Ornamental

goodbye june

anyone who knows me well will also know that the month of june is my absolute favorite time of the year, when i can sit out on the deck long after suppertime and watch the mountains turn from green to velvety slate and blue, when i can walk the floors barefooted and wake to the song of the wood thrush as soon as dawn becomes another day.  today when walking back across the shaded grass down by the mailbox, i glanced down to find this treasure tucked up close to the overgrown weeds right next to a tree, tattered and torn with age, with passing, with death.  i gasped - what a find - and grimaced when i turned it over and noticed the tiny blue egg shapes (not moving) nestled within its partial body.  this moth speaks to me of so many things - the temporary beauties of summer when it is full blown, the quiet whisper of night, the soft of this particular green and the faux eyes staring back at me.  roy laughed when up the stairs i came into the house, cradling this creature in the palm of my hand (he has yet to assist me, per my request, with the crow) and told me i need to know a taxidermist.  but upon closer inspection at what i held in my hand, he earnestly admired the tattered edges of its wings, saying they reminded him of the frayed underside of an umbrella.  that boy!  i see that too, the umbrella, and also the curtains, the paper wrappings, a kite, the stained glass of a window where i'm looking out, looking past, looking in.  funny the things one motionless moth can trigger on a windy summer day.

it doesn't much feel like the last of june, this late afternoon; i see that the temperature out on the little screened porch is all of 72, there is a stiff breeze teasing the windchimes, and i've been quite comfortable in long leggings under a summer dress today.  hot tea tastes comforting, once again.  i walk back and forth across bare hardwood floors, feeling the coolness under my toes, and think that some socks might feel really good.  goodbye, june.  autumn seems so very close behind.

AND what is so rare as a day in June?
      Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
     And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
     An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
     Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
     Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
     The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
     To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
     Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
     With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

                                 - James Russell Lowell

go take a look

want a closer look?  this little sweetheart is over in my etsy shop, but not for long,  (SOLD) judging from the enthusiastic response i've had from this summer's line of fairy and water baby necklaces.  please allow me to introduce you to her:  this  delight, focused on a petite 1 1/2" long antique bisque porcelain doll unearthed from grounds surrounding a german doll factory, has soft, soft seafoam green colors incorporated into the handmade tassel (antique laces and vintage ribbons/fabric, along with three mother of pearl star beads and a unusually beautiful micro faceted 15mm moss aquamarine nugget) and beads.  surrounding the doll are "droplets" of gorgeous moss aquamarine 8mm rondelles, amazonite, and more mother of pearl stars; completing the watery look are soft sea green freshwater pearls.
the necklace is adjustable, with another beautiful faceted moss aquamarine nugget dangling from a chain; length adjusts from 20" to 23 1/2".

please note that i will be out of town wednesday july 2 through monday july 7, and will not be able to ship during that time.

and would you like to see how i was inspired to make this particular piece?  a water baby, right here on firefly road last week.  what a cutie pie - i miss this bigger than life character o! so very much.  xo

drinking the sky

i love this photograph - i do.  it's one i didn't take, one where i was simply sitting out on the deck just before dusk, basking in the descending coolness, glowing in my mustard yellow shirt and sky blue beads, sipping on a cup of full bodied black tea so that i'll regain the energy needed to enjoy the fulliness of the evening.  what i like most about this photograph, besides the memories that are laced throughout the colors and the way i'm holding my hands around that cup, is the sky and tree branch reflected in the bit of tea remaining in the bottom.  and i call this photograph "drinking the sky";  and that's precisely what i've been doing, every morning and evening, when i sit out on the deck and listen to the wood thrush, when i carry candles and wine and citronella and dear dear friends and family out with me to sit and languish in the overflowing moments. 

when i've wandered through the woods with misty and her children, with roy and aspen, when i've watched them play with water and mud and sticks and with each other.  when the sunlight filtered down through green green leaves and made the woodland shadows dance across our toes, our faces, our backs.  when everything was slowed down enough to hear the bird songs in the trees, smell the dampness of the earth beside the stream, feel the softness of the ground beneath our feet.

when my great big ol' boys and robin's mary joined me in asheville for a treasured couple of hours eating sushi, laughing, telling stories, waving goodbye yet again from the city streets, i knew to hold the moment in my heart.  those moments pass too quickly, and one day we all inevitably wake up and the children we sheltered and nurtured and comforted are off seeking their own journeys and destinations.  poof!  gone.

then back to the house i was, peeking in on misty's little ones asleep in the stillness of a hot june afternoon.  oh, i remember this age, i do.  it wasn't very long ago, at all.

last night we lingered on the deck, misty and i, while jade and india sat with their treasures we'd washed from the waters of a gem mine, and while they waited, along with me, for roy to come home and make them laugh with his jester's mannerisms over and over again.  it is a true and simple pleasure to watch my sons now entertain the little ones without a single complaint.  their arms are strong, their hands broad, their hearts enormous and soft.  i see the light that radiates from these hearts to those of others around them;  their easy going attitude towards life right now, here in the heart of summer, is contagious, and naked and beautiful.  so here i sit on this quiet afternoon, in a house that has become achingly and suddenly empty of noise and bumps and doors opening, shutting, opening again.  i find myself pining for the ones who left me behind; roy is off for the night to visit with local friends while he waits for the orthopedic surgeon's appointment next week, and i?  i find myself pining with the slightest traces of melancholy for the beloved ones who left me here, behind.  aspen is utterly exhausted from placing himself squarely in the center of each and every activity; the studio awaits clean up from the past three months of traveling and  teaching and creating; but i tell myself that it can continue to wait.  for now, i simply want to take the beautiful new journal misty constructed for me and write some quiet words across its soft green/blue pages.  i want to curl up at the windows with my book and scissors and pencils, my glue and paints and pens, and start quietly writing about the things that i'll not ever want to forget, about the memories that faintly shimmer and glisten in the far reaches of this house.  and then i'll go out at dusk and dance again with the fluttering moths and lightning bugs to see if they still remember, too.

midsummer fairy

I seem to be on another roll with these little antique porcelain baby dolls – for a while there I put them in a little metal box and let them sit and stew awhile, and now that summer is in full swing, it’s time to bring them out again.  Their faces say so much!  Each one is hand painted, so each has a unique expression of her own. 

