O U R C R E A T I V E W O R K T E L L S P A R T S O F G O D ' S S T O R Y
photo: Hannah Berry
At Storyboard, our motto is “our creative work tells part of God's story.” We believe that using our creative gifts glorifies our God, and that we should strive for excellence to honor the One who gave us those gifts. Welcome to the first edition of Storyboard: the Magazine. As you turn or scroll through these pages, you’ll meet vibrant, intense, joyful believers focused on a specific niche, art, or business. They are parents, friends, church members, children, and most importantly: redeemed saints bought with a price. We invite you to take your time with this magazine. By all means, do flip through quickly to find that particular writer, article, painting, or project that brought you here - and enjoy it! And then start from the beginning. Slowly. Pour yourself a warm beverage and begin by reading (even aloud) the opening poem. Let it wash over you and prepare you to experience whimsical, heartfelt, excellent work created by real people in our own region. We’re so glad you’re here. Enjoy. Welcome -the Storyboard crew
IN THIS ISSUE F A L L 2 0 2 3 A City of Song Feature Article by Pastor Nate Walker In Which Chloe Tries to Review a Concert and Ends Up Thinking about Community Feature Article by Chloe Wilcox A Prayer for Artists Beginning a Creative Work Plums Little Bunny You Are Not Alone All the World’s a Stage (Including Our Living Room) Feature Article The Ark of the Covenant Then Sings My Soul God’s Strength and Love Autumn Walk The Table Fall Furrows Packing Together We Sow Come to Tea Symphony of Autumn The Letters Project Haunted // Helpless // Healing // Hope
Values over Valuables: Unlocking the Greatest Transfer of Wealth in History Feature Article by Caleb Breakey A Psalm of Praise for My Son During Imaginative Play Even the Wind and the Waves A Liturgy for the Winter Blues A note about page numbers: they’re set up to line up with the webpage auto-generated page count, and thus they do not follow page numbering conventions. Sentinels Seven Sacraments to Song Home The Sheep of His Pasture Snuggle Cat Psalm 130 My Daughter The Savior of the World is Here Somewhere in the Shadows Bethlehem Night Far Country The House on the Rock
Heavenly Father, my Creator, The One who made the heavens and the earth With order and beauty, Who designed us in Your image To reflect incompletely the perfection Of Your own nature: Be glorified in me now As I begin this work. Grant me skill to create, as You do, with order and beauty, That I might reflect some small part of Your nature, You who created and set in motion all things. May Your goodness and truth be glimpsed through what I make, That people would be moved to worship, Minds be opened to truth, Hearts be softened to hope, Your Kingdom come. Lord, I commit to You this work And trust You with its greatness or lowliness, With its success or failure, Remembering that You do not define success as the world does. Help me to be content, Trusting that in all things, You work for the good of those who love You And who are called according to Your purpose. May Your Kingdom come and Your will be done, And may You be glorified by and through What You enable me to create. A PRAYER FOR ARTISTS BEGINNING A CREATIVE WORK M . K . M I N N I C K
photo: Louisa Nuckolls “ A P R A Y E R F O R A R T I S T S B E G I N N I N G A C R E A T I V E W O R K ” B Y M . K . M I N N I C K 9
T H É A R O S E N B U R G Every few summers the northeast corner of our yard floods with plums— deep purple Italian plums with firm frosted skins. These plums are the result of a neighbor’s generous tree, which leans conversationally over our fence and sheds its fruitlike rumors into our backyard. Plump! One lands in the soft soil of our raised bed, gleaming darkly among the Sungold tomatoes. Plim-plump! Another skips off the fence before tumbling into the brush pile. Plimp! A minor crater erupts beneath one dropping straight down, a small cloud of dust evidence of its arrested momentum. That first year in our first house with our first ever fruit tree, I tried to catch all the plums I could. I perched on the top rung of a ladder and rummaged around in the branches, collecting plums into a silver colander that I emptied onto the kitchen counter again and again. For every plum I found, I knocked two down; they were that loosely attached to the branch. But even so I harvested enough to cook and can a batch of plum sauce and to bake a cake dotted with halved plums that turned soft and jammy in the oven. I made plum thyme jam and was shocked at how the quartered fruits slumped into the pan as they cooked, reducing a pot of fresh plums to a few hefty ladlefuls of fragrant purpleblack jam. My eldest daughters, then three and one, gathered six or so plums between them each time they joined me in the harvest, equipped with empty yogurt containers or mixing bowls. I showed them how to tell if a plum was ripe (it dimples gently beneath your finger when pressed)— advice they promptly ignored in their delight at eating any plum, dimpled or not, that thumped into their buckets. The plum tree’s abundance felt lavish, extravagant— I saw metaphors in it everywhere! For God’s grace, His kindness, His mercy, all of which fall into our open hands at such volume that we simply cannot catch them all. I found great comfort in this as I waded out to the tree for another crop, fallen plums bursting wetly beneath my sneakers as I unfolded that ladder again. For a few weeks this went on, until we reached that tipping point in late summer when the garden and the weather and the insects all begin to feel overripe. The tomatoes split on the vine and fall; the afternoons tend toward thick and sticky and smoky and hot; the yellowjackets, grown overly bold, help themselves to the food on our plates and buzz warningly when we try to dislodge them. My family feels restless in August and early September— unwilling to part from the long hours of daylight, but ready somehow for the next thing. For cool mornings and, dare I say this, for the rain. I believe this tipping point comes at precisely the moment when there are more plums on the ground beneath the tree than there are lingering in its branches. PLUMS
Ume Ni Uguisu (Bush Warbler on a Plum Branch) Hiroshige Andō 1830-1840 | Woodcut LC-DIG-jpd-00829 Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division 11
The fallen plums begin to dissolve into the soil, emitting a smell that I still, twelve years later, associate with the last days of summer— an acrid, syrupy, pungent smell that rises from the ground where the plums rest, steadily fermenting. The yellowjackets, who have harvested nothing, feast now; perched on the plums’ split seams, they slurp and slurp and slurp. That first summer I was dismayed by how quickly that corner of the yard moved from fruitfulness to decay. I salvaged a handful of plums for one last cake then retreated, letting the yellowjackets claim what was left. When the days cooled and shortened, the yellowjackets retreated too, as did the plum tree’s leaves. It was left leaning over our fence, silent and patient, as though waiting for the return of a friend briefly called away. The next spring (and every spring since) I found shoots emerging from a ground littered with dried and blackened plums; the shoots lean toward the sunlight, longing to be lavish and generous trees. Looking back at that first summer, I am struck by how swiftly the plums ripened and fell— like the days with my small daughters, I wanted to gather and keep and preserve them all. I wanted to number and measure and savor them. But now I am forty and my eldest daughters are teens; I have two more daughters, now seven and nine. And the days have not slowed down at all: they drop faster than I can catch them, bounce out of my hands, roll under the wheelbarrow and wilt there where I cannot reach them. I am forgetting things I swore I’d remember always, and the days keep coming and coming and coming. These days are— like God’s grace and love and mercy— an undeserved abundance, one that pours down on us, a gift from an infinite God to His finite children, who stand beneath it to catch what we can while the rest falls to the soil around us, to bear fruit in its own time, while we are looking the other way. The ones we do catch shed their edges as they simmer together, reducing to a dark jam, herbal and fragrant and sweet. Most summers now, my daughters are the ones standing beneath the tree, swinging child-sized rakes up into the branches, knocking plums down and gathering them into their T-shirts, which they’ve folded up to make small baskets, while I watch them from the hammock, enjoying the sun in their amber-colored hair and the warmth I can feel on their faces. They bring a plum (or three) for each of us, and we bite into them all at once— the first taste tart, sharp, a little green, but then the juice runs down my wrist, drips into my lap, and the flavor turns sweet in my mouth.
