my two younger siblings (Bobby and Betsy) had decided this was exactly what they would do after mom and dad fell asleep. We all went to our rooms and they waited a little while before I heard them quietly sneaking back out. Bobby had a friend over that day and they decided to play with dad’s golf clubs. I find it important to note my dad has never been a golfer, still isn’t, but either because it was another hobby he tried to pick up and didn’t find entertaining (I don’t blame him, boring!) or someone gave them to him because people always randomly give things to their pastor (probably for good measure), we had golf clubs laying around.

Bobby and his friend Jamie each took turns swinging. Betsy was frolicking around the yard. I was peeking out of my window when I decided to go out and tell them I was going to tell mom and dad they were breaking the rules (yes, I made things my business that weren’t my business). Without paying much attention Betsy frolicked her way behind Jamie’s back hand swing when his 9 iron (that’s the big one for those of you who don’t play golf) smacked right into her forehead (which is the only reason I ever learned that was a 9 iron).

I wasn’t there right when it happened, I only heard Betsy screaming. I ran outside, Bobby and Jamie frozen dead in their tracks and Betsy holding her hands over her forehead. Because I didn’t see what happened, nor did I see any blood, I assumed Betsy was being dramatic, like a “Bobby pushed me” kind of cry. With there being four kids in my family we heard those a lot. “Don’t be such a baby,” I said to Betsy, “why are you crying?” I know, in retrospect I am not proud of how I approached the situation, but this was my first memorable lesson in never assuming you know everything.

Betsy couldn’t even speak, she just removed her hands from her forehead. For a split second I was silenced as a I experienced my first shock wave. Once the split second was up I screamed bloody murder for my mom and dad. I stood there, unable to move, looking at the inside of my little sister’s head. The hole was the actual size of the 9 iron. I remember thinking if she leaned forward her brains were going to fall out.

Mom and dad came running out of the house and to be honest, the rest is a blur. I remember them wrapping her in a blanket and rushing her to the hospital, but that’s it. She was in the hospital for a while, in part because the first time she was stitched up they failed to clean it out first so she was rushed to another hospital (with more credentials) to re-open her head, clean it out and sew it back up. She stayed on the children’s ward of the hospital for a long time. I remember all the toys and flowers that flooded her room. Truth be told, I remember being jealous, even almost wishing it had been me.

Maybe that’s a normal feeling for a kid, especially a middle child, when they see one of their siblings get all the attention (even if for unfortunate reasons), or maybe I was just that selfish from the get-go since my first word was “mine.” Either way, I was glad Betsy was okay, but I was tempted to remind everyone that she didn’t listen to mom about nap time.

I don’t know why I’ve always been worried there wasn’t enough love to go around, as if people were going to run dry if they gave it all to Betsy. I don’t know why I’ve always been more concerned about how I was going to be okay more so than other people. I don’t like this quality about myself, but it’s there, and I can’t change it if I don’t address it.

I’ve come a long way from the fifth grade girl who wanted to tattle on her sister who just had her head bashed in, but I still fall short in my efforts to look out for my own self.

I think it’s important to stand up for what’s right and have an opinion and voice an injustice (like say breaking certain rules), but I find it just as important, if not more so, to cater to the person who is hurting, to offer love and support and grace (even if rules were broken). People are really good at getting behind causes and campaigns, especially ones that draw attention, but I think people (myself included) fall short in the day to day individual ways they can offer love and extend grace to the very people in front of them.

To my fifth grade self and any other child or grown up kid out there, I just thought you might like to know there is plenty of love to go around, if only we’d be willing to extend it- no matter what, even if you don’t get it back the way you want it. You become a person of love when you practice love. And believe me, love takes practice.

As for Betsy, I love you sis, I always have, I just never expressed it very well. Little did I know how much more jealous I would be one day when Harry Potter made his debut into the world and the two of you shared the same scar. I don’t know if I ever said it then so I’ll say it now, I’m really glad you’re okay.

a memory

A memory from October 5th, 2012.

Because sometimes I still need to remind myself that life really is good, problems included.

