One of the Great Gifts

One of the great gifts of Life, is that we get to fall in love over and over. It’s like the parable we often refer to as “The Prodigal Son.” We may wander far from home, but we get to return again. Not only that, we get to experience returning home again. We get to feel the waking. We get to feel the turning. We get to feel the excitement of walking into Beauty all over again.

And so it is after 32 years of marriage, when I awake to the mysteries of this man. The man I married cares deeply about planting trees. And not just any trees. He loves trees that grow slowly, trees that he will never see at their most majestic. I find that kind of generosity and hope beautiful. It wakes me and I fall in love again.

And last night, as we were putting away groceries from CostCo, someone noticed with delight that there was a lichen in our packaged mushrooms. And we all gathered around, and we all had to see it, and we all remembered that we are nourished by the earth God made and that we come from the ground and return to it. And I fall in love again. With God. With lichen. With mushrooms that smell like earth. With these dear people.

And yesterday while my daughter and I sat on the front porch falling in love with the wind on our skin, she told me a story. Of when she was younger and feeding the sheep their evening hay. And how she called them into the barn and they came…except for one. So she closed the barn door and went looking for the one that hadn’t come. And she found him, down, unwell, under the trees, too weak to get up, too weak to call for help. And she was the shepherdess, so she bent near to him, scooped him up into her arms and carried him to the barn. And she knew deeply that The Shepherd can never not search for the lost sheep. That He must. That if the sheep can’t cry out, The Shepherd will come anyways. That if the sheep doesn’t know she’s being carried, The Shepherd will carry her anyways. That if the sheep doesn’t know she’s being cared for, The Shepherd cares for her anyways. And I fell in love again with the deep well in this girl and the many mysteries within her.

I know.

There are things to lament.

Truly.

But, we can do both.

What are you falling in love with right now?

It's the seeds, isn't it? Always the small seeds

A shy, quiet man…a longtime bachelor has lived in the green house since before we moved in. Two years ago he married a kind and gentle soul with an easy laugh that carries down the road a ways. There is a mysterious but palpable mutuality about them and together they have brought an Eden forth from the previously neat but plain small acreage. They have planted grapes and berries, fruit trees, flowering shrubs and other marvels. Bird feeders and squirrel feeders have blossomed throughout the property and into this peaceable kingdom they have brought a goofy, gangly dog. He fits perfectly into this House of Joy.

Across the street from them is what used to be the Beloved Forest. It was beloved by the man who owned it, walked in it, and tended it. When he died he left it to his son. During the winter his son logged the 200 acre wood. It didn’t feel like a harvest or even a business transaction. It felt like anger. It felt like vengeance. It felt like trauma.

Last week when we walked past the slash piles, many 20 feet tall, Todd saw a sunflower. We stopped and marveled. It’s strange to see a sunflower in the forest…where did it come from? How can it grow in that soil? It was unusual, out of place, and yet…hopeful. One thin sunflower next to a slash pile, one small voice rising among the devastation.

Today I walked past the slash piles again.

There were hundreds of sunflowers.

Hundreds.

I stood overwhelmed by the bright yellow heads all pointed towards the rising sun this morning…and then I turned and noticed the House of Joy— the Peaceable Kingdom with it’s feeders and bounteous love of Life.

Metaphors

I took a walk this morning. On my way back, a neighbor I don’t often talk to waved me down. She was refilling her bird feeders, but set her task aside to get closer to where I stood on the road.

We exchanged greetings and then talked about . . . hair. And somehow, hair and hair management was the metaphor for all the big things: connections and interdependence, the difference between isolation and solitude, the truth of our fragility and the truth of our resilience.

It reminded me of this poem:

I Confess
I stalked her
in the grocery store: her crown
of snowy braids held in place by a great silver clip,
her erect bearing, radiating tenderness,
the way she placed yogurt and avocados in her basket,
beaming peace like the North Star.
I wanted to ask, "What aisle did you find
your serenity in, do you know
how to be married for fifty years, or how to live alone,
excuse me for interrupting, but you seem to possess
some knowledge that makes the earth burn and turn on its axis—"
but we don’t request such things from strangers
nowadays. So I said, "I love your hair."