I like painting clouds and after painting these I felt like the canvas was too empty. So I added a bunny looking at the sky. We currently have two bunnies named Moth and Cobweb, the bunny in this picture is Moth. LITTLE BUNNY Louisa Nuckolls Acrylic on canvas Bellingham, WA | 2023 13
As Spring, with life, burst forth in splendor Autumn’s breath dies with September. Gather leaves with yoke and rake With harvest moon, give thanks, partake. There is no moral bell to chime Or wisdom I can claim as mine. But as the earth draws final breath Remember a resurrected death. Summer’s joy flown swiftly by I stop to think: why did He die? Why, as He laid in mountain’s side, Did He wake on third sunrise? So my Autumn draws my heart To think on how it all did start. His body once covered in shroud, So fog must cover harvest ground. Winter’s dark and bitter cold Hearkens tears of Mary’s soul. And Spring, from death so burst afresh From buried body, risen flesh! And on that last and final day When Winter’s darkness had its say I cannot dream of purer bliss And sweeter sounds of happiness Than trumpet sound for all to hear Our Christ is risen, He is here! AUTUMN’S DEATH D A N I C A S T E E N K A M P watercolor: Danica Steenkamp
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The Passage Structure: a Chiasm (Editor’s Note: This sermon was originally prepared as part of an expository study of Revelation, and takes the interpretive stance that much of Revelation - including the subject text - refers to events during the time between Pentecost and the fall of Jerusalem in 70AD. For a deep-dive into this interpretation, please refer to the Christ Church Bellingham website or Spotify channel, especially the opening sermon, “Introduction to Revelation,” preached on June 6, 2021). Scripture quotations are from The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. The structure of this passage is what is called a chiasm, which is a poetic structure used throughout both the Old Testament and the New Testament. It is a structure like concentric circles where the first half of the passage is A-B-C, then the second half is C-BA. So it ends where it begins. When a chiasm is used, the center of the chiasm is the main point of the passage. In this passage, the center of the chiasm is singing. A B C B A Voice & Song the 144,000 the 144,000 the Lamb the Lamb and with Him 144,000 who had His name and His Father's name written on their foreheads. “Then I looked, and behold, on Mount Zion stood the Lamb, And I heard a voice from heaven like the roar of many waters and like the sound of loud thunder. The voice I heard was like the sound of harpists playing on their harps, and they were singing a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and before the elders. No one could learn that song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth. It is these who have not defiled themselves with women, for they are virgins. It is these who follow the Lamb wherever He goes. These have been redeemed from mankind as firstfruits for God and the Lamb, and in their mouth no lie was found, for they are blameless.” Revelation 14:1-5 Revelation 14:1-5: Cover photo courtesy of Christ Church Bellingham. Used with permission. A C I T Y O F S O N G | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E
“Then I looked, and behold, on Mount Zion stood the Lamb, and with Him 144,000 who had His name and His Father's name written on their foreheads. And I heard a voice from heaven like the roar of many waters and like the sound of loud thunder. The voice I heard was like the sound of harpists playing on their harps, and they were singing a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and before the elders. No one could learn that song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth. It is these who have not defiled themselves with women, for they are virgins. It is these who follow the Lamb wherever He goes. These have been redeemed from mankind as firstfruits for God and the Lamb, and in their mouth no lie was found, for they are blameless.” Revelation 14:1-5 Singing brings us to Mount Zion Singing prepares us for martyrdom Singing changes us Singing joins us to Jesus Keeping in mind that our interpretation of Revelation places this book as speaking first to the early generations of Christians under persecution from Rome, this passage is telling us how critical singing was to the early church, which leads us to four observations about the importance of singing: Singing Brings Us to Mount Zion This passage begins with a mention of Mount Zion, which is one of the seven hills in and around the old city of Jerusalem. Mount Zion was the fortress, the “City of David.” Let’s go back to the great early book of worship, Leviticus, which describes worship in the Tabernacle, the tent, which had the Ark of the Covenant in it. In these descriptions, there are bloody sacrifices and religious rites, but … there is no mention of singing. When King David reclaimed the Ark of the Covenant from Philistine lands and brought it to Mount Zion, he set up a worship tent. (This place of worship shouldn’t be confused with the Tabernacle that we’re familiar with from the wilderness generation - that found its place at Gibeon to the northwest of Jerusalem, and was where all the ritual sacrifices happened.) When the Ark was in the Tabernacle, the Levites were never allowed into God’s presence near the Ark. “Then I looked, and behold, on Mount Zion stood the Lamb” A C I T Y O F S O N G | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 17
But at Mount Zion, when the Levites ministered before the Ark (1 Chron. 16:4), there were no animal sacrifices; this was the beginning of the sacrifice of praise (Hebrews 13:15). Also, the book of 1 Chronicles goes into detail about David arranging choirs. It was David and Mount Zion that made singing and music central to the worship of God. Mount Zion is the City of Song. Now you might wonder, “Well, great, but what does Mount Zion have to do with us?” Let’s look at the Book of Hebrews, which was likely an early sermon given in a Jewish Christian church. When it describes the church gathered for worship, gathered in song, here’s what it says: When this church in Hebrews is gathered together, they are on Mount Zion. In Revelation 14, when the 144,000 are gathered together in song, they are on Mount Zion. When we are gathered in our own church sanctuary, and people hear us singing, it should feel like we have joined the choir of innumerable angels. We are joining the assembly of Christians in every land and language praising God. Singing brings us to Mount Zion. But there is one other thing that I want to point out. The Hebrew word for instrument and the Hebrew word for weapon are the same word, meaning Mount Zion was not only a City of Song; it was also a fortress, and a city prepared for warfare. Song and warfare go together in the Bible; we see this in David’s triumphal return after battle (1 Samuel 18:6-7), God’s victory over the men of Ammon, Moab and Mount Seir during the reign of Jehoshaphat (2 Chronicles 20:20b-22), and the language of enemies and warfare in the Psalms (cf. Psalm 18, Psalm 27, and Psalm 144). “But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God, the judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant…” (Hebrews 12:22ff) Singing Prepares Us for Martyrdom We first meet these 144,000 believers in Revelation, and have established that this is the number of Jewish Christians who would be martyred during the great persecution of the first generation of Christians. Likely some of these 144,000 were some of the people to whom Revelation was written, and the writings in this book would be preparing them for martyrdom. In the prior chapter, it says, “If anyone is to be taken captive, to captivity he goes; if anyone is to be slain with the sword, with the sword must he be slain. Here is a call for the endurance and faith of the saint” (Rev. 13:10). A C I T Y O F S O N G | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E