Today I found what I perceive to be the world’s largest sunflower. I wanted to tell a cool story about how I stumbled upon it, but all that really happened was that I walked down the sidewalk, saw this sunflower and said “holy freakin’ cow, that’s the world’s largest sunflower!”

Then I took a picture. And maybe I talked into for a while, like it was a huge microphone connected to Heaven, if Heaven were an “up there” kind of place. I had to stand on my tippy toes to reach the sunflower-turned-microphone, so it seemed only appropriate that Heaven was the audience as I requested to speak with God. I felt a proverbial tap on my shoulder, looked to my side and “heard” God say, “I’m actually right here.”

“Right,” I said. “Okay, THANKS ANYWAY!” I yelled back into the sunflower.

God and I talked about my problems for a while, then about how life isn’t all about me and my problems.

“Right,” I said. “Dang it.”

“Well, what are your thoughts on Harry Potter?” I asked. “Don’t burn books,” God said. “Awesome,” I said, “I’m on book four.”

I think God laughed.

All of that to say, this huge freakin’ sunflower reminded me of just how small I am, and that in the grand scheme of things I assume to be hard, life really is good…

and so is God.

really living

I watched a girl run back and forth from the ocean as it washed up on shore and retracted back. If you were to just see her and her alone you would think she was playing with the ocean’s edge. If you were to zoom out you would see another girl filming her, over and over again, trying to get just the right look for the picture or the video or whatever they were uploading to social media.

I watched them “do over” the picture multiple times, wondering what the caption would say, probably something to the effect of “playing at the ocean’s edge,” or “so happy to be at the beach.” The funny part to me in all of this was that neither seemed to be true. The girl wasn’t playing with the ocean’s edge, she was repeatedly trying to get the perfect looking picture. And I’m not so sure they were happy to be at the beach because they barely noticed it due to looking at their phones the entire time I watched them, even while they were walking. The vastitude of the ocean lay restless beside them and they barely noticed until they wanted it in the picture.

I got frustrated watching them. I got frustrated because they weren’t really living but giving the impression to someone somewhere that they were. I thought about the people who follow them on Instagram or Facebook who see the pictures of them “enjoying” the beach and wondered if those people would be jealous or feel lame for not adventuring out like them. I thought of people being jealous of a false reality and I got frustrated. I got frustrated because I know I’m one of those people who sees other people’s pictures and think I need to do more with my life, now wondering if those people really live out what they post or if they just repetitively try to get the perfect shot to make it look like they are really living.

I got frustrated too because the honest truth is, I have been one of those people who posts a false reality. It’s not malicious or intentional, it’s just too cool of a shot and I want to be admired for it. So perhaps when I got frustrated with those girls, I also got frustrated with myself. There is grace for them and there is grace for me, but I don’t want to abuse that grace by continuing the false reality.

I love capturing life, but it’s easy to get too caught up in capturing it that you begin posing it instead of living it. I want to really live and hopefully capture some memories along the way, not miss out on life happening around me because I’m trying too hard to get the perfect picture.

I went for a walk on the beach and I picked up sea shells. I stared at the water and the shells in my hand. I dug my feet in the sand and wrote words with my toes. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I took a picture in my mind. The water sparkled and I smiled, not because there was a camera but because I was really living.

dark blue

Tonight I went and sat under one of my favorite trees in San Diego. I have favorite trees all along the west coast. It’s not every day or even every year that I get to see them and climb them, but I know they are there waiting for me to return. They stand tall and firm, branches swayed only by the wind and roots that aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

I sit at the base before climbing up. I take in the strength along with the shade the tree has to offer. I lean against the trunk. I feel small but important. I look up at the branches above me and I imagine angels scattered among the limbs, dangling their feet, smiling, whispering, laughing. They watch me and I watch them. I can’t see them, but I watch them and I thank them for being there.

“You can come out,” I say sometimes hoping they let me see them, “I can’t see you but I know you’re there.” They laugh with each other and smile. They wave to me implying that maybe one day I’ll get to see them but not yet. I laugh too because I know how it sounds, or at least how it would sound to any passer-by who sees a young woman sitting at the base of a tree yelling at the limbs.