~Alison Luterman (her website is here: https://www.alisonluterman.net/)

I love this poem for the way it highlights the rich interior connections we make with others and the mundane greetings we send into the world pregnant with meaning. (I also love it because of the way it entered my world: a dozen years ago Todd got home from work and was emptying his pockets. He handed me a little wadded scrap of paper and said, “oh, this is for you! I thought you’d like it.” My first thought was that he was giving me a used tissue, but I carefully opened it to find this poem. He saw it inside a MAX train, on the wall, and wrote it down. Quite possibly the most romantic gesture of all time…)

I’ve been thinking that maybe many of our divisions are because we forget that we are a metaphorical people. We forget about the deep, rich interiors of one another. So, this month of May I am on the lookout for those current cultural metaphors that we use when we don’t have words to say:

• you are amazing

• you are beautiful

• I don’t know how to help

• I don’t know how to make it better

• I see you

I would love to hear from you. What cultural metaphors are you noticing?

And, seriously… I LOVE your hair.

You Catch My Tears

Towards the end of the summer this year it I felt like so many were carrying so much and the verse from Psalm 56 kept rolling around inside me:

You have collected all my tears in your bottle—Psalm 56:8

I thought maybe…maybe if we could see a tangible representation of that verse people might remember that with God nothing is wasted. It might encourage the hearts of my dear people in this time. I called a young glass blower I know and asked him if he could make me one tear catcher. “Maybe,” he said. “What’s a tear catcher?”

And so began our research into the little glass bottles used by a variety of peoples and cultures throughout the centuries. A few weeks later William, young glassblower extraordinaire, showed up at my house with a box of tiny bottles. “I didn’t know how to choose, so I brought what I’ve been working on. You can pick which one you like.” Honestly, I couldn’t choose either. Each one had it’s own personality. I took all twelve.

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I have heard your prayer; I have seen your tears—2 Kings 20:5

There were more stories than I can tell here, but I’d like to share one:

Hi, Michelle,

At our event last Thursday, a young girl of about 8 or so was dropped off by her dad, and they had some discussion about getting her a snack for during break time.  She headed off to class, and her dad dutifully purchased a couple of snacks, but then took them to his car to save for her until classes were over.  At break time, she came to the snack table expecting to find something waiting, and was notably disappointed when she learned what had happened.  She went and stood in a corner, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see her slowly crumbling into teary sadness.  I went and spoke with her, and we finally agreed that it might help to get a drink of water since she couldn't have her snack until later.

On the way to the water fountain, she looked up through her tears and saw the tiny glass bottles on their shelves in the hall.  "What are those?" she asked.  I explained to her what the sign described, and the scripture verse that provided the inspiration.  She was so captivated by this idea!  She got a drink, and came back and looked again as her tears began to dry...

"I wonder why God wants to collect our tears?

Does he save them up and drink them when he gets thirsty?

Or maybe he uses them to fill up the clouds to give us rain!"

And her small sorrow was turned to wonder at the loving care of our creative God.  She ran off refreshed and joyful, and my heart was so thankful that our church embraces art. 

The tear catchers attracted a lot of attention and within a week they had all sold. People who bought them all had intensely personal reasons and I know some bottles traveled across the country to those who were grieving. This is one of the ways God uses artisans to draw us back into His beautiful heart.

The psalmist in Psalm 56:8 uses the image of God catching our tears in a bottle to proclaim God's holy concern for every single moment of our lives. Nothing is wasted. No one is unseen.

Many thanks to William McBride who said yes without knowing what was being asked of him.

Breaking Habits

Mid-January 2014 I arrived early to a William Stafford Centennial event where his son, Kim Stafford, would be speaking and reading excerpts of his father’s work. William Stafford was Oregon's Poet Laureate for awhile and so 100 years after his birth there were celebratory events all over the state. He is famous here, but I came to appreciate him through the writings of his son. Kim Stafford wrote my favorite book on writing and teaches at a local university. I am such a fan of Kim Stafford's writing that eventually I started reading his greatest influence, his dad…and that title of Poet Laureate was well-bestowed.

My ticket would have gotten me into the venue, but I was so early they just waved me in with the kitchen crew. In the days leading up to this event I sent approximately 91 texts to a variety of people with the words “I’m going to meet Kim Stafford!!!!!” I sat down in the front row to wait.