THE ARK OF THE COVENANT Mary Moore Rabb Digital Print (in imitation of reduction linocut printing) Bellingham, WA | 2023 19
We naturally ask, “Is this a literal number?” Flavius Josephus, 1st Century Jewish historian, said that 1.1 million Jews were killed during the Jewish Wars between 66-70 AD. The thought that about 10% of those Jews had believed Jesus was in fact the Messiah, is possible. And you might wonder, “How did you get from this passage that the 144,000 are martyrs?” Well, they are standing on Mount Zion with the Lamb. In the Bible, Jesus being called “the Lamb” calls to mind Him being sacrificed on the cross - so the idea of martyrdom is looming in context. But I think a stronger clue is there in Verse 4b: “These have been redeemed from mankind as firstfruits for God and the Lamb…” The 144,000 are the firstfruits being harvested by God. Later on in the passage, in verses 19 and 20, we see what happens to these firstfruits: “So the angel swung his sickle across the earth and gathered the grape harvest of the earth and threw it into the great winepress of the wrath of God. And the winepress was trodden outside the city, and blood flowed from the winepress, as high as a horse’s bridle, for 1,600 stadia.” (Revelation 14:19-20) Just as Jesus bore the wrath of God on the cross, so these 144,000 followers will do the same as the grapes of wrath. So here in the beginning of Revelation, we see these followers being prepared for martyrdom, and being prepared by “singing a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and before the elders.” If you’ve read histories of the martyrs, you know there is a long, well-documented tradition of Christians singing hymns as they suffer. What sort of singing brings peace and power in such a sordid ordeal? ”And I heard a voice from heaven like the roar of many waters and like the sounds of loud thunder…” And this passage even mentions learning a new song: “No one could learn that song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth.” (V. 3b) Here in Revelation 14, we find a passage about how essential, how deep, how transformative, how spiritual the act of singing with God’s people in church is. If we, in our churches and our homes, are going to sound like many waters and loud thunder, we have to use our bodies. Your body is an instrument, made by God to praise Him with others. And you have a duty to learn how to use it. A C I T Y O F S O N G | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E
Some of you might say, “Oh I don’t sing.” You might think, “There are some people with good voices and I’m not one of them, so I just listen.” I’ve seen people who have been Christians for decades just stand there in worship not even opening their mouths. Sometimes people say, “Oh, but I can’t carry a tune.” I used to think that too— I literally could not sing on pitch. And I learned first to sing in Christian punk rock bands, but ultimately I learned this in church. Singing is like anything else— it is not natural, you need to learn. The Bible seems to assume that all of God’s people would learn; the longest book of the Bible is a song book, the Psalms. And the Apostle Paul in one place (Ephesians 5:18-20) uses five verbs to describe being filled with the Holy Spirit, and 3 of the five verbs are about singing. Learning to sing is an essential part of Christian discipleship. How are you going to praise God without knowing how to sing? How are you going to do what Romans 15:6 says, “together with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ?” In our culture, we are so used to being passive: watching a movie, or a TV show, or a sporting event. In our worship services, we are not here to watch or listen only. We should take effort to sing out. Remember, the word “martyr” means witness. When we are singing like we would die for the one we are singing to, it bears witness to the world. People should come to our churches and think, “these people are singing to someone, someone they would die for.” Thus far we’ve seen that singing brings us to Mount Zion, the fortress, the City of Song, and there we prepare for martyrdom. Which tells us that singing and music have power in our lives. And all this leads us to our final thought: Singing Changes Us There is a clear sense in this passage that the 144,000 martyrs who are singing a new song are people whose character has been drastically transformed by the gospel. The 144,0000 “had his name and his Father’s name written on their foreheads” (verse 1). Jesus says that baptism is how you receive the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. St. Augustine, who was converted in the late 4th century under the preaching of the great bishop Ambrose, mentions in his Confessions (his autobiography) the power of the singing that was present in the worship service where he was baptized: A C I T Y O F S O N G | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 21
THEN SINGS MY SOUL Hannah Berry Linocut Print Bellingham, WA | 2023
“How copiously I wept at Your hymns and canticles, how intensely was I moved by the lovely harmonies of Your singing Church! Those voices flooded my ears, and the truth was distilled into my heart until it overflowed in loving devotion; my tears ran down, and I was the better for them.” (Confessions, Book IX) Also, these 144,000 obey Jesus’ commands— it’s clear in verse 4: “It is these who follow the Lamb wherever He goes.” They speak the truth (verse 5: “in their mouth no lie was found”). This community doesn’t need to lie; they have nothing to hide for they are secure in the love of God for them. At church we sing great truths of the faith, we weep through songs of lamentation, we praise in thunderous chorus. We proclaim what we believe, and we do it in community with other redeemed sinners. Singing focuses our understanding and welcomes truth closer to our hearts. Singing shapes our affections. Lastly... Singing Joins Us to Jesus This passage begins by saying that there are these 144,000 martyrs, and the Lamb (that is Jesus) is in the midst of them. ”And I heard a voice from heaven like the roar of many waters and like the sound of loud thunder. The voice I heard was like the sound of harpists playing on their harps..” At the very beginning of Revelation, we see this vision of Jesus: “...and in the midst of the lampstands one like a son of man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash around His chest. The hairs of His head were white wool, like snow. His eyes were like a flame of fire, His feet were like burnished bronze, refined in a furnace, and His voice was like the roar of many waters.” (Rev. 1:13) Jesus is singing! Jesus is our Worship Leader, and the songs of the saints are joining with the song of the Lamb. Just like everything else in the Christian life, it is Jesus who invites us into His life; we are joined with Him. So why is singing so important? It brings us to Zion, the City of God, joins us with the choir of God’s people everywhere on Earth and in Heaven, prepares us to offer our lives to Him, and the music works in us deeply to transform our deepest affections. But most importantly, in song we are joined to our Savior, the great Singer, the great Worship Leader— so in Him, may we too learn the song of the 144,000. A C I T Y O F S O N G | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 23