I take a deep breath and look out at the water. The tree I sat under tonight is nudged up against the bay and the roots are almost long enough to dip their feet in but not quite. The sun was bright orange and I watched it slowly respond to the call of the water as it got closer and closer before disappearing beneath the bay.

I sat and I watched and I listened. Nothing profound happened. No answers to life’s questions, no angels revealing themselves. But in those few quiet moments just before the sun disappeared, I was okay being me. I had nothing to show for my time, save maybe a few bug bites, but my time was not wasted.

The gold sky turned dark blue and I knew it was time for ice cream.

Hurricane Ditka

I made a mug cake for breakfast this morning. A mug cake is when you put the ingredients of a cake into a mug and zap it in the microwave until it “bakes” and it gives you the tiniest, laziest cake ever made. It’s delicious, as well as genius. It’s almost too easy, like dangerously easy, like I could make mug cake for breakfast everyday for the rest of my life and be totally content that I never got married or had kids. The combination of peanut butter and chocolate can make up for any great loss in life… except for weight loss.

Speaking of, I used to be a vegan. Technically I was anorexic, but literally I could have also been considered a vegan, it sounds more healthy than anorexic. When I did eat I avoided all meat, dairy, gluten, soy, wheat, and anything else made by man or God. I ate about three nuts a day, sometimes wrapped in lettuce. On particularly crazy days I would squirt a little mustard in the wrap. Best vegan wraps ever. I could have marketed them but I was too tired and cold to do anything. As a vegan I napped a lot, so I might have appeared aloof, and in some ways I was because I’m not sure my brain was getting enough fuel, but I was also very passionate about certain topics and I knew when to adequately express emotions over things like strawberries. Particularly when I planned to add a little variety to my life and have two strawberries for a meal.

I remember one time excitedly going into the fridge for my double portion of strawberries, only to discover that my mother (who had purchased the strawberries) had the audacity to eat the last of them.

“WHO ATE THE MOTHER-FREAKING STRAWBERRIES!?” I yelled (I wanted it to be known I meant business, but for as passionate as I could get about strawberries I could never bring myself to drop the actual F-bomb in my mother’s house). My mother was sitting calmly at the table doing some sort of paperwork and without even looking up she responded, “your freaking mother.” I slammed the refrigerator door and walked at a mildly fast pace up to my bedroom to cry. I would have ran but I was too tired.

I went to rehab in Chicago in February of 2007 and I’ll never forget it because the Chicago Bears were in the Super Bowl that year. First time since 1986. The pilot came over the intercom once we boarded the plane and said something to the effect of “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of whatever-whatever airlines we’d like to thank you for flying with us this evening to the home of this year’s Super Bowl contenders, DA BEARS!” And everyone on the plane, as if it was some sort of flash mob or IMPROV Everywhere skit, in unison all fist pumped the air and yelled “DA BEARS!”

A flight attendant came over the intercom and encouraged it by repeating over and over again, “DA BEARS, DA BEARS, DA BEARS, DA BEARS, DA BEARS!” And everyone responded in unison, “DA BEARS, DA BEARS, DA BEARS, DA BEARS, DA BEARS!” I had flashbacks of early nineties SNL skits and Michael Jordan wearing a hula skirt while Chris Farley was having a sausage-induced heart-attack. It was then I realized I was going somewhere special, I was going to the land of HURRICANE DITKA.

The SNL fangirl in me was excited beyond belief. But the exhausted vegan in me, still unable to fully admit I had an eating disorder, was a little terrified to be going to a place known for their hot dogs, deep-dish pizzas and polish sausages. “Perhaps I can introduce them to my vegan wraps,” I thought to myself. But then I thought about Mike Ditka and the fact that my vegan wraps were roughly the size of his pinky finger (if even), and I didn’t foresee that going over so well as part of a meal plan in Chicago. My meal portions consisted of their condiments used for an appetizer and oddly enough the thought made me laugh.