Soon, a man who seemed to barely contain his own excitement at being alive sat down next to me. We talked about the merits of William Stafford’s poetry versus his essays, about Kim Stafford’s writings, about children and the remarkable fragility of life, about the remarkable resilience of life, about the forest-not-too-far-from-here and about public libraries in rural towns in Oregon. The venue filled around us and Official People arrived. At some point I introduced myself, “I’m Michelle.” He smiled and shook my hand, “Brian,” he laughed. And so we continued to enjoy each other’s company until a well-dressed woman approached us and said, “We’re ready for you Mr. Doyle.”

And those who are familiar with Brain Doyle’s work will nod right now and say, “yes, yes, how very like him.” He had a way of observing the ordinary so intensely that he forgot himself in the experience of it. His writing continues to be a daily invitation to me to notice the sacred in the ordinary.

This week I have been inundated with articles on developing habits, maintaining habits and limiting habits. This is the first week of the New Year and fresh starts and resolutions are part of the predictable wave of articles in my news feed. Habits are the things that help us to move through the world more efficiently, more quickly. We can use our brains for other things because they are not being overworked by noticing everything or by having to make decisions about everything. Habits make up the bulk of our days and we rarely stop to consider them. They make us productive and competent…and blind. The essay I read this morning was Brian Doyle’s meditation on…dirt. Even as I type that it makes me smile. He is the kind of witness I want to be—an observer who stops and notices and wonders. Who notices the way wind feels, or dirt smells, the way someone laughs, or hides. Who wonders about what God is doing in this Holy Moment.

If you have never had the joy of experiencing Brian Doyle, here are my current top two favorites (note: I do NOT participate in any affiliate program, these link to Amazon for your convenience but you might find them elsewhere for a better price and buying through these links does not benefit me at all in any way):

A Book of Uncommon Prayer

One Long River of Song (the essay for tomorrow begins like this: My daughter, age 6, sleeps with her bear, also age 6. My son, age 3, sleeps with his basketball and a stuffed tiger, age unknown. My other son, also age 3, sleeps with a can of anchovy fillets…)

Savor slowly and with delight.

The Breath Giver

God breathed Life into me, and yet I know His Presence by the way He steals my breath: 

• at the beach
• during a sunset
• beside a waterfall
• during a meteor shower
• at the birth of a lamb
• when my husband puts his arm around me
• when my kids laugh

Evidence of the Breath Giver is breath-taking.

You know those moments, you stop for them. You allow yourself to experience the wonder. You receive the gift. These are moments we can't control or command, we can't take them. They are moments that are given and we receive them. This is the foundation of faith--wonder. This is the heart of the psalms, and the heart of so much poetry. We notice the ordinary and we wonder at it.

And that impulse to stop, to breathe it in, to write it down? Another name for that is worship.

I looked up the definition for wonder and it is this:

to be surprised by beauty

And that is exactly what wonder feels like isn't it?

We have been keeping a list of what we notice to be sacred. We started it on the first day of this month, and it is good, right? To unclench ourselves and open our hearts and eyes? To receive the gifts already given? The practice alone is good.

But perhaps we might use our list to write some poetry. Ummmmm, won't that be good too?

The Hundred Names of Love

We are celebrating National Poetry Month and today I get to introduce you to one of my favorite contemporary poets.

I had the immense pleasure of meeting Annie Lighthart several years ago. She is a generous and genuine soul. I love all of her poetry, but I wanted to share this one with you because it illustrates "Noticing the Sacred" which is where my heart is right now. I remember those exhausting early days of parenting, waking up in the middle of the night to the cry of a child. These moments become luminescent when Annie shines a light on them, helping us to notice the sacred in the ordinary.

The Hundred Names of Love

The children have gone to bed.
We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly
behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing
warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together
and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet,
the forgiveness of that sleep.

Then the one small cry:
one strike of the match-head of sound:
one child’s voice:
and the hundred names of love are lit
as we rise and walk down the hall.

One hundred nights we wake like this,
wake out of our nowhere
to kneel by small beds in darkness.
One hundred flowers open in our hands,
a name for love written in each one.

~Annie Lighthart

Want more? She has a beautiful book of poems here.

And her website is here.

Noticing the Sacred

I went for a walk in September last year. I walked and prayed for over 200 miles.

And I wondered, What if Jesus Christ really is The Way?