The night, Oh LORD, is darkest Just before the dawn When grief’s intense engulfing Around and o’er me swarms. The pain is cold and crushing It sears my very soul. How can I break this feeling That grabs me and takes hold? Oh, LORD, I know You’re out there But You seem so far away. Will You please hold me always And take my pain away? Yes, dear one, I’m holding you; I love you more than life. I bear your pain upon Me In the darkest night. And the night, dear one, is darkest Just before the dawn; But I have an awesome plan for you, A good and special one. Trust in Me, dear child of mine, Though so hard it is today. My strength and love surround you, As in My arms you stay. I love you so, dear child of mine; Please rest in My strength and love, And I will pour My peace on you In abundance from heaven above. GOD’S STRENGTH & LOVE T E R R Y H A R R I S
This piece is one I did over the course of three-ish days between schoolwork and chores. Art is my way to calm down after something stressful. This piece is done with acrylic paints on canvas. I love Autumn— the early morning crispness and the warm afternoon sun. I think my favorite part of this odd season is the color: the reds, oranges, browns, yellows, and golds. "I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers," said Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables. “YES!” says I, “I definitely love Octobers.” AUTUMN WALK Margret Nuckolls Acrylic on canvas Bellingham, WA | 2023 25
THE TABLE I was raised at a table. The oatmeal bowls would be pushed aside every morning to make room for Bible transcribing. When our energy lagged due to the full stomachs, we’d distract ourselves by etching our names into the side of the heavy, wood table top. At lunch time, oatmeal bowls became replaced by bean bowls and chapter books. Arguments over math and more etchings carved into the table; the bravest of us used a pen knife instead of a pencil. Lunch faded into dinner, which was always an event comparable to the Peloponnesian War (invasion, false peace, destruction #homeschoolpoints). Our dinner dishes and dinner conversations faded into Gin Rummy, Egyptian Rat Race, or whichever card game was the most exciting at the time. And every year the table became a historical landscape as we laid out the charoset, matzo, and Manischewitz in preparation for Passover. The table took on a holy silence as candlelight flickered and the youngest asked why that night was different then all other nights. The table was the one constant in an evermoving chaos. H A N N A H B E R R Y photo: Hannah Berry
So it is natural that I keep coming back to the table. My favorite memories are filled with special meals and special conversations that happened at tables filled with family or friends. When I need inspiration, I use it to lay out art supplies or writing utensils. When I need entertainment, the table becomes a home for cards or a favorite board game. Occasionally a puzzle takes over, and then we eat on the couch for a few weeks. When I need help, it is used to hold the books I'm rearranging or the ingredients I’ve run out of space in the kitchen for. And every Sunday morning I walk to it, accepting its peace and renewal. A promise that God was with us last week and will be with us next. The table stands as commonality, a bridge between generations. It is where we discuss births and deaths, beginnings and ends, and all the time in between. It is where we feel loss the most, holiday dinners with an empty seat or weeknight dinners alone. It is where we tell old stories and sit with new friends. It's where we find comfort. photo: Hannah Berry 27
We all have a table, even if it may not take a physical form. We all have a place where we find rest, comfort, and joy. Your table may be a chair, or a desk, or even a bed. It may be a corner of your favorite coffee shop or a rock overlooking the bay. It may be that tree that you lean against every hike for a breather or the stoop where you enjoy your coffee most. Wherever it is, or whatever it is, you have a table. This is not an accident, nor a mistake. This was designed by a God who saw that we were mere humans and gave us bread for our nourishment and wine for our joy. Who knew our needs before we could blink and created for us a resting place. He calls us to the table, one set before us in the presence of our greatest enemy with the finest of wedding feasts. One laid with sacrifice and hope. He is asking us to sit. He is offering us a gift. So follow Him to the table; the kitchen table covered in crayon marks and empty coffee cups, the dinner table where the candles have begun to die down but a new bottle of wine has been opened to fuel the conversation, the Communion table where Christ shows us His hands and His side as He says, “Blessed are the hungry, for they shall feast with the Lamb.” Follow Him and rest. photo: Hannah Berry
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Meet the Shakespeare Club (or “Shakespere,” or simply, “the Shakespeare Cult”) of Whatcom County. It’s a group of friends who meet one Friday a month to eat dinner and read a work of the Bard-- in its entirety. They graciously allowed Storyboard to interview them about how this all started, what they’ve learned through nearly a year of events, and how keeping the group exclusive led to a strong community. Shakespeare Club begins with dinner— sometimes homemade pizza and salad, sometimes a full-fledged menu inspired by the text of the evening (the spread and decor from this summer’s outdoor Julius Caesar evening is legendary). One participant, who has a degree in literature, is often responsible for casting the reading, which commences quickly after eating. Each actor stands during their character’s scenes, and sometimes participants wear costumes inspired by their characters— it is described as the March sisters’ Pickwick Club in Little Women, where bits and bobs are tossed around as possibilities, and much mirth ensues. Speaking of mirth, it’s a constant— from the “Biblical donkey” euphemism to protect young ears that became a standing joke, to the rule that participants can laugh about anything as long as it’s not at someone’s expense. Partway through the play, the group pauses for dessert, and then picks up until the play is done— often a full three-hour read. One parent recounted how the play Much Ado About Nothing ends in a dance, and as the night was getting late, she put the younger children to bed while her guests cleared the floor and ended their own evening in a dance, as well. MACBETH AND THE WITCHES Francesco Zuccarelli Oil on Panel | c. 1760 Public Domain Love All, Trust Few, Do Wrong to No One (All’s Well That Ends Well) One of the most defining traits of this club— and the most fascinating to analyze— is its exclusivity. The group was formed out of an already-existing community that had not only a shared interest in 16th Century literature, but also a baseline of trust as friends. In initial meetings, organizers deepened that trust by setting rules to guard the developing culture. Club members commit to attend every month (or as many as possible). Identifying photos/clips of the performance are only shared within their group chat, not on social media. And possibly most uniquely: guests are not allowed. Club performances are for club members only; the group is small enough that even one or two new faces would significantly alter the dynamic. Small Cheer and Great Welcome Makes a Merry Feast (The Comedy of Errors) A L L T H E W O R L D ’ S A S T A G E | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E