Here, in june,  I have the midsummer fairy – all full of soft dusk light and velvety sweetness, a tassel of antique hand dyed  ribbons and lace for a makeshift fairy skirt.  Hanging within the tassel is a precious metal clay (99% fine silver) charm with an egg imprint, wired with two tiny little teal aquamarine faceted beads, and an antique faceted mirrored heart charm, to represent reflecting pools; the “egg” is a smooth amazonite bead.  available now in my etsy shop. (SOLD)  i'll not be listing any other jewelry for the next few days, as my boys are due in tomorrow night from europe, injured knee and all, and i'm not sure how long they'll be staying.  hoepfully this next week will be a pleasant one, filled with love and smiles.  i hope that for you, here or there, as well. xo

 

"If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended. That you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear, and this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream. Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. Else the Puck a liar call. And so good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends." - from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream 

little mermaid

i have my little artist friends at perth college (grade one) to thank for the inspiration for this piece. when studying my jewelry designs earlier this year, they commented that they "must be made by a mermaid", and were "magic". when working on this little antique porcelain doll, the light teal sea green/blue colors reminded me of the ocean, and the fact that the charlotte doll is footless simply adds to the mermaid appeal. also, the boys are flying home sunday from six weeks in europe, and are leaving from copenhagen, denmark - isn't that the home of the little mermaid?  i've incorporated a tassle that i assembled from several different vintage textiles (french hand dyed silk ribbon, several different types of lace, hand dyed cotton threads) and a lovely, lovely antique silver crown charm from a tiny antique shop in key west, florida (as well as a small piece of aqua sea glass that i found in port townsend, washington). i knew that crown would come in handy one day, and bit the bullet to pay for it. on one piece of ribbon i've written the words "water baby". the doll is suspended from silver chain that is adorned with four beautiful micro faceted aquamarine "water drops" in pale teal blue/green colors; this hangs from a piece i've assembled from silver, mica and paper with the words "once upon a time" written on the front, and etched into the silver back are the words "there was a little girl who loved the sea". a 20" section of lovely light teal freshwater pearls and silver beads completes the piece. this was no easy necklace to assemble, with all the balancing and such. but it seems magical and i'll hope it goes to the person most suited for it - someone who believes in magic, in the ocean, in fairy tales.   

available in my etsy shop.(SOLD, to one who does believe in magic and fairy tales)

HOPE

 

and so we have two winners!  they are misti lynn hall, and mary (gingham girl).  i'd love to share with you what each of them said in response to my question about hope.  from misti:What is Hope to me?  Hope is a "feeling" for me that is hard to express with words. I know that I am "feeling" HOPE when I recognize it with joy in my heart and it speaks to my soul.  My greatest teachers of HOPE have been the Hospice patients I have worked with and little children".  and from mary:  "Each day I am able to open my eyes and get out of bed fills me with the hope of all that is to come, of all good things yet to unfold. Of course my family is woven into this blanket of hope. They make it all possible.".  congratulations, gals, for being randomly selected!  i'll be in touch with both of you for mailing information.

i looked back at some of my past photography and artwork to see what reminded me of hope, and thought i'd share with you a few of these images and notions.  i absolutely love the photograph below - of moth wings that were plastered to the deck, after a summer rain.  the body was long gone - surely eaten by a grateful bird - but the wings remained, and the image of them reminds me to sail to greater heights, to hope for brighter days on the horizon.  yes we can!

when i look at this photo, taken sometime earlier this month, i am reminded that symbols of life come to us in many forms, great and small - even if  they are only fluttering around a table lamp or against the window screen.  yes we can!

i look at the artwork here to my left, and remember that it was created in a journal i had made for the year 2006 - and the entry was marked january 16.  i've not ever been able to go back and work in that journal;  not one week later, my brother died unexpectedly in the middle of the night.  what i didn't know for most of the rest of that year is that the great loss of my dearly loved brother would bring me new insight and deeper understanding of  this finite thing we call life, and with that insight, came hope.  and ben, i thank you for that.  yes, we can!

i see the little book i made back in 2001, one that slips inside an antique metal purse, that states on the cover what i listed within its pages.  i've walked over to the bookshelf where it rests, and flip open the palm sized book to more closely inspect.  what i am, it says, in old pasted dictionary words:  mother, daughter, sister, friend, artist, lover, impatient, observant, spiritual, nurturer, open, succinct, genuine, merry, traveler, hot tempered, treasure gatherer.  what i hope and strive to be:  wise, quick, deep, organized, stable, steady, fortified, luminous, merciful, tender, loving, gentle, expressive, healthy, peaceful, quiet, blissful, memorable.  well, one can certainly try.  yes we can! 

for being there, i thank you.  for openly and generously offering up your words of hope, i thank you and thank you and thank you.  

i'll do my best to be luminous, as the little book so hopefully states.  it may take the rest of my life to learn how to radiate, to send out light from my heart to the rest of my world; but for now - on this day of summer solstice, of longest light - i'll burn a candle into the dark, i'll extend the glow from twilight on, i'll remember your words and hold them close and will bask in the warmth that they bring.  xo  

 

 

 

touch stone

here's another one of my little trinket treasures from a long held-onto studio stash - a lovely little cylindrical sterling silver salt shaker, 1 1/4" in height and 3/4" in diameter - with a top that is removable for you to place within a diminutive keepsake (a stone, a note, a lock of hair, a baby tooth...the possibilities are endless).  this time i've drilled two river stones that i plucked from the oconaluftee river not far from my house, which runs through the cherokee indian reservation and great smoky mountain national park. available in my etsy shop. (SOLD, to a gal all the way over in dublin, ireland; i love that it will cross the ocean to be with her)

reminder

i wanted to remind you that tomorrow morning i'll be conducting two drawings, each for a "yes we can" window charm - and all you need to do to enter is to leave a comment on the post i wrote earlier in the week (not here) about your concept of hope (click here for link to that post).  what an interesting and rewarding post that was - i received a beautiful array of thoughts from well over 100 of you regarding the word "hope" and what it means.  i'm blown away by the depth and breadth of my readers, by the things that they hold near and dear to them, by the extraordinary ways that you are pushed and pulled and tested each and every day.  i do feel a strong sense of community here, and hope that one of these days i'll be able to make good use of this forum to better my little corner of the world.  when i was in new zealand, i went to see a reknowned clairvoyant, one with whom an appointment made months in advance is necessary.  as fate would have it, someone cancelled just before my arrival, and i went to see glenda the day after i set foot on new zealand grounds.  she told me some incredible things - and what surfaces here mainly is that i was told i would write a book, one that i've been putting off for "a while".  and that i was the only one who was dragging my heels about this, the only one keeping it becoming a reality.  i was also told that i was to become a great spiritual leader, a healer, and that there would be many microphones and television cameras around me.  that i would be a frequent and worldwide speaker to large crowds of people.  well - isn't that what i am doing here, in a way?  the speaking part, anyway?  i do sometimes wonder, when comments are infrequent, if anyone is really out there listening to me ramble on about what may seem like mundane details of an ordinary life.  but it's my life, and i enjoy sharing stories and reflections - that is, if anyone wants to listen.  not hearing from you makes it seem, sometimes, well - sort of like a monologue, and that is not nearly as rewarding.  i know, from the response that this tiny little drawing has received, that folks are tuning in - just not always directly, or with a voice.  do remember that i love hearing from you, always.  talking into the dark is not always fun.

that being said, i'll do the "custom random selection" drawings tomorrow morning, and if you see your name listed (should there not be a return address), be in touch with me.

meanwhile, all of you - talk hard.  talk loudly.  be vocal.  tell me what you think, where you go, what you do.  it's a wonderful world in which we all gather 'round, and i don't always want to hog the spotlight when sharing the stories and the dreams.  share some of yours with me, with the other readers, by speaking up from time to time.  your life is special, and should be shared with all of us as well. xo

land of the long white cloud

...that's what the native language name is for beloved new zealand, and from these photos you can certainly see that the clouds are as fluffy and white as any you may have ever seen.

most of these landscape photographs are what i call "drive by shootings", where i simply held the camera up to the passenger window on my side of the car and snapped away at the breathtaking vistas that languidly rolled by.