Not just the goal. No. What if He is the road we walk? What if He carries us continuously? Wouldn't that mean that everywhere I step is Holy Ground? What would my life look like if I lived that way?

Today is the first day of National Poetry Month. I challenge you, and I challenge myself, to notice the sacred in today. The essence of poetry is the same as the essence of prayer--paying attention with your entirety. What if you are standing, right now, on Holy Ground? What if you treated the person in front of you as Holy? What if this moment, this object, this...This was sacred?

My Sacred List for the month of April begins with these:

1. Warmth and the smell of applewood just beginning to push back the cold in the morning, thanks to the hands of my beloved who rose before me and braved the cold floor to make a fire.

2. A text--a smiley emoticon from my 19 year old son away at college.

3. My yoga mat. It used to belong to my father, now I use it to connect my spirit to my body and to pray for the people with whom God populates my heart while I'm stretching.

What's on your list? I would love a glimpse into your sacred life if you are willing to share in the comments.

Thank you. And. Happy National Poetry Month!

Shimmering Contrasts, India Part 9

Speeding through the streets of colorful metropolitan Kolkata, we slow down and stop near the hippodrome to let a small flock of about fifty goats cross the street. Through the car window I watch a man in a bright orange tunic and pants, wearing a turban and carrying a mat under his right arm walk out onto a nearby soccer field. He is not bothered by the two dozen men chasing a ball up and down the green. He walks into their midst, opens his mat and sits. He is an orange beacon in a green sea and the soccer game parts around him, continues almost uninterrupted, different cultures occupying the same space.

This week we take two mornings to visit freedom businesses. These are businesses that exist to give people work, choices, and dignity. The two businesses we visit are specifically aimed at releasing women caught in the sex trade.

The first one we visit partly because we are considering using them for t-shirts. Shandra wants me to make a logo that can be used on t-shirts that will be sold to raise funds. To do this I need to understand what this company can and cannot do. The company is called FreeSet and you can find them online here: http://freesetglobal.com/

I meet the art-prepareres, the color-mixers (with their rings of Pantone color cards!), the fabric cutters and shirt-assemblers, and then I buy several t-shirts. I want to know how much drape there is in the cloth after it is printed. I am delighted to say that these shirts become personal favorites. They are soft and maintain their hand.

The logo I dream for the House of Light Project incorporates these things: a flame in an Indian-like pattern because their word for light is the same as their word for flame, a house within the flame and the word jyoti (flame) in Hindi inside the house. The house is filled with light and it emanates light. Beneath the flame is the website address where people can donate to the project. It is a little website I set up for them that they will maintain as they grow. The donation portal goes through Cru, which is the established and highly regarded non-profit that employs the feisty Shandra. The address is: houseoflightindia.com

The second freedom business we visit is Sari Bari. I have loved their products for many years, and we think it might be a good connection for the nuns at the House of Light. Sari Bari creates products--mostly blankets and bags--from used saris and straight stitching called kantha embroidery. The atmosphere among the women in the workplace is one of easy camaraderie and dedication to the work. There is something light and beautiful about the place. It feels like an oasis. You can find them online here: http://saribari.com/

Sister Dorothy, the smallest, youngest and newest sister in the house, comes with us to our meeting with the president of the company. One day I will create art to honor this most amazing woman. She does everything with her whole heart. This earnest woman, speaks to a tall, quiet earnest man with a heart for justice, peace and healing. I watch God stitch the ends of their fabrics together as they speak and I still don't know how He does it. Words are insufficient to describe that afternoon as we sit cross-legged together, grateful for the mats beneath us and the kindred spirits before us.

Sacred ground in the middle of the largest sex trade district in India.

Different cultures occupying the same space.

I Am Disturbed, India Part 3

I pushed open the door from the hotel and stepped into the Kolkata heat. Immediately, my glasses fogged up. As I stood wiping them, I could feel sweat collecting between my shoulder blades. By the time our driver dropped Shandra and I at the sewing machine shop, our clothes had melted into our skins.

But inside the shop, the atmosphere was quite chilly. Neither the manager nor his assistant smiled. When he spoke, the manager was careful to look pointedly away from us, mostly out the window, so that we became most familiar with his right ear and shoulder. He asked us a lot of questions, he didn't answer ours. The assistant brought us tea. The manager didn't drink his. I didn't drink mine.