Every participant we interviewed spoke about the security and safety that this exclusivity offers. Shakespeare’s language— especially in his comedies— can be raunchy (the more you understand his imagery, the raunchier it gets); pronunciation of 16th and 17th Century vocabulary can be tricky, and the meter is difficult to maintain for modern readers. And in a mixed-ages group, some readers might be less confident or less fluent than others. All these factors add to the importance of creating a space of genuine openness and trust, where performers can try new inflections or silly voices for comedic characters without fear of judgment, where tricky passages can be read without side-eye, and where even the most awkward speeches are surrounded by the wholesomeness of Christian friendliness. Gently to Hear, Kindly to Judge, Our Play (Henry V) “I made some comment of, ”Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if there were more things for us young people to do that didn’t involve drinking and general debauchery? Like, I read in this one Jane Austen book that they would spend weekends in the country in their family estate, invite all their friends, and spend a week writing, rehearsing, and performing plays.” The conversation continued into the logistics of how in the modern setting that would not work at all. I burst into, “Well, why don’t we just read Shakespeare anymore? No one talks about plays or books. Let’s all just get together and read a play and hopefully some culture sticks.” General nods of agreement went around and I asked, “Wait, are y’all serious? You’d actually come to this?” “Yep.” That’s how it began.” Nay, I Do Bear a Brain (A Midsummer Night’s Dream) As this event grew into a practice, so did the effects on club members. Some did research ahead of time to explain the characters or plot in more detail. More and more participants took on intensive reading roles. One family’s daughters started a poetry club with their peers. One person told the story of watching a film that referenced Birnam Wood (in Macbeth), and how her understanding of the imagery offered a whole new layer of meaning to the movie scene. And multiple people spoke of appreciating the Bard’s contribution to the English language and idioms. A L L T H E W O R L D ’ S A S T A G E | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 31
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING Alfred W. Elmore (Depiction of Act 4, Scene 1) Oil | 1846 Public Domain A L L T H E W O R L D ’ S A S T A G E | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E
“I have found that (especially my generation) is starved of the call to higher ideals, beauty, creativity, and face-to-face genuine interaction. Culturally, we have nothing to grasp or reach to unless we swallow this ideology or that.... Groups like this ground us because phones get put away, and books are opened and you realize that it doesn’t matter if you like this politician or that one, or think this law is blah, blah, blah; what matters is people, people, people.” All Things Be Ready, If Our Minds Be So (Henry V) We close this article with thoughts from both children and adults— in their own words— on how the Shakespeare Cult has impacted them, and how you can replicate this type of cultural work in your own home: “Just do it. Get a group of people you trust and just do it. And stay off Pinterest. Don’t make it too complicated. Find out what’s important, pick your theme, pick your budget, pick your [guests] and do it. Scrub your toilet a little bit, maybe vacuum up some dog hair, cook the food, invite the people. Don’t overthink it.” “I think that all the members have really benefited from it. They have become better readers, expanded their repertoire, learned what emotion to evoke at what time, and I think everyone has improved their skills of interpreting Shakespeare's works.” “We all really understand the beauty and uniqueness of what we have.” “In the same way you have a church small group: something that is ordered once a month, we’re going to see these people and do this thing, just that rhythm in and of itself is important.” "The jokes are funny, the food is awesome, and loving acting out the dramatic murders and dressing up." “I have come to finally know the storylines of some of Shakespeare's most famous plays! To be able to reference his plays and actually know what I'm talking about is very cool.” “I've really enjoyed being in an environment where silliness and adlibbing (and costumes) are accepted and encouraged, especially being a person who likes acting.” “Start small and with honesty and openness. Always eat together first; there’s something in that that causes people to feel safe together. Set ground rules that make sense. Try to have a mix of people so everyone doesn’t want the same part. I’ve found that the age range has particularly enriched our group and has kept it fresh and lively.” A L L T H E W O R L D ’ S A S T A G E | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 33
I sat awake one night in mid-November, 2010. Our oldest, just two years old, was finally asleep after we sang a song and held hands until her breathing slowed. The kitchen was clean, the air outside was crisp, yet I was already counting the hours until coffee. Nights weren't restful as my wife was sick with postpartum depression and our newborn was colicky and up much of the night. It felt like only minutes until a cry would ring out and a five-month-old would need endless rocking and pacing. The nights felt so long and so lonely. Looking back, I just needed a reminder of a deeper truth. But reading, personal reflection, anything more than the sitting and pacing I was doing felt impossible. I needed song. Passive provisions of comfort in the dead of night. It wouldn’t have alleviated the ache for the light or the exhaustion or the sadness, but I’d have felt some relief. I needed to hear, “You are not alone.” Music has a way of communicating this simple truth in ways that find the cracks in my armor. It always has and now, as an adult, I see in my mind’s eye the fathers and mothers, teens and young adults, grandparents and middle aged, awake in the dark hours calling out for relief. And so in some small way, this is the gift I would give to my lonely 29-yearold self of that mid-November night and to you. The songs in the playlist below are set to be listened to in order. Similar to a Psalm where David cries out, doubts, and rages and reaches the depth of his valley only to find the Lord is there too and begins to climb out. It is intended to be a reminder that though the darkness is deep, the one who grieves and rejoices, who mixed mud to clean blind eyes and who wept at a closed tomb, sits beside you. Later that night, after I’d fallen asleep in the rocking chair, the little head of my baby on my chest, it began to snow. The baby cried and I stood to walk around the room. Standing by the window in our living room I watched the flakes fall. Every cliche about snow making all things new came to mind and I was comforted. This small everyday thing, snow, felt like the loving hands of the Father on my shoulders. Behold, I am making all things new. You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone. YOU ARE NOT ALONE J A K E N U C K O L L S