 

the scenery may be a little blurry here, a little out of focus, but the heart wrenching colors and beauty shine through, anyway.

 

i had clouds at my feet as well, thanks to the brand new sheepskin rug that wendy and graeme put up in "my" room beside the bed, so that the cold morning floor would not be a jolt.  i felt very comforted, for this and so many reasons.  i love you, cooper family.  it's been almost three weeks since these feet touched american soil and concrete again, and with each day that passes, another day comes between myself and the times i left behind - but, hopefully, another day less between now and the time i'll return again, next january.

 

clouds in new zealand come in so many different colors, shapes and sizes that it's hard to shut your eyes without having the sky turn inside out on you at least one time during the day.  they went from white and cottony, high up in the blue, to rumbling, grey things that hovered over the trees.  and at times we were hovering up inside the clouds, feeling the tiny particles of mist settle in our hair, on our shoulders, across our cheeks.  i cherished this - the rain that came, the fog, the drastic change in scenery.  how else to watch nature move so quickly and transform the landscape all around me?

on the two short days when the weather was like this, it was a pure and simple pleasure to come in from our drives and curl up at the table with a hot cup of tea and my ever present journal, pot of glue and ribbon and paper scraps beside me, cutting and pasting and writing to my satiated heart's content.  if i had had some shiny rubber boots and a sunny yellow slicker, i think i might have dashed outside in search of a wide puddle to make a splash, so into the elements was i.  beautful places do that to a gal, but so does the serenity of this quiet place called home - i guess i just know how to embrace the moments as they come to me, that's all.

thirty eight wonders.  goodness, i quit counting after the first 23 - there were hundreds and hundreds of what i would call little (and big) miracles, the sort that made me stop each night and think long and hard about what the moments had brought to me that day.  i love these sweet images - my memories of new zealand, of the places and the friends and family i have there now, who will be there for me, loving me unconditionally, next time i step off that trusty plane.

i'll remember the places where the yellow leaves fell down and carpeted the green, green ground after the steady two day rain, and left raindrops hanging from netted, flowered veils in the gardens outside the little cafe.

i'll not forget the wind in my hair or the the smell of salt spray as i walked the stone covered bay in search of treasures that had washed up from the stormy sea.

there was also the cool, reassuring feel of green, green grass under my bare, tender feet, and a path that led me 'round and 'round until i got to the center, sat down to further meditate, and then wound my way back out to the opening of the path once again.  this labyrinth - a true highlight of my trip - sat high up on a hill surrounded by meadows and trees, a place of quiet contemplation and peacefulness that will be difficult to duplicate back here in the rambling woodsy paths of my surroundings.

there was the trip to dear friend lea's, out in the countryside, where bedroom windows looked out onto the windmill and pond, where the sun spilling in across the table in front of those windows felt positively medicinal as i sat and wrote in my beloved journal, where lea served us lunch and we were joined by a maori man of, i thought, epic and magnetic proportions.

there were sleepy afternoons, tender homecomings to a cottage that was home away from home, high in the hawkes bay hills up above  the river...

...wendy's cups of latte with fern leaf swirls across their tops, my own tattoo that represents a silver leaf fern - which is the national symbol of that incredible, beautfiul country. 

 there were laughs and stories and artwork shared, tender hands caressing homemade sweet smelling treasures, beautiful smiling faces looking straight and kindly into my eyes with instant recognition.  they are my people there, they really are, and they really did care whether or not my chest cold was subsiding, whether my raggedy cough was going away, whether i wanted breakfast in bed or out. 

they didn't really care whether i ate my lunch inside or out, or with whom i chose to dine - i was appreciated just as i was, and the bunny was accepted as a dear friend of their own.  tea was lovely, and brought from around the hedge next door (dear ailsa, you are a treasure, and you and wendy both are so very blessed to have each other for neightbors!).

  all of those things matter, they really do, and i marvel when i think that it was all because of a piece of my artwork - ironically, the book of trees - that wendy saw in a published book so many years ago when she picked up her pen to write.  just think of the miles that have now been traveled, back and forth, from here to there, and there to here twice again, simply because she decided to make what felt like a sisterly connection.

ah, sweet old house at #22 - and the dear family that lives within, and the precious neighbor around the back hedge - i know you'll all be waiting for me, next time i tap my heels together three times (upside down) and come  around again.  xoxoxo

 

 

 

see who came to play in my studio today?  i'm not sure from what or where or how came the inspiration, but this is what turned up, after all was said and done.  the little porcelain doll was buried under grounds surrounding a german doll factory for over 100 years, and only recently came up to see the light of day again.  her crown is open, as it was when formed so that hair could be attached; i find this a wonderful place to keep a special note, or perhaps a tiny bunch of wildflowers that have been wrapped in a damp cloth and tucked within.  she thinks so too.

and yes, she can be yours - in my etsy shop.

 

yesterday's folly

what to do with yourself when a dear friend has come to visit, you've had many hours (early and late) of laughter and thoughts and sharing of artwork , of story sharing, then - poof! - just like that the time has raced by and already the friend is gone?  in my case, i headed to the studio for the rest of yesterday, and pulled out a dear little doll named charlotte to be the center of my creative attention; and then before i knew it, evening had descended and i had in my hands a doll with a bird and a nest.  (you may find her in my etsy shop, today). (SOLD)  life is good that way, how we can turn our focus towards something that is both a distraction and a satisfaction.  lucky me.

i'll be resuming my world tromping story telling next time, as i make my way from australia to beloved and glorious new zealand. so do stay tuned, there's lots to show and tell.  xo