"I could feel the steam coming out of your ears in that cold room,"  Shandra would laugh about this for weeks. And it was true. My anger was growing and I was struggling to contain it. This man, Lord! He is so condescending! How? How is he going to be able to do the things we have contracted him to do? How can a man this arrogant teach the women at the House of Light? His arrogance is a wall... And suddenly I realized I was catching a glimpse of another invisible story. There was so much I didn't know about this man, so much I would never understand; however, it was clear that he was woven into this tapestry. To discount him would be to leave a hole in the fabric. That's when the Holy Spirit broke into my own arrogance.

"There is much I don't know," I leaned forward. "Teach me."

He turned and looked at me for the first time. He waved at his assistant and thus began an hour of "training." I let him show me the machine features and I cooled down. He let me ask questions and he warmed up. We embroidered several samples onto black cloth and with each stitch our conversation became more real. Then he asked me to step into the back room. He wanted to show me the machine I should have bought. It filled the room. He showed me that it operated in exactly the same way as the smaller one but moved significantly faster.

"Tell me why you prefer this machine," I asked him.

"It's so much faster! You cannot hope to be competitive in the industry with the machine you bought!" He took a breath, "Tell me why you prefer that machine."

I laughed, "Because it is so much slower! That machine will go to a home for girls. They will learn on it without losing any fingers and then have the skills to get jobs later."

"A home for girls? It is going to a home for girls?" He looked at the floor for a second. He spoke very quietly, "Then you have purchased the correct machine." When he looked up he was smiling.

Shandra signed the papers and we packed up the boxes. She would laugh later, "I don't know what you did but you gained a friend in that shop." The Holy Spirit wanted to use the stones in my own wall of arrogance to build a bridge. As we were leaving I picked up the black cloth on which we had stitched out several samples, "Can I have this?" The assistant snatched it out of my hand, but the manager gave it back to me, "Of course you must have it, there is no problem." He gave us several business cards, "You must please disturb me for any reason. If the sisters at the House of Light need anything, machine maintenance, lessons, any question at all! I will look forward to being disturbed by them."

This textile piece is titled The Holy Spirit Disturbs Us. I wanted to do a textile piece to remember that moment. I loved that the manager used the word "disturbed" because it so accurately encapsulated all of our feelings that morning. We were negatively disturbed by one another, then we were positively disturbed by the Holy Spirit who invited us to try again. The piece is entirely hand-stitched to honor the effort, one stitch at a time, one word at a time, that it takes to choose to build a bridge.

The Holy Spirit Disturbs Us, Michelle Winter ©2016 cotton thread on cotton fabric stitch mounted to 16x20" museum board

The gray background fabric felt chilly to me, like the atmosphere in the shop when we first arrived. The orange square is the Presence of God, which is always there. The straight stitches are a nod to a form of traditional Indian hand embroidery called kantha. They form lovely undulations in the fabric (and texture is the reason textiles are my first art love). I chose white embroidery floss because I wanted something that didn't stand out too much. I wanted the stitching to feel almost atmospheric. The straight lines at the bottom are about the paths in which we are often stuck. The undulations are the unintentional ripples those paths can create. The scattered stitches are the times when the Holy Spirit explodes us out of our paths. The curved stitches are the times when we are merely nudged to see things in new ways. Anything can happen when The Holy Spirit Disturbs Us. I used a mounting technique that was new to me. Though it was a pain-staking process, I am so happy with the result and will definitely use it again.

In Which I Get What I Don't Deserve, India Part 2

It is a humbling experience to be fed by those with little food, or given a gift by those who have nothing to spare. It is tempting to refuse the kindness offered so generously, but it is precisely that staggering generosity that overrides all refusals. The only way to receive such a gift is to surrender to it, to accept it knowing there is no possibility of repayment. It is practical grace. All grace.

The second day we were in India I met Sunaa. At first I thought I was there to care for her, but instead she carried me. I tried to paint the gift of her. The first attempt was a very abstract painting, but there was too much pain in it. I painted over it, and the second attempt was too structured. There is a lot of structure in India, but much of the healing I witnessed happens outside of it. I made a third, and then a fourth attempt. By then the layers were building up and I liked the complexity of the textures. Then I realized that Sunaa's gift impacted me and shaped the rest of the trip for me because of it's simplicity. The painting below looks nothing like what I had envisioned. It is not about pain or need. It is about the deep capacity every single human has to bless another.

