It is something so tender, sweet, and soft inside…….utter contentment after a long hard journey. I love to share them but there is no need to. Art is many things to many people and to me it is my sacred place. I can’t go and make a logical and an analitical decision to make a piece of art in a particular form. Art to me is my zen place, where I don’t think and design and coordinate. Instead it is a place of reflection. I throw a stone into the pond, and as the ripples run across the water my art emerges, I cannot force it. It’s like trying to grasp at whips of forgotten dreams upon waking. The harder you try the faster the dream evaporates. That’s the way my art is, it comes to me. My little girls bring me such great joy because they are speaking to my heart. If someone else enjoys them too, that’s makes my heart happier.
Dark moods welcome, they give stark and beautiful contrast to the light. They are the valleys between the peaks without which we could not soar. Close your eyes, feel the sun and the wind on your face as you bank and soar up from the depths where life has cast you. Rise up and be strong in the face of new challenges. Believe in yourself, you are mighty and awesome and it is their loss not yours. What feels like ashes will rise again and become new life that will shine once again.
Our positive attitudes rock in the face of small petty small minded mean people who will not prosper by their actions! Ha!
Hang in there sweetie, the journey through all of this can be long, but the sweetness that helps me endure is the richness of your friendship! You ice my cupcake! Sending healing energy for your pain, and friendship to remind you that you are not alone, and love to remind you that there is still kindness in this world, and peace to comfort your soul.
July 20, 2014
Today art was for the soul and heart, breakfast with my husband, son and amazing daughter in law and a drive out to Roses by the River to pick nectarines and yellow plums ….. and so much more. Dusty fields, barns, tractors and fruit trees all conspiring to weave their magic which I am so easily and readily attracted to. Magically luring my heart and soul back to what they miss so much, that which is gone, that which is happening, and that which is to come.
Everything I ever loved in this world existed in a small dusty town in Eastern Oregon, nestled between the Umatilla and Columbia Rivers, miles and miles of wheat fields, sand, sagebrush, train tracks, water towers, city parks, small town parades, and my grandmas house. Everything a kid like me needed.
Don’t get me wrong, don’t get out any pity, even though I have health challenges right now, life is good. It is full and it is rich, it is simply that the heart never stops remembering heaven on earth. That’s what my grandma was to me, heaven on earth.
Hearing the water running through the house as I am watering plants on my deck reminds me of hearing the pump running in my grandmas basement. There isn’t one thing in life that doesn’t tie me back to there, fondly. I stitched myself there in every filament of life. Like embroidery. It’s the water running, or the train whistle, or the smell of rain, or beans cooking, or the smell of the sheets, or watering plants. I recorded every millisecond and I bind myself to it. I stand in the coolness of her kitchen still to this day and it is outdated yet it is a queens castle to me. Everything I need to be happy is there. Little yellow and white curtains fluttering in the breeze, cool from the locus shade, trains barging by in the blazing sun, the dusty smell of old newspapers and canning on the back porch, And the hot painted porch on bare feet.
My grandma also taught me to love the birds. There is a song sparrow that comes and ministers to my heart, hopping among the pots dipping his beak into cool waters and sharing his song. The sun is going down and the moon will soon rise,blurry to my eyes. The sky will hang balanced between night and day, the commitment to night slowly creeping on. Day lingering, confused uncertain. The tree tops sway, dancers in a lurid ballet of seduction, giving and receiving in a swirl of tempest that repeats itself as sure as the breeze blows.
Today art is magic upon the breeze, swaying in the tree tops, free for the taking if we stop for just a moment and gaze. I am not sure where all this takes me but I am mighty sure that it feels good to know that my heart is full of the present yet tied to the past, woven into one tapestry. Memories are treasures of the heart and soul and my grandma taught me to love it all.
The sun is shining through the plants on the deck this morning with an ethereal magnificence beyond words. It reminds me of the beauty that we so often overlook in our hurried and harassed need to get everything done in this life.
My grandma taught me to sit in the sun and to observe. Watch the weather, the birds, the sun, the trees. She sat there as a quiet observer, noting the clouds, the breeze, the coolest places to sit in the yard. And I observed, taking note. I remember every molecule of existence at my grandmas. The touch and feel of fabric, or the smell of dusty fabric, or the smell of the back porch, basement or garage. It was eastern Oregon so it was easy to smell the dust in everything, and now I hold that smell dear in my heart. I remember the coolness under the locust trees, the slight breeze that you could catch there and the hard metal lawn chairs that we would sit in till our butts were numb. And yet my grandma never complained. Or watching the trains rumble by endlessly, never thinking a thing about it because that was just the way it was. The trains were not ill thought of either, just part of the landscape and thereby accepted, observed and somehow silently saluted and appreciated.
We also sat on the porch at night when the mosquitoes threatened to pack us off in the evening. We would tip back in chairs with our feet on the window sill and watch the bits of town life going by. There was always a cricket to be had out in the locust out front and he could always be counted on to sing you just short of insanity. I guess my grandma’s porch is responsible for my love of dark green porch paint too. I learned to love it because it represented something that coated a part of my life that was very dear to me. The things we remember and love, dark green porch paint, dusty and much loved with Virginia creeper growing along the outside of the porch screen.
I guess that when I appreciate the sun, I remember who taught me to love it so much, my grandma.
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Knitting is a funny thing people draw lines, conclusions, make judgments and freely share their opinions, all without a moment’s thought to how those actions will affect others. In this world I just want to be, to exist free without … Continue reading