the essence of hope and love

i wanted to start this week off by thanking the many of you who over the weekend sent in your words regarding what the concept of hope means for you.  i wish that everyone who visits and reads ornamental would take the time to scroll back through the many varied comments and see how brightly shines the light of that beautiful emotion and word.  hope.  i'll let reader michelle millichip say what i feel as well:  "Thank you, Nina.  I returned to your blog and read all the other comments, and though many left me feeling sad, it reminded me that there are so many people going through, or have been through, the same as my family is now. And the ultimate tone of all posts was of joy, and of course, hope. It has given me the lift I needed today - thank you so much for starting this discussion".  another reader friend, chris meissner, sent me this beautiful quote: “Faith (hope) is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.” Tagore.  to which i replied with yet another quote from emily dickinson (i'm sure most of you are familiar with this one):  "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.  and sings the tune without the words,and never stops at all". what many, many, many of you said was that your children, and grandchildren, their smiles and their laughter, their innocence and joy bring you the greatest hope of all. many of you spoke of your deep faith in a Supreme Being, others of the beauty of nature, the love of your pets, the way that the sun continues to come up every morning without fail.  so, so many of you have suffered great and tragic losses, are experiencing the pain of witnessing your loved ones suffer with terminal illnesses - yet each one of you wrote of the continuation of hope that sustains you, the love, the beauty of everyday life.  this makes me think of the children's book that i read out loud to my friend katie, who visited over the weekend (and loretta, i tried in vain to comment on your blog about an beautifullly ordinary day you and your family had just enjoyed after the aching loss of your beloved puppy dog, with reference to this cherished book).  it speaks of an ordinary day, the simple beauty in it - children playing in the fields, eating homemade crumbly cookies, catching lightning bugs in the dark, going to bed in the comfort of their own home -  "an ordinary day, full of things to touch, to taste, to see and hear and smell.  a happy just to be alive, ordinary day".  i had a difficult time reading those last words with the lump rising in my throat.  i also read out loud to katie an essay i printed out and saved two summers back, regarding the beautiful, plaintive song of the woodthrush that graces my early spring and summer mornings and lingering summer twilights; it finishes this way:   "an orange haze filtered through the trees from where the wood thrush sang.  to gaze on this pleasant light, to be bathed in it, to see the large trees reaching high into the air, their leaves hanging motionless, and to hear his ageless song rising above it all - this put me in a state of almost hypnotic serenity.  i never saw this wood thrush.  i wonder what he was feeling as he sang his rhapsody in blue.  i can only imagine that he was bidding the summer farewell and voicing a message of hope for summers to come".  ah, yes.  hope. 

hope, to me, is in all the things i love:  my family, my friends, the nature that surrounds me, the songs of the birds, the wind in the trees, the smell of the breeze as it wafts through the wispy mimosas.  hope is the light that shines in the first of the day, and also the darkness that gently descends and brings with it the tiny flickering lamps of summer's fireflies.  hope is the look in aspen's eyes when he gazes at me, with utter and complete adoration. 

  hope is the generosity of spirit that wraps itself around me, that swells up from deep within the hearts of all of you who remain in contact with one another, with me, with the rest of the world.  hope is the three short words, "yes we can", spoken with conviction and courage;  hope is the promise of a new day to come.  hope is a heart that is filled to overflowing and stays that way.  hope is in the light that shines in the smile of a friend, an open window, a door that beckons, a thought that enlightens, a dream that refuses to fade.  hope is life, and even the loss of it, the realization that we have this moment, only this moment, to look around us and see the bounteous gifts that we've been given.  it is the ability to look down at our feet and see the miracles that are in the grass, the flowers, the dewdrops, the tender shoots, the pebbles and twigs.   it is the desire to look up and stare into the deep, deep blue of the sky that drapes itself across the trees, and hope is the whiteness of the clouds that bring with them the nourishing rain.

hope is everything.

more windows, and a drawing

 

okay, folks, i'm going to step out on a limb here and try something radical (well, two things):  i am here at home with my %)%*$ slow dial up connection, have overdue cleaning to do for dear company that is arriving tomorrow evening for two nights, and i don't have the time, the stamina, or the inclination to list each one of these little windows charms individually on etsy.  i'm going to sell these here, through ornamental, but you'll need to email me directly with your choice(s); payment will be through paypal.  first come first serve, each one is $85.00, plus 5.00 priority shipping (90.00 total).  choices are:

story (SOLD)

be here

teach

light

attune

blue (SOLD)

write (SOLD)

leap (SOLD)

teach

poet

devote

strive

you'll notice that the two "yes, we can" charms aren't on the list.  well.  here's the second thing i've decided:  i'm going to hold a drawing next friday for each of the two charms (or have a friend do it for me, we shall see - i know that lesley knows how to do that automated selection and i may have her conduct the drawing for me).  simply leave a comment here, on this entry, stating the thing or things that give you hope.  that's what those words mean to me, purely and simply put:  h.o.p.e. 

i'll be listing some jewelry pieces on etsy within the next few days.  have a delightful weekend, everyone.  xoxo

and so in melbourne we arrived....

  

... and upon our arrival, i found this wonderful book, a gift from vanessa cullen of perth college waiting for me (there she is, to the left, modeling the necklace she made in my stone soup workshop).  so, an arrival with the arrival - i suggest you all check out the phenomenal australian illustrator shaun tan, who created the arrival and won numerous national literary awards and nominations for his efforts.

 

melbourne is enormous - sprawling - bustling - a metropolis in every sense of the word.  (brian, if you'll look really closely and squint, you'll see not one but two church crosses atop those steeples.  and i don't want to hear one single word from anyone about that damned sex and the city billboard.  not my favorite show by any stretch of the imagination).  this small town girl was in contant awe, walking and riding around with my mouth hanging open, taking in all the sights, the smells, the sounds.  

 

and so.  the retreat began, with misty's and my greeting our apartment roommate, traci bautista, with much excitement and laughter. traci is an incredible teacher and savvy business person, beautiful, and just as good natured, funny and sweet as she can be - how can all of that be possible in a single petite little gal?!

all too soon, after not enough sleep, our first morning of teaching arrived.  the apartment where we were staying was far from the retreat, and the van taxi that was summoned for us and all our teaching gear never arrived.  so, here came another, small sedan taxi, after we had spent nearly an hour standing at the side of the road.  i wish i had a copy of the photograph that traci took of the open trunk, all our gear stacked to the top, with bungee cords holding it all in!  (thanks, misty, for sending it in!  LOL!)

 

morning rush hour made getting there quite the challenge, but thanks to our calm, collected taxi driver, we landed at the swinburne university, where the retreat was being held, without further ado.

my students were phenomenal - absolutely lovely and talented and plain old happy to be there, things that made me realize that the long trek across the states, then the ocean, then across great big old australia itself was well worth the effort.  i've never had such good natured students as a whole as did this time in melbourne (and that is saying a lot, believe me!); in spite of the hustle and confusion of first day's arrival, and steady bone chilling rain on sunday, everyone remained in high, enthusiastic spirits for the entire three days.  i'll have a photo album (i keep saying that, and i promise i will) that features some of the shining faces and creations that i had the pleasure of being with for the retreat; but for now, let me share with you some things of beauty:  artists' hands holding their own work.

 

all good things, as they say, must come to an end, but before we left melbourne for new zealand and america, misty and i were escorted throughout downtown our final day there.  we'd also wandered around downtown a couple of nights before, when we fell upon some strange and mysterious creatures that added to the magic of the evening.  has anyone ever come across a buddha statue that appeared to be watching football on an enormous two story high tv?

 

 

 

so melbourne, then, came to an end.  it was breathtaking, exhausting, glorious, frustrating, incredibly stimulating, highly rewarding and alive - all of the things an experience with art and emotion and creativity in a big beautiful city should be  (and then some).

  when strolling across the bridge that final night, it occurred to me that it had been a decade since i spent as much time walking a big city's streets and enjoying it as much as i did.  (new york, i still maintain that central park remains the loveliest sanctuary of all).  goodbye, sweet city, goodbye beloved australia.  i hope to come back and call you my dear friend once again, once again.