I will never forget that plane ride. People were singing and cheering and chanting. It felt like we were on the Polar Express on the way to see Santa Claus as played by Mike Ditka. No one started out knowing anybody but bonding over the same excitement made everyone family. I mostly just watched, terrified and amazed. Terrified of what food laid ahead of me, amazed by how passionate everyone seemed about something greater than strawberries.

Truth be told, I boarded that plane not wanting to live much longer, I was tired of living each day terrified of what it held, terrified of what I did or didn’t eat, terrified of my own self and my own actions. I was exhausted, and in my exhaustion, I felt stuck. I didn’t know how to get myself out of the patterns I had set. I was functioning in survival mode and survival didn’t seem like much of a reason to keep going. Hearing old SNL references to DA BEARS triggered memories of a time I had forgotten, a time when I was happy and hopeful and less bogged down by the expectations of the world.

By the time the plane landed, I was curious enough to want to see this game that had bonded such a large group of strangers all hugging and high-fiving by the end of flight. To have something to look forward to other than an extra strawberry or a nut in my wrap was a feeling I had forgotten I liked. It had been years since I had been excited about something other than food. Something as simple as a football game gave me the tiniest inkling of desire, “I desire to see this game,” which in bigger terms could be translated into “I desire to live one more day,” and so it caught me off guard when I stepped off the plane feeling hopeful about going to the land of Hurricane Ditka to recover from Hurricane ED (In rehab most of us learned to name our eating disorder and most of us named it ED. I know it’s not that original, but we were tired).

The Bears lost and I remember being bummed, but when I realized I actually cared about something other than food, I found the slightest bit of excitement over the fact that I wasn’t numb, but in fact bummed. I entered Rehab the day after the Super Bowl and so began my long and slow process of seeking recovery, of discovering that I wasn’t just a tired vegan with misplaced passions, I was sick and I had been for a fairly long time.

I say this to say sometimes it’s not the fire on the mountain, lighting bolt experiences that wake us up or instantly cure us of our “diseases.” Sometimes it’s not the church service or the community service that gets us to step outside of ourselves to see that people need help and that we ourselves are a part of that people group. Sometimes comparing your pain to the pain of others and telling yourself to “suck it up cause it’s not that bad” isn’t going to be enough to keep you wanting to live until the next day. Pain is pain is pain is pain, and it is very real to the person experiencing it no matter how different each experience is.

Sometimes God works in the quietest, simplest and even funniest of ways, like through SNL skits from the nineties, an airplane ride of happy and hopeful strangers and the Chicago Bears getting a chance to reclaim their title since the 1986 Super Bowl Shuffle, to take us on a journey of healing instead of an instant snap of the fingers cure-all. Sometimes it’s the little things, as little as “I want to see that game,” that lead to the next little thing and the next little thing that all add up over time to become a very big thing called LIFE.

I am where I am now because I boarded that plane to Chicago in 2007. The Chicago Bears played a surprising and odd role in my recovery, one I did not see coming. They gave me something to look forward to at a time when I was hopeless, and the thought of Mike Ditka eating one of my “vegan wraps” brought laughter to me at a time when nothing was funny. As I recalled the SNL skits of the nineties, I looked back on a time when I used to enjoy life and I began the journey of searching for that girl who got lost somewhere along the way.

I can’t sit here on this side of the story and say I am cured, but I can say I am better than I was, I am fully enjoying life and I still hope to one day share a burger with Mike Ditka (on a gluten-free bun, we gotta meet in the middle) with a vegan wrap as garnish.

I also still hope for a Chicago Bears Super Bowl victory. After all, a girl who wants to live is a girl who can dream.

fear has a seat

Hi Family! Well, it’s been a while, a LONG while, and I apologize.

The last we spoke about my book (or I wrote) it was Christmas time and I was in South Carolina packing up my childhood home and saying goodbye to my last Christmas in that house. Sorry to get all sappy so soon. The process was long and hard, but good and necessary and ultimately I’m glad I was at home to help my mom, be with my grandmother and get to know my brother better.