Joel Ansett - It Takes A Long Time To Wait The Brilliance - Now and at the Hour Andrew Peterson - The Rain Keeps Falling Bellsburg Sessions - Hold Me Jesus JOSEPH - Three More Hours Sara Groves - My Dream Andrew Osenga - Still Waters Jon Foreman - Jesus, I Have My Doubts Andy Gullahorn - Resurrection Bethany Barnard - Tears are Smoke Paul Zach - Draw Me In Chris Renzema - Mercy Drew Miller - Who Am I to You? Taylor Leonhardt - Grandfather Mountain Jon Guerra - Like You, Lord Becca Jordan - Keeping Time The Porter’s Gate - If the Morning Never Comes Indelible Grace Music - Abide with Me Sandra McCracken - Kindness John Van Deusen - All Shall Be Well Mission House - Behold The Gray Havens - Come Behold the Wondrous Mystery 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. listen to this playlist on Spotify listen to this playlist on iTunes P L A Y L I S T 35
At nearly the very last minute, I realized that I did, indeed, have both the time and the finances to drive down to Seattle to see the Arcadian Wild on their brief stop in the Puget Sound. My husband didn't think that he liked bluegrass– or whatever kind of group this was with a fiddle, mandolin, bass, and guitar– but he's always up for an adventure and agreed quite happily to come down to the city with me. After watching their awesomeness in person, Jeff is– quite naturally– a fan. I was honestly only moderately familiar with the Arcadian Wild before this concert– enough so that I recognized songs after they started them, not so much that I could sing along like many in the audience were able to do. When the rest of the crowd started to get those words sung out clearly, it was fun watching the musicians react– Lincoln Mick in particular, as he played his mandolin and acted as the pin that held them all together. He was obviously delighted at the crowd’s interaction as he continued to pick rapidly at those short little mandolin strings. In fact, Lincoln exuded delight the entire time he was on stage. When playing and singing towards the audience, he seemed just so happy to get to share these songs. When Bailey Warren drew some gorgeous melody off of her violin strings, getting the audience to stand in awe and then cheer, Lincoln cheered too. The best parts of the concert, though, were the bits when the group stopped singing and played rapid, complex stretches of music together. Every so often, two of them would back off, either pausing their instruments or playing slower notes to support what began to happen in the middle, as the other two moved closer together. While continuing to play, they stood a couple of feet apart, becoming nearly a single musical entity playing rhythm and counter-rhythm, melody and harmony. And as they did so, they watched each other’s hands. This part was mesmerizing to see; they did not look up at each other, and the audience may as well have ceased to exist for all we mattered in that moment. There was just a tightly interlocked pair of musicians, informing themselves about what to play by watching the dancing fingers of the other. And right as I started to realize that I had been holding my breath during this moment of creation, they slowed down in perfect sync, and drew the final chords of the song in exact unison. My husband is used to seeing me cry during moments of absolute Cover photo: Shelby Mick via The Arcadian Wild. Used with permission. I N W H I C H C H L O E T R I E S T O R E V I E W A C O N C E R T | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 37
Great Art is Enabled by Community beauty, so it didn't bother him at all that I was clapping and cheering and wiping my eyes. And while the music they made was certainly something of beauty, it was more than just listening to it that caught at my heart. To see the creation of something so skilled happening right in front of you is an act of art in itself. This is why we even go to concerts: so that we can witness the moment of creation. It’s a far richer experience than streaming a playlist through the car speakers, especially when we get to watch the interactions of a group. The Arcadian Wild, in particular, is such a clear example of this kind of interrelated connection. The development of their tightly-knit micro-community was the only way their style of music could have been brought into existence and then shared as a gift with the rest of us. While I enjoyed the concert itself immensely, what really stayed in my mind was that memory of two musicians playing together intently, staring at each other’s hands. It’s an image that typifies the connection between the creation of great art and the kinds of communities that facilitate that creation, and I’ve been mulling over it the past few weeks. Those beautiful moments of teamwork have shown me three different things that I love about creative communities: It’s pretty obvious that the kind of music performed by the Arcadian Wild requires a group; a single lone musician could never play such complex arrangements by themselves. But this concept of good art coming out of community is visible in other creative disciplines; besides music, we’ve been given gifts of both writing and painting that came out of community. In particular, I loved reading about the Inklings in Diana Glyer’s wonderful book, Bandersnatch¹. She did a masterful job documenting how Tolkein, Lewis, and Williams Glyer, Diana Pavlac. Bandersnatch: C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkein, and the Creative Collaboration of the Inklings. The Kent State University Press / Black Squirrel Books, 2015 1. I N W H I C H C H L O E T R I E S T O R E V I E W A C O N C E R T | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E