 

 

 

 

token of affection

here's another little jewel to visually share with you - something i've fashioned from a miniscule sterling salt shaker (1 3/4" length), into which you may place something meaningful, rather like  talisman that you can actually wear above your heart.  available in my etsy shop. 

the story continues

 

i love a good shot of feet, almost as much as i love taking photographs of hands - it all says so much.  who remembers to look down, when they are walking?  i do - and was teased mercilessly about taking so many photographs of my feet when i got to new zealand (granted, by then it had become almost an obsession with me and i was taking shots of my shoes and the feet inside them everywhere i went).  the boots at the top are those of dear ro bruhn, who so gallantly offered to pick misty and me up, separately, at the melbourne airport and "show us around the town".  little did she know just how involved escorting us and running errands would be, but ro remained a beautifully smiling trooper throughout the week.  i spent my first night in melbourne at ro's and her husband steve's beautiful log cabin outside of melbourne, where the rural roads loop and twist around tall eucalyptus trees and past wide open paddocks (fields) where i was always ever hopeful i'd see another "mob" of kangaroos.  the house is delightful, a welcome respite of color and warm woods, a visual feast of artwork in every nook and cranny of the house she built some 30 years ago. 

the next morning we drove back down (or up, i don't know) to the airport to greet misty at 8am, and i must say that she stepped out of customs looking as if she had just boarded that overnight flight merely minutes before.  how odd and wonderful it was to see her there, in an overseas country, just like we had stepped out of the swirl of artfest and port townsend, right into this bustling place!  from there we drove down to the mornington pensinsula - see how gorgeous?! - to meet our dear blogging friends samm and mandy for the very first time, and spent a good part of the afternoon sifting through sand in search of beach glass, then visiting a lovely vineyard, like the best of old, old friends.

the light in australia, i discovered, is a different sort of light - golden , soft but clear - and perhaps that simply comes with the change of seasons, with autumn's afternoons that hang onto that light only briefly, sweetly, before the sun goes down behind rounded hills and everything becomes the dusty shade of velvet, of evening, of times remembered.  the time here was exquisite - tender - breathtaking - magical.  

the sun was warm in the sand, and warm on someone's naked feet...

misty, traci, and i will be forever grateful to these three fine women of victoria, australia; we were there in a great big city, one that was entirely unfamiliar to us, and ro, samm and mandy never failed to be there for us to run grocery errands, drive us across town, stop off to purchase fine australian wine or teaching supplies, carve out time for a coffee and tea break, carry our boxes, to mail our remnants of post items that we hadn't remembered until they were hauling us and all our monstrous gear to the airport that final morning.  if ever you see their faces, the ones that softly glow like the autumn's afternoon sun, in melbourne or on mornington peninsula, gently pull them aside and tell them nina asked you to treat them to a good hot cup of tea; i'd do it myself, if only i could step across the ocean just like that.

next time?  the incredible traci joins us, finally, for the retreat! xo

 

summer queen

we've had a heat wave here in the mountains of north carolina (as many of you have, all over the country) this week and last, and i've enjoyed sitting quietly in the coolest room of my house - the studio - while the window fan quietly whirs away and the trees keep the room in day long shade. actually, that room never gets sun, but right now that is a blessing.
i'm beginning to pull out some of my little "frozen charlotte" doll treasures and work them into ornamental pieces of jewelry - and what better time to use them than now? this sweet little thing, measuring all of 1 1/2" in length, was a gift to me by dear minnie helvey, student and now friend of mine. hanging from her is a vintage japanese "cotton" pearl - tightly packed cotton that has been covered with actual pearl coating, from the 1950's (3/4" long), capped with sterling leaves. hanging in front of the teardrop pearl is a small antique mirrored, beveled glass heart. charlotte hangs by vintage crystal beads from an antique mother of pearl carved belt buckle, which in turn hangs from sterling silver hand-wired faceted pearls.
the necklace chain adjusts from an intimate 17" to 19 1/2".

available now in my etsy shop...

a closer look

I’ve been home for just a week – home from Alabama, that is – and home from my journey to the lands down under for going on eleven days.  There is much to absorb, truly absorb, from lessons I learned along the way, beauty I witnessed, sounds I heard, smells and textures I experienced.  It will take a lifetime, I think, to fully understand how such a journey can have its vast and momentous effect on me – on my life, on my work, on my art – and attempting to convey to others at this early stage the impact of all of those things might prove to be immature.  But share these feelings I must, so bear with me and, those of you who care to, patiently hear me out.

 

I entered the studio here at home for the first time over the weekend, and wasn’t quite sure how to hold my breath, dive in headfirst and let the creative process begin.  The table top is still a mess from both Artfest and Australia, yet I’m reluctant to take the time – a typical approach, mind you – to sort and clean the surface so that I can peacefully work with only the essential elements that clearly call to me.  My traveling tool bag is not yet fully unpacked, but over the weekend I began pulling out treasures I’d packed away that were gifts from students, natural findings I’d gathered hither and yon, vintage books I’d bought about birds of Australia, papers given to me in dwellingup that came all the way from 18^th century Rome.

 

The image of one of my treasure book pages, up at top, is one of a shadowbox frame that beloved student mandy herring demonstrated and constructed in class for all of us; she made the box from scratch, using matt board and some of the lovely roman manuscripts, and I then filled it with a gum nut – brought to me after an early morning walk through the bush by that rascal mandy woodham - that had been partially chewed by a pesky cockatiel and vaguely resembled a nest. Oh, how I’d love to have a eucalyptus tree growing near me, so that I could gather its long pointed leaves, its bark, the large nuts that fall at its feet!   yesterday I received a package sent from perth that contained the Book of Trees, a couple of dvds, and some exquisite photography postcards I purchased at creative native – a wonderful gallery in downtown perth filled “chockablock” with beautiful, haunting aboriginal art.  I gasped when I saw these again – the photos of beautiful, innocent faces of young children from the inner core of the Australian outback; I’ve never been to that part of the country, but long to someday end up there, if only for a day or two or three.  (have any of you read marlo morgan's Mutant Message Down Under?  Do you believe all of her story?  I once sent the author a small silver pin into which I had hammered the words “two hearts”, and received a reply back from her daughter). 

  

 

 

I feel, as I do with the beautiful maori people of new Zealand, a tug and a calling to my heart and my soul from the aborigines – a physical sensation that baffles me, but that I accept without hesitation.

 

Ah well.  Back to the studio, and my own artwork:  here you see what grew out of my hours sitting quietly in the coolest room of the house (lovely in the summertime, this "cooler" temperature in the studio, the windows facing north and east) hammering words into silver, drilling beach glass gathered from the beaches of port townsend and eastern australia.  I like the feel of this piece, and even more, the deeply felt emotion behind its design.  O yes, the places I have been, the beauty I have seen!