I’m back in California and this year looks incredibly different from last year. I’ve embarked on a journey of pursuing art (in all forms) and have rediscovered my love for creating not just with words but with color. I’ve been painting like a mad woman and even went mad for a little bit as I tried to figure out the difference between work and play when you do something you love. I didn’t know I had a little diva in me until I got to the point of thinking my friends weren’t as important as my time painting. I never want to forget the importance of people and that no amount of money will ever replace them.

It’s hard because painting is how I am trying to make a living, which I love AND it also requires a lot of work outside of a 9-5 job. BUT painting non-stop isn’t what will define me as a painter, it’s what will define me as a workaholic and no different from the people who are slaving away at their jobs missing out on life and the people in front of them. I love painting, but it’s not my foundation nor what defines my value and I have to admit over a short span of time I managed to forget that. HOW DOES IT HAPPEN SO QUICKLY!?!

That said, I’m still trying to figure out how to make this all work. People on social media would see me as having a blast… and that’s true… I am having so much fun living out who I was created to be and functioning the way I was wired to function as a creative. AND, I’m also scared. I’m scared because for as fun as this all is, there’s no safety nets or guarantees. It’s like surfing… fun when you catch the wave, scary when it’s not guaranteed you will and the big ones take you under. The ocean is beautiful and its power is scary.

I go from selling high end art pieces and feeling safe to three weeks going by without selling anything and uncertain as to whether or not I will be able to pay rent. It’s scary to be down to the wire with no funds in the bank account. But I gotta say, it’s worth it when you get that message at midnight that someone wants to buy a painting they just saw. A sigh of relief never felt so good.

Fear is a necessary part of the process, of any process. To not have fear is to not be human and to miss out on the exhilarating feeling of the fear being silenced as the LORD comes in with the last minute save. In order to be excited over provision, one must have first experienced the fear of being without.

I have welcomed fear as part of the process, part of my humanity, but (as I learned recently from Elizabeth Gilbert) I tell fear it is not allowed to make any decisions. I’ve recently painted a chair for fear to sit in while I am in the room painting. Fear creeps in and tells me I’ll never sell anything, I’m broke, I’ll never be able to do this. I thank fear for its concern, recognizing that maybe its just trying to keep me in check the same way it did when I was in the water that day and the waves were too big for my strength. “Thank you, fear, I’m just painting, no one is going to die, you can go have a seat.” This is my new practice instead of beating myself up or giving into fear. Maybe fear isn’t such a bad thing, we just have to know how to handle it.

All of this to say, that is what I have been up to and much of it has to do with the process of my book. As some of you know I submitted it in its completion back in December. It has failed the content evaluation three times. Each time I sanitize my voice a little more to meet the high standards of the Christian publishing company. With this last attempt I decided I couldn’t sanitize my voice any further just for the sake of being published. I have no interest in being published just to publish, I have an interest in sharing the cold, hard truth about the goodness and toughness of life. Everyone wants to say Jesus saves but nobody wants to say why or what from.

So, I’m having a hard time trying to figure out what to do. I am past the point of getting a refund and I’ve tried to submit to a few traditional publishers but with my last attempt came the cold, hard truth that nobody really knows who I am to care enough about what I have to say. Ouch. Rejection is a part of the process, I get that, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

So I’m praying, and any of you who are willing, asking you for prayer too… about what to do next. I want to be willing to learn and flexible to change what I need to, but I also want to value my voice and the truth God has set me free to speak.

For now, I paint and I pray and I tell fear to have a seat.

Love, J

Art and Life in San Diego

Hey friends, here’s just a quick and fun mashup of San Diego Art Spots in April… including some footage from RAW Artists San Diego! I am incredibly grateful for the community in which I live. From Keith Edward and the OB Farmer’s Market to Tripower Yoga Framily Fun nights, I love that this is where I get to create. AND my sister Betsy came to surprise me from the east coast! More to come soon.

Here’s to being the YOU you were created to be. I think I was created to be a dancing artist… amongst other things!

