The other day I wore  a dress John brought me from Ghana. It was different enough from my usual attire that friends commented. 

 

"Where is it from?" 

 

It was fun to tell the story of John's two trips to the continent, and his generosity in bringing back presents. The skirt that I sewed using batik fabric dyed by local artisans there is beautiful, and I confess to snatching some of the credit for the garment. But truly its splendor was crafted by women I will never meet, their hands dropping swaths of cloth into boiling vats. The wax that creates a resist is drawn by hand using a tool called a tjanting. 

 

So sure. I made it. Kind of. 

 

Recently I was part of a brain storming session. Each of us tossed ideas into the ring about how to support the congregation more effectively. The collaboration inspired me, and it showed up the following week to fuel my efforts. 

 

A friend reminded me that notions are gifted to us. They pop in, like a mailman, bringing a package of fabric I clicked on. Even when I speak aloud I notice that the thought is novel. As much to me as to those listening. 

 

"I have an idea!" One I might add that did not exist a moment before. 

 

It is a perk of being alive, to be able to pat myself on the back for a tiered skirt, or a brilliant suggestion. But true liberty comes when I acknowledge that there is a conveyor belt leading to the back of my head. One that brings startling beauty if I let it.