 

I know I said I’d write this time of Melbourne, of the glorious time there and the people with whom I spent my time; but then the postcards arrived in yesterday’s mail, the jewelry unfolded, the memories came flooding back, and I had to share all of this with you.  More tomorrow, perhaps, but certainly within the next day or two.  Thank you for focusing your attention for this long – and I’ve not yet even crossed the waters to new zealand!  and also, to those of you who wrote both publically and privately with instructions for the crow (quite a few of you lurkers came out of the neverlands to email me with your advice, and i'm guessing you thought it a bit too graphic for other readers; i'm smiling as i agree with you), i thank you for taking the time to write out the explanations.  i'll keep you posted.  xo

interlude, and resumption

Interlude

Main Entry:

in·ter·lude

 an intervening or interruptive period, space, or event : interval : a musical composition inserted between the parts of a longer composition, a drama, or a religious service

 

 

 

i've been handed several beautiful gifts from the universe, while staying close to home this hot, muggy weekend (north carolina is under a heat alert, something that rarely happens until august).  friday afternoon i heard the usual fussy, raucous crows and jays alerting the surrounding area of something "dangerous" - most likely a hawk (liz, you know what that means) - so i scooted out to the deck in time to hear and see a huge turkey taking off from the front yard.  see what he left me, in the first photo?  i found another yesterday as i was cutting the grass (my first time ever, here - all five acres of it).  i've never been so thrilled about finding a feather!  then, yesterday, while cutting grass in the back area, i noticed something large and black flapping around in the woods, just feet away from me...  a crow, obviously injured - perhaps by the hawk.  aspen was wandering around close by, and sure enough - he had that crow in a heartbeat, and scooted up higher into the woods when i scolded him with a swat on that fat rumpus of his. i ran inside to grab my camera - for what, i'm not sure - and here came sir aspen, walking up to the front porch with that great big black bird in his soft mouth and looking more than a little confused.  good boy!, said i; i'm glad he put the bird out of its misery.  and, after taking photos, i placed it in the downstairs freezer for safekeeping.  i want the wings, and even the feet, but am grimacing as i write this.  how to remove?  any suggestions?  what about the skull - how to get it to that point?

Resumption

 

thanks to all of you who've written and left both emails and comments regarding my recent posts about the trip to australia and new zealand.  i've not been able to write you all back - i'm blown away that you are all truly there, and wanted to show you a photo i took while sitting out on the deck one balmy evening with each of you there in spirit.  the wine was smooth, the sunset spectacular, as are the ongoing soulful songs of the woodthrushes (you can hear a recording here) that inhabit the trees and woods surrounding the house.

well, then.  where were we?  when last i left you, i was wrapping up my tales of dwellingup, of the gals' work there, of my book i constructed while they were concentrating on thir own lovely designs.  it was difficult, as you can imagine, to go our separate ways after having spent an entire week sharing, creating, eating, exploring, loving together, and tears were shed as we all waved goodbye.  i don't like good byes;  who does?  but, off i went with east coast mandy for the day, exploring fremantle again on a hectic sunny sunday and searching in vain for that ever elusive thai food  i craved for the entire time i was gone (thank you, wendy, for finding the one in hamilton!).  here we have the very beautiful jacky mcfarlane, my gracious host for the teaching stints in australia (both west and east coast) and also my host while i relaxed at her home in perth for a couple of days.  i had the good fortune to sleep in jacky's lovely little studio/bedroom tucked away in the quiet back of her home, and could gaze all around me at her beautiful collections of antique linens, lace, old photographs, eclectic findings for artwork, jewelry (my own designs, i'll add) hanging from the white branches of a tree.

on the monday between dwellingup and melbourne, while staying in perth, jacky and i went over to perth college, a lovely, fine private grade school (kindergarten through 12) for girls with a gorgeous old campus right in the middle of the city.  made of old red brick, covered with vines, surrounded by trees, it was a cool respite in what was surprisingly a hot city for the end of autumn.  one of the art teachers, vanessa cullen, has had her students following misty's artwork and mine, along with that of teesha and tracy moore, for quite some time; it was vanessa who arranged a lovely reception for jacky and me that monday morning, complete with an art department tour and lovely tea and cookies.  the very lovely, poised twelfth grade student named meagan (and i hope i'm spelling this correctly) is the art school captain, and was assigned to lead the tour.  i want to share with you a few images of megan's project from last year, which was a beautiful evening gown, complete with a multi-layered lace corset.  the portfolio and scrapbook alone were fine pieces of art!

 

it was a pleasure to spend an hour talking and visiting with meagan, hearing her talk about the process of creativity, then watching her classmates come pouring through the door to descend upon those cookies like a flock of happy little birds.

vanessa's little year one students are studying my work, and to read the comments that many of them made upon seeing photographs of jewelry pieces is like breathing a breath of fresh, fresh air.  some said the jewelry was from africa, egypt, under the sea.  who made it?  a mermaid did.  how much did they think it cost?  $100.00, maybe $102.00!  the stories they created around the doll jewelry, in particular, captured my heart.  magic comes from the jewelry.  the jewelry is for a queen, because she likes pearls.  the dolls come to life, the purses open to let magic out.  bless their hearts:  when they saw the doll bracelet that vanessa wore back home to perth from melbourne, they gasped and asked if she had actually met the mermaid herself, while on her adventure, who made the piece.  "yes", she said, "yes, I did and she is every bit as magical as you all imagined!".  i love you, vanessa.  i do.

after the reception, jacky and i wandered into the tiny college chapel, where we tiptoed around and snapped photos of secret winding stairwells, of the sunlight streaming in through glorious stained glass, spilling onto the checkered floor, dancing across brick walls.

well, how do i continue after that?  a chapel all to ourselves, over one hundred years old?  sunlight through colored glass, a quiet stairwell that led to secret places?  me, a mermaid, a creator of magical things that come from india, africa, egypt, from under the sea?  imagine.  the words of those little baby artists, as vanessa calls them, make me break open in a great big grin every single time i read them, over and over again.

so.  from here?  on to melbourne, where a woman with wonderful healing hands met me at the airport with a big bear hug and whisked me away, where misty was sadly delayed by a day, where i was transported to the dandenong ranges, an hour outside of melbourne for the night, where i slept like goldilocks in a sprawling log cabin filled with vibrant color and dined in the forest at a place called the ranges, where i wandered around in one of the best studios i've ever seen, where i felt as if i were family.  and i was.  i really was.  xo

 

 

 

turning the pages

In my last entry, I wrote that I’d been away from home a grand  total of two weeks since the beginning of may.  Oh, how I was wrong (in my current addled, twisted frame reference of time:  I left home perhaps five days before the end of march, and since then I’ve only been home a couple of weeks, all at one time.  This beloved home of mine feels very foreign to me – it’s hard to explain, but perhaps you all understand.  The green, lush green of all the many trees on mountains that are surrounding me, and the mountains themselves, have left me feeling a little claustrophobic, which is the first time I have ever had that reaction to this beautiful part of the state.  I love the mountains, love the trees, love them bare and love them green.  June is my favorite month of all.  Surprised I am, then, when I find myself glancing out the window and feeling that it would be nice to be see something other than leaves and forest.  I’m ashamed to even say that.  Re entry has been tough this time around – I’ve been back in the country since late last Thursday night, yet I still find myself wide awake at odd hours of the night (4:44, three times now) and about to pass out at 1pm.  Last night I plugged in a movie – not aa dull one in the least– and was perhaps a fourth of the way through when I found myself waking up at 2:10am with the movie having gone back – long, long before that – to the beginning “play” button.  Music was throbbing, and there I  was – out like a poor overworked gal, mouth hanging open, pillow in my lap, and aspen snoring somewhere behind me.   Yet when I staggered off to bed, I lay there for a good 30 minutes before I dozed back off – and woke again at nearly 11am.   To say that I’m feeling a tiny bit out of control of myself is to make a subtle understatement.  I know now how my father feels, with his rapidly declining memory that serves him in fits and starts.  Poor daddy.  It breaks my heart.