Also featuring San Diego locals: WinstonsOB, ArtBox, Heartsleeves Coffee, Culture Brewing Co- Solana Beach, House of Blues San Diego

capturing march

As I work on trying to figure out how to gather the words to describe the art shows that took place in April, here’s a video recap of all that went down in March…including my first mural in Ocean Beach, CA!

upcoming art show!

Hi friends, just a friendly video reminder about my art show coming up with RAW ARTISTS at the House of Blues on April 20th. Here’s a sneak peek at a few smaller pieces I am working on to sell at the show. I hope to see you there! If you don’t live in the San Diego area but are interested in sponsoring someone to go, you can do that too! Paying it forward is a great direction to head in life! 😀

You can get tickets at http://www.rawartists.org/jjbarrows

the simple life

In less than twenty-fours, after finally getting my van back, I have been… cheered for by street corners full of people (it was as if they knew how long I had been waiting to drive my own home), asked if I sell pot on more than one occasion, extended a marriage proposal, offered a a car-swap, rear-ended at the DMV, nearly T-boned by an old man who blew a stop sign, stalled out on a hill, watched “Cool Runnings” in the street, and fallen asleep to the sound of rain… all while managing to avoid the cops… until last night.

I was parked on top of Rocky Butte when a cop tapped on my window with a flashlight. “You guys smoking pot in here?” He asked. A hippie in a Volkswagen van, I get it, I must be smoking pot. I couldn’t help but laugh as I told him he was more than welcome to search the van. I now have a more accurate understanding of what it is like to be profiled.

I love the simple life… and the not-so simple things that come with it, like the stereotypes and the opinions of other people. It’s not that I love the stereotypes, I don’t, I don’t love that some people think I’m down-grading in life because I’m going to go “live in a van down by the river.” I love that I am learning to be so comfortable in my skin that even if someone makes a judgement call on me, it doesn’t have to wreck me, sending me into a wave of fear that has me driving back to my comfort zone… my comfort zone of being well-liked by everyone.

As I look back and think about some of the loneliest times of my life, they were the times that I was well-liked by everyone. They were lonely times because when everybody likes you, it means no one really knows you, and if no one really knows you, then no one can really love you for who you are… only who you show yourself to be. And when you don’t feel loved for who you really are, you end up feeling really, really alone… even in the largest of crowds of people who love you… or least the you they see.

At thirty-one, not everyone likes me, and not everyone loves what I am doing with my life… but finally, after years of pleasing people more so than God… I am uncomfortably okay with that. And I am okay with being uncomfortable about people not liking me, because it means while I care about people and what they have to say, I can’t let or make their opinions be my God.

I know living in a van is going to have it’s challenges, it already has and I’ve barely just begun, but it’s in those challenges that I am becoming more aware of my character and the importance of maintenance for the long haul. It’s not enough for me to put all the money I’ve received into the van and expect it to be good from here on out. I have to maintain it’s health… oil changes, tire rotations, check-ups to keep it running. I have to take care of this community-given gift by continuing to take care of it. And I have to do the same for myself. A one-time visit to treatment is helpful to the sick, I know, I’ve been there, but you… I… have to keep taking care of ourselves after walking out of those treatment doors, or that therapist’s office, or memorizing that Scripture. We have to go live out what we talked or read about it, and we have to do it more than once… we have to do it on the daily.

Even though I am incredibly excited about van life, I know this is just the beginning, and the excitement won’t last forever. The van won’t make it to California on one tank of gas, I have to keep filling it, and so it goes with me. I can’t expect the initial excitement of this journey to be enough fuel to keep me going for the rest of the journey. I have to keep getting filled by my Power Source and take care of the mind and body He’s given me, and take care of the me He’s given to the world. We’re all gifts to the world, most of us just don’t know it yet because it takes a lot of work to realize it, and even more so to live it out.

This van is helping me understand the importance of maintenance… the tiring but rewarding work it takes to maintain the abundance of that which you’ve been given… life.

It is also helping me understand the importance of curtains.

I love the simple life, but it can get complicated if you don’t have curtains… blogging is enough exposure for me.