spurred one another on, how they made one another’s writing better, and how new ideas and clearer plots grew out of one another’s influence. Russ Ramsey wrote about the Impressionists in his book, Rembrandt is in the Wind², and he focused on a key factor in their rise as respected painters: Jean Frédéric Bazille used his personal studio to create a supportive space for these painters who initially had a difficult time finding a place in the art world. Monet and Manet were among them, and they both found encouragement and promotion for their work in Bazille’s studio. There is so much more beauty in the world because of that community. And if I’m looking at masterpieces and the grandest scale possible, it’s not too much of a stretch to say that the Divine Community of Father, Son, and Spirit worked together in perfect unity and joy to create all the beauty of the world around us, as an unparalleled work of art. 2. Ramsey, Russ. Rembrandt Is in the Wind: Learning to Love Art through the Eyes of Faith. Zondervan Reflective, 2022. Chapter Six: Creating in Community: Jean Frédéric Bazille, the Impressionists, and the Importance of Belonging HERBST IN ARGENTEUIL Claude Monet Oil on Canvas | 1873 Public Domain I N W H I C H C H L O E T R I E S T O R E V I E W A C O N C E R T | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 39
and how new ideas and clearer plots And while the music they made was certainly something of beauty, it was more than just listening to it that caught at my heart. To see the creation of something so skilled happening right in front of you is an act of art in itself. This is why we even go to concerts: so that we can witness the moment of creation. It’s a far richer experience than streaming a playlist through the car speakers, especially when we get to watch the interactions of a group. Generative Artistic Community Requires Authenticity There’s a lot of authenticity in good creative communities– if we’re sharing our work with one another in the hopes of making it better or making more of it, we can’t hide behind a pretense of skill. Each member of the Arcadian Wild had to be able to play perfectly in sync, and their fingers had to be fast and precise as they picked at the strings of their instruments. They would not have been able to achieve this if even one of them only acted like they were capable of that level of music. I can just imagine some of the practice sessions they’d had, perhaps with some fumbles and open discussion about what needed to be practiced and made better. In order to play this music well, they all had to agree to keep both strengths and weaknesses visible. I did get a bit of a giggle when Isaac Horn introduced a song by openly declaring that it was “absolutely terrifying,” and then (after playing it perfectly), smiled at Lincoln and said, “Now for something a bit…gentler.” He wasn’t trying to hide behind any pretense. I’ve met with two other writers for just about a year now, our own little tightly-knit community designed with the intent of helping one another create more and be better at it. Both of those goals have grown for each of us as we sit at the library, bounce ideas around, pass pages of recent work, and eat chocolate. We’re getting to know one another’s styles with our own sets of strengths and weaknesses, we’ve disallowed the burning of previous work, we’ve asked after previously stated goals, and celebrated milestones achieved. We’ve had to develop the courage to both ask for, and give, feedback. Authenticity is every bit as terrifying as the one song that Isaac Horn had to work hard to play, but it’s a necessary step in getting better at our art. I N W H I C H C H L O E T R I E S T O R E V I E W A C O N C E R T | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E
Strong Communities Celebrate One Another and Delight in the Beautiful Work that Comes Out of the Community I loved how Lincoln Mick really drew attention to Bailey’s beautiful violin playing or Erik Coveney on the bass, how he just looked tickled when the audience sang along. His own obvious delight in the beautiful music just flowed off of the stage along with the notes. There was never really a time when it felt like there was a clear leader in the group; they all just took turns making sure one another got to shine as they played great music. It was a joy to watch. This really emphasized how a community that truly fosters creativity is best when it’s collaborative and not competitive. When we’re truly seeking the good of one another, we all benefit. I’ve been blessed to see this kind of attitude in the Rabbit Room, particularly on their Facebook group, the “Rabbit Room Chinwag.” There is a joyful sense of celebration whenever some wonderful artist has created a thing to send out to the world, and this, more than anything else, feels like a glimpse of the coming Kingdom of God. I’m still playing Arcadian Wild CDs in my car this week. Jeff has been enjoying them hugely, as well, although he says things like, “They’re better in person.” I think he was also impacted by the sheer artistry of how those musicians interacted, and while their music is just so good, getting to witness the creation of it in the moment is still a precious memory. There is obviously an art to making music, but there is also an art to working within a community that makes art. As I pack my basket up for Writer’s Group tomorrow, I am going to be picturing the musicians on the stage, working together to make something better and bigger than any of them could have done alone, and I will be grateful for the writers who read my words and encourage my own stories. And it makes me happy to think there are likely thousands more tiny yet vastly supportive micro-communities gathering together in the same kind of joy, around all different forms of art. I N W H I C H C H L O E T R I E S T O R E V I E W A C O N C E R T | F E A T U R E A R T I C L E 41
photo: Cheryl Grey Bostrom
Aw, God. Your equinox, here again— that sharp plow, come to cleave the soil of seasons, to slice September with waning days. Gee! Haw! At your voice, time’s Percherons and mules, Shires and Clydes, all traces taut, heave your slant-light blade, curling summer (now tired and dry) into furrows, seedbeds of December’s dark composting. Must I winter here? Again? I feel them still, Lord, those cuts from other dimmings, other winters of heart. Save me, Father. Fly me south, will you? Or, remind me how to walk the furrows. Crease me with wisdom I can follow in the bleak, until your canted beam returns to fold the earth to Spring. FALL FURROWS C H E R Y L G R E Y B O S T R O M 43
So, tree. Does Summer know you’re leaving? De-leafing? Leaving leaves to senescence? You’ve shuttered your first zones, I see. Closed some taps. I know your obedience. Your death to self. Soon, she will too. Those wrenching tears, that hard abscission. First gale blows into town and you’ll send them packing. PACKING C H E R Y L G R E Y B O S T R O M photo: Cheryl Bostrom
Since I tend to think in pictures, it’s no surprise that I take great joy in both photography and in writing the poetry I extract from my photos. These two poems, “Fall Furrows” and “Packing,” originated with the snapshots accompanying them. I pondered the images before I wrote, hunting their connections not only to the principles at work in the created world, but to the Creator of those designs and what He might be saying in the images before me. Then I jotted phrases those photos exhaled, rolling the words on my tongue and sensibilities. In time, each poem’s voice emerged. In my poems, voices range from stark and startling to tender or playful or introspective, and are often full of worship and longing, science and faith. Usually intimate and infused with hope, some tell stories. Others converse with either the subjects of the photo or with God himself. In “Fall Furrows,” photos from a local plowing match led to the speaker’s contemplation of life’s seasons and the loss and growth they hold. In “Packing,” readers encounter science-savvy banter about the process of letting go— for both a tree facing Winter and a woman (I picture a mother) who will soon surrender to difficult goodbyes. photo: Cheryl Bostrom 45