And poor aspen.  Poor Roy.  Yesterday morning I was able to snag both of the boys online, at 7am my time (early for me, believe me), 2pm theirs in germany.  Sometime last week, in interlocken switzerland, roy jumped over a post and tore a ligament in his knee.  He has been hobbling around europe, climbing youth hostel stairways, on crutches with a knee brace.  Robin says he “is a champion” (oh, I do hold back the lump in my throat when I remember these words from robin years ago when roy wrecked on his bike and ended up in the emergency room).  Surgery is required, but he is to wait six weeks for that; come home, young man, come home.  And aspen?  Somehow, when yesterday he jumped from the car for a bathroom break on the way home from alabama, he sprained his knee (or so the vet called it – funny to think that dogs have knees, but they do).  He hasn’t been able to get up easily from the floor, is not really able to go up stairs without my lifting his fat rumpus.  Keep them both in your good thoughts, please?  And carole, continue lighting those candles for the fellas in my life, honey.  Your actions bring back the lump in my throat all over again.

 

I ended my last entry with the stories of the sweethearts of dwellingup, and I find myself reluctant to bring that lovely chapter to a close.  When I gathered my cart of mail from the rural post office today, there in the overflowing stack of papers and catalogs and assorted other tidbits was a package that jen crossley (bless you, dear one!) had taken the trouble to mail back here for me.  While the other gals were busy working like elves on their own book of trees creations, I passed the quiet moments very loosely assembling what I’ve ended up calling my treasure book of australia.  In it are assorted bits of flora, snippets of fabric, pearls, beads – most of which were given to me by each of the workshop participants.  This book, along with the beautiful journal that misty made and that I documented all along the way, are my most prized possessions I brought back with me.  I asked student and friend jen crossley if she wouldn’t mind carrying this book of mine to the post office for me, as both australia and new zealand customs are quite strict about what can and can’t be brought into their countries.  Things like shells, flowers, sticks, bones, many of the items that I incorporated into its pages, are prohibited -  In short, anything that was once alive.  And here it was, faithfully waiting for me upon my return (and – here is a major hint, perth- where o where is the book of trees?!).  I snapped some images late this afternoon, when I tired of lying sprawled limply on a bare bed (sheets are drying as I write this) and watching the movements of a little black spider as it crawled in circles on my ceiling.  So what you are seeing here are the pages I created.  I do love this book, so so much.  I hold it next to my heart each time I pick it up, and when jen wrote (that rascal) and said for me to be watching for it on ebay, I had to laugh – a bit.  Thank you, jen, for everything.  Next time, honey, there will be a day of the two of us getting into trouble, I promise.

I can’t show you images of those pages without sharing a few of the artwork pages from my beloved journal.  And let me say this as well – poor misty has been asked by quite a few of you if she would make one for you as well.  That isn’t really how it works; what you see as a finished journal, or the blank decorated pages and journal she presented me to take on the trip,  took heaps of hours, I know, and the assembly alone was another feat unto itself.  We traded , she and I – jewels for a book, which I think is grand, and I also think I came out on the better end of the deal.  So when I continue to show you the beauty of the book – the bones of it, underneath my raw scribbling and pasting – remember that she did it as an enormous favor to me, and I’m forever indebted to her for making for me something that will be treasured for the rest of my livelong life.  (and don’t think that she put me up to saying this – not so.   I speak from the pulpit of my consciousness and heart).

I will say this:  because of my friend robyn longley, I learned that flowers and leaves can be made into art on book pages, simply by gluing them with heaps of dear old matte medium.  Robyn had dried and pressed her own flowers to bring – you can see a page of hers here – but i?  I slapped quite green and flexible flowers and stems right into the pages, just making sure to pile on the medium before and after.  Who knows what these buds and leaves will look like a year or six months or a day from now, but as I write this, I can open my journal to the page with the lavender stalks, placed so tenderly on my fresh towels by the cottage owner when I arrived with my friends wendy and graeme to our glorious respite overlooking the mountain ranges of hawkes bay.  In spite of the glue, the lovely, heady scent of lavender (which grows everywhere in new zealand, everywhere!) comes wafting through.

Ah well.    Picture this:  I am sitting out here on my deck, in the cool velvet hour of summer twilight.  Some of my local birds are still talking a bit to and fro, and I can hear the hammering of a woodpecker somewhere in the nearby woods.  The stream across the way rushes and makes a constant whooshing sound, and when I glance up into the thinning blue sky, I can see the occasional errant crow sailing past overhead.    My feet are up on another wooden chair, the laptop atop my legs(oh, olga, I cannot thank you enough for this gift!) , and there is an almost empty glass of oaky, smooth Australian red wine on the glass table to my left.  You’ve all seen that table in many a photo, covered with rain or snow or lovely reflections of barest winter trees. You’ve all sat with me here, whether you realized it or not, and we’ve talked of life and liberties, of beautiful  remembrances that we’d all like to have stay with us until we are so old we can’t recall the precise color of a beloved dog’s hair.  We’ve lit candles and citronella to stave off the biting bugs, we’ve turned on soft music and had the evening fall across our laps as gently as a rain would fall, if we were to sit out in the elements of water that falls from the sky.  I’m sitting out in the cooling evening air right now, with you there, I’m typing across my lap and telling you my stories because you say you want to hear me tell them to you.  There are so many more, I promise you, from this one incredible journey alone.  There is the tattoo that I got in new Zealand (yes, I really did do what I told myself I wanted to do), the visit with a clairvoyant (another wish come true), lunch with a maori man who told me stories you wouldn’t believe unless I swore to you that they were real.  There were  colored lights in Melbourne that danced  in revolving circles across the water, an overdue taxi so stuffed with teaching luggage that we swore it would all fall out of the open trunk, a walk across a river bridge with two women I love with all of my heart.  A visit to a grass labyrinth where I quietly, thoughtfully walked in my bare feet, a gift of Australian stones in the shapes of hearts and noses of pigs, beads of wood from the outback of an achingly beautiful country,bones from the spine of a kangaroo, sweet smelling soap named after a blue wren.   I’ll come back and tell you more, I promise, if only you’ll promise to let me know that you are listening, that you are truly there.  xx