Sunaa is from Kerala, in the south of India. Kerala, where bananas grow, where they speak the beautiful Malayalam language and wrap sweet spirits in warm chocolate skin.

"Why did you move so far from home to come here?" I ask her.

She answers slowly, and clearly, "I wanted to help people. I didn't know how I could help, but I thought . . . perhaps I could give kindness."

"Who did you want to help?"

She is quiet for some time, searching for the words. Then she smiles. Sunaa looks me in the eyes in a most un-Indian way until we both know that I am listening with my heart.

"You."

And I receive the gift.

Overwhelming kindness.

Grace.

All grace.

What If All We Had to Offer Was Kindness, Michelle Winter ©2016 acrylic on 20x24" canvasboard

Invisible Stories, India Part 1

One of the first decisions a storyteller makes is where to begin the story. Do I begin at the beginning and trace the events chronologically? That might make the story easier to follow. Do I begin in the middle, drawing you quickly into the action? Do I dance around the edges unfolding the back story and the forward action in concert? I want to take you with me. I want to immerse you in this India Story.

But I can't.

The story is too big to tell, too deep and wide to hold.
And so, He hid the pieces inside the people.
The people.
That we would reach for one another and become
The poem.
~Michelle Winter, 2016

I entered into a long parade of stories invisible to me. I couldn't see the beginning. All I could do was reach out my hand and try to catch some shimmering confetti, pieces of Truth, as they flew by.

I missed much, but there were pieces of blue and green: women with gentle hands who offer kindness and healing; a girl who sets aside her need for rest to support her broken friends; women who have given up their lives to create a home and a family for the hurting.

There were pieces of red: men and women with fire in their eyes and hearts who have left their homes (some from other cities, some from other countries) to fight for justice and to rescue those who cannot fight.

There were pieces of orange: a feisty woman determined to pour herself out for the least of these; a quiet man hoping to change the world one person at a time.

And yellows, and golds: children who hold on to life and to one another, a middle aged woman reaching around the world to connect people who can be more effective together.

But, all that would come later. On the day we landed in India, we had been traveling for 36 hours and still had a drive ahead of us to the hotel. The streets were noisy, but the sounds organized themselves into music as we drove. There was heat, and breeze, colorful curbs and buses, the fog and stain of diesel, crowds, curry, lost luggage and a red alert for terrorist activity in the area. 

This is my first day, the landing day:

After A Hard Day, Rest Michelle Winter ©2016 acrylic on 20x24" canvasboard

And so, perhaps there is a beginning after all. This is the only story I can tell. It is my story of how I danced in the parade of love and compassion in India...if only for a few steps along the way. 

Walking Barefoot in the World

I stood on hallowed ground today. The library at Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon,  is showing twelve pieces by sculptor Diana Lubarsky.  I have seen images of these pieces before. She has pictures of each sculpture on her website. I was unprepared for the impact of viewing these pieces in person. There is a warmth, a life that emanates from each clay, bronze and terra cotta person Diana has lovingly and respectfully formed. She tells the story of the holocaust. She tells sorrow, perseverance, love, hope, sacrifice, uncertainty, deep aching loss, loneliness, injustice, peace, legacy, healing, and defiance. I experienced all  these emotions at the exhibit today, but I was overwhelmed by Faith—a burning bush in the desert, a light so unexpected that I couldn’t turn away.

Diana Lubarsky's Diaspora I, on exhibit at the Pacific University library in Forest Grove, Oregon during the months of September and October 2014.

I recognized these clay people. Is it ok to say that? I have never experienced anything close to the horrors they lived, but I recognized the loneliness, the grief, the sorrow, as well as the fierce love and defiance. Suddenly, the holocaust victims had faces. They were individual people, not just notes in a textbook. They were here and then they weren’t. We lost millions of people. We lost.

But God. I sat in the exhibit and had to confess to my God, that I know nothing, that I don’t understand, that I am so very small. But God was in this place today and I worshiped The Mysterious One. Because there is nothing else.

Diana Lubarsky’s exhibit will be at the library at Pacific University until October 31st, 2014. I highly recommend it. There are better pictures of the current exhibit here.