Together we sow. The days are getting cooler and the light arrives later in the morning and goes to bed earlier in the day. We know the cycle. We feel the change and embrace it after many summer days under the hot, desert sun. Together we sow our hardy annuals from the seeds that were produced this summer. To plant a seed and watch it grow is a felicity that never fades. We learn about the plant cycle. The seed, the seedlings, the blooms that finally appear! They come and are a feast for all who look upon them. Then, one by one, the blooms fade. Many people sigh and believe that they are spent. But we know better: now is the time for reproduction. The seed harvest begins. Where did we get our seed stock from if all to be had are the lovely blooms? We smile and know that together, we will gather the seeds. There is a window of time when seeds are ready to be harvested before the plants drop them. We look in pure anticipation for this time. Several times per week, a walk through the garden helps us plan. We know the place intimately. We prepared the beds and planted the first seedlings after the last frost. We placed irrigation that comes from Pahto's (Mt. Adam's) snowmelt each year. We fertilized, mulched, and snipped. It is no Garden of Eden, but it is ours. We thank the One who created it all. From the first plant cycle to today, He covers it all with His hands. But what do we sow now, in autumn? Those few plants that can survive our cold winters with a little help. Those plants such as Black-eyed Susan, yarrow, Iceland poppies, and larkspur. They grow in good soil under lights now while waiting for their turn in the garden. Once planted, they put their roots deep and enjoy the natural moisture through rain. When the harshest weather appears, we will cover them with low tunnels and peek in a few times a week over the winter. This will be our first winter on the seed farm. We do not know how many plants will overwinter, but we have faith in others’ experience and follow their instructions. We know how to do that. We have years of practice applying faith and follow instructions with the One who controls it all! Like we wait for His return, we anticipate warmer days and earlier blooms from strong, hearty plants. Healthy plants which will give us good seed stock. And thus, the cycle continues. You see, we, like the hardy annuals, are overwintering ourselves in this world. We put our roots deep and weather the harshest of times. Like an annual flower, we will sow, grow, bloom, and reproduce for one season over our lifetime here on Earth. We look ahead knowing that the intense sun will return every Summer, like we know that the Son will return also. What a day it will be when we bask in His wonderful light! TOGETHER WE SOW T O L L I E N A I L
“You see, we, like the hardy annuals, are overwintering ourselves in this world. ” “ T O G E T H E R W E S O W ” B Y T O L L I E N A I L photo: Tollie Nail 47
Come to tea I brew my peppermint green. You choose the orange pekoe and I gesture to the tray with honey and the sugar bowl and cream, hiding that I’ve never drunk orange pekoe and don’t know what goes in it. We hide behind small talk, both knowing we will soon sip on divorces and dreams and the death of our youth, but the pouring is first, and all about the everyday and the mundane, the milk and the hot water. Come to tea Somewhere between the gluten-free crackers that crunch too loudly and the yellow lemon squares, under the golden light of the lamp I almost knocked over, we find our trust. I tell you of the fear that hasn’t yet been put into words, and you speak of the storybook you’re writing, the one with the sunshine. Come to tea For this is what teatime is for. A space of china dishes and dark-brewed dreams, where war council is held and hopes are brought out of the wet-washing and hung up one by one. Deep sorrow is steeped with the orange pekoe, but because of you, I know it’s best drank with cream and honey. T I F F A N Y H O L D E N COME TO TEA
Luke 12:7 The symphony of Autumn all gilded in its glow, Hears the trees a-whisper, putting on their crimson show. Every bathing ray of sunlight and nourishing drop of rain Awaits their turn in each movement, while the Great Conductor reigns. From forest 'ablaze' to falling leaf, He delicately brings them in. Surely, rapt in glorious beauty by the wonders of creation, His players blend their parts together in perfect harmony. Joyful strains ring out His name, echoing praise to His Majesty. Aren’t we more than nature's opulence beckoning Winter's forward march, For the great Maestro to care about us more than the needles of a larch? He orchestrates nature to His pleasure, each season playing at His call, To show our worry laden hearts, Who is worthy of our all. SYMPHONY OF AUTUMN M A D E L Y N S T O N E Y 49
I suppose this body of work began in 2011, I spent most of my mornings sipping coffee and reading at the downtown Bellingham Starbucks. One morning a piece of artwork appeared on the wall: "Jobs & The Atom Bomb," by a local Bellingham artist named James Mey. I was intrigued and taken in from the outset. The art was a collage of Steve Jobs, Frankenstein, and the atom bomb together, and I wanted to figure out what the artist was saying. So I decided to reread Mary Shelley's Frankenstein to start figuring it out. Dr Frankenstein was not intending to create a monster, he was simply pursuing the logical conclusion of biological science, seeing how far science could take him, and how that could better mankind. At least, these are the basics of the novel I can remember 12 years later). Connecting that with the atom bomb, which (obviously) was always intended for destruction, but was also the pursuit of physics, how far could we go... Ending with the famous words from Oppenheimer, quoting the Bhagavad Gita, "Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds." Enter, Steve Jobs. Are we doing the same thing with technology now, with social media, with artificial intelligence and so many other technologies? Are we aware of what boxes we are opening that we can't close? I decided that I would respond by making my own art. I wanted to start a conversation about the things we were losing, about the things I felt like I was losing, with the constantly changing digital world. I set out to spend a year thinking about analog technologies that were disappearing, making one new screen print each month: twelve in all. I realized that one of the main ways that life has changed in the digital world is in how we communicate. I realized that I hadn’t sat down and written a letter to anyone in years. So I embarked on a project to write letters and make a weekly art piece for a year. My goal also was to spend as little time online as possible. And, as there was some uproar from my leaving social media and not sharing the art online, I decided to write a letter to the internet and post the artwork with it online. Ten years later, I am revisiting the words and adding a short P.S. to the original letters. THE LETTERS PROJECT B J O T T artwork created during this project