heading home

i'm headed home today.  at least i think i am.  i've been down in alabama, where i flew in from auckland, new zealand, late thursday night, visiting with my parents and trying to get my confused body back into some semblance of a normal sleeping pattern.  since the last week in april, i've been home a grand total of two weeks, and my heart is hearing the soft cry of the mountain songs of early june, and this seasonally confused gal is in desperate need of heading back that way.  i've taken no photos since i've been here - i've yet to clear the many shots from the trip - and all i've been doing, really, is lying back on the bed in my room with the laptop and sorting through amazing and unbelievable images for ornamental.  it has been a time of dumbfounded reflection and delayed reactions, and i'm aching to sort it all out in the comfort of my own familiar surroundings.  the house has been closed up all this time, and it will feel rejuvenating, relieving, to fling all the windows wide open to the heady air of early summer, to sit on the deck in the evening with a glass of rich red wine and watch the hundreds of lightning bugs rise up from the grasses and tree branches like so many fairies floating through the dusky velvet of early evening.  i dread the six hour drive, the dull passing of white highway stripes under the car, the heat (it's been 95 degrees here in montgomery since i've returned from the crisp fall air of new zealand), the monotony.  home, little car, head home.  this heart needs to be surrounded by the things that smell and taste and feel predictable and there. i need to know that my house still truly needs me, that my feet are firmly planted on familiar turf for even just a little while, that the memories will travel completely, safely with me always in my heart, my mind, my soul, that you'll hang in there patiently for the next chapter 'til i can get the four heavy bags unpacked, the refridgerator stocked, the breezes flowing back into the little humble house that i so lovingly call home, there on firefly road.  see you soon? xo

chapter two - gather 'round

there was a woman, simple and shy (no one believes that last part) who woke up one morning and found herself transported to the opposite side of the world.  her watch was upside down, the shoes a little snug.   morning was night was noon was thought was dream. the landscape was fantastical, large as life but too vast and magnified to touch.  she pinched herself, she blinked her eyes, she shut them and then opened them again:  no change.  it was all still there, and she was smack dab in the middle of it, taking in deep long breaths and trying to absorb as much as she could.   the wind called her name, birds seemed to know her by sight, her shadow stayed attached but waved to her from time to time and nodded its softly opaque head, all on its quiet own.  shadows blend with light and sound, and this time the shadow folded into itself and hummed a gentle tune as it walked round and round, down, down, down until it melted into the dream that was called australia.  i tell you, this story is true.  the woman exists, but has grown a bit within and without, is anxious to share her part of the tale with those who gather round and want to listen.  are you there?  put the kettle on the stove, pull up your chair, and i'll give you a hand and pull you in so you can settle back for another page to be revealed.  it's all magic, this story, and you are all a part of it. 

do you remember the scene in the wizard of oz where dorothy wakes up and everything is in color?  her black and white life has gone full tilt, and her world as she knew it is gone.  that's how it felt as i woke up and realized i wasn't in north carolina anymore.  flowers are different in australia, mysterious and blowsy and full of riotous whimsy that caused me to walk around like a stunned little girl and reach out for everything within my grasp.  this was fairyland;  there were even birds called splendid fairy wrens that were a bright sky shade of blue.  and birds that swooped here and there, calling to one another, and sometimes swooping quickly into rooms and needing to be carefully escorted back out in a towel to the free outdoors. y ou would have loved it there, where shadows roamed in bushland proper, where kookaburras wildly, loudly called out and laughed, laughed, laughed at those walking under tallest twilight trees from an orchard back to the lodge.  and no wonder they laughed - just look at the glimmer in each of these little birds' eyes!  (thank you, mandy, for the head plumage).  what a grand, precious group this was.  these girls, all of them, had the trusting faith to sign up for a solid week of my workshop, and came from near and far (three flew from the east coast of australia) to learn whatever techniques we could cover in that time.  and what a glorious time that was!  left to right is mandy, mandy (that's right - two of the three that i spent time with on this journey), miss jacky (who co-organized this incredible retreat with her daughter jo), karen, denise, cheryl, some fool with a scarf, and robyn.  i do love a workshop that is stretched out over a period of several days, and this is the longest i've conducted thus far.  it was grand.  watching these women begin, continue, embellish, and then complete their Book of Trees artwork, based on an assemblage piece i constructed that was published in - i think - collage for the soul back in 2002 (again, i think) - well, to watch them on this journey was a pure and simple joy that left me bursting at weeks' end with both joy and love.  we all - all! - bonded as sisters and kindred spirits do, and even the one gal (no name mentioned, dear one) who thought she had no ability to create, no spark, walked proudly out of there with an incredible ensemble.  pictures were taken the last night, and as i was at that point beginning to come down with my horrific cold, i waited until the last morning - and missed the photos altogether.  i'll be listing an australia and new zealand photo album within the next couple of days; bear with me, as i've some 800 photosgraphs to edit and resize.

banksia lodge, where the retreat was held, is a retreat all by itself, without the added bonus of a workshop to keep us busy.  constructed with much heart and love and sweat by owner geoff eleven years ago, it is full of nooks and crannies, gardens and gazebos and beautiful vistas right outside my window.   i love this photograph of beloved karen hardie and myself; karen and i have been writing one another for months through ornamental, and to meet her in person finally was wonderful.   this tree graced all of our eyes each and every day; and it wasn't until the final full day we were there, with rain and winds, that the leaves began to blow in every direction.  scattered light, it seemed to be, all golden and red blowing here, blowing there, shining in the air, radiant on the ground, reminding me that it truly was autumn (and causing me on more than one occasion to write "march" instead of "may" in journal entries). like drowsy sunning lizards, we basked quietly in the warmth of sunlight after lunch or with tea; like birds we chirped and preened and sang the livelong week.and the songs were beautiful; how could they not be?  if you dwell in the middle of the forest, your heart is allowed to swell and overflow with harmony.  i know it sounds corny, but i write this because - remember - the story is true.  those of you who know me best (yes, you) will laugh at these words, and even later mock me, because you've heard me cuss and fuss and fume, you've seen me make an idiot of myself, you've listened to me wail and fret and want to throw the towel in, but i mean it when i say that for a week, life reached perfection.  it did.  you will wish for a week such as this in your life; how blessed am i to have been invited to travel around the world, to spend a week with women like this, to teach them the things that i know (and to have them teach me as well).  life is one grand dream, i tell you; what stories will be just around the bend?

i leave you today with these images true, with hopes that they will find their way into your heart and convince you there - yes, you - to step outside your boundaries, if you can, and open your own reaching arms to the rest of this beautiful world.  all of this (and more, as you shall see) is waiting in earnest for you.

 it is the hands that make the books, and the books that teach us to see.  next time, we'll head on to perth, and then on to melbourne, where land also kisses the sea....