Lunar Hine

In spate

2012-01-17T16:10:00.000Z

Dartmoor has been in spate recently, as have I. Beautiful, holy, filthy, cleansing water has poured from us and we are better for it. We have what we need to grow. Our usual roads have become flooded, or blocked by fallen trees, decades old, which cannot withstand this day. It is sad to see them go, but what can we do but chainsaw them up and get things moving again?

An eerie hailstorm hovered on the horizon when Pickle and I emerged for our morning walk. I faltered, but she would not turn from the wind, opening her mouth wide to be filled with its power. We walked out, she in the moment of skittish leaves and rolling bins, me with one eye on the new world of colour creeping closer.

Just as we got to the bottom of our hill, home almost within sight, the heavens heaved and crystals of burning cold ice whirled round us, whisking inside sleeves and forcing eyes shut. Even Pickle wanted to be carried, her head under my wing, the sky suddenly less friendly than she can remember. And I, so full of anxiety projected onto this massive cloud a moment before, felt a honeyed relief. The ice had come, it had stung us like a swarm of Narnian bees, but I could shelter my girl and keep walking up the hill. I could get us home safe. I can't tell you how much I want to get us all home safe.

And we have had days of light too. More than we dare expect of such a season. We drove to the centre of the moor for pub grub and, more importantly, this view:

I could stand there all day. A moment before I took this a herd of ponies galloped across the road and swirled in eddies below me, the wind flowing through them from mane to tail.

Standing here reminds me of being in the same spot, feeling the same awe and gratitude for this space, this gluttonous quantity of healthy land, when behind me I heard the rustle of a map and a man say, 'This is definitely the place, but why's it a viewpoint? There's nothing here.' I wonder how often I fail to appreciate unsignposted wonders.

Light has come in other ways too, from our friends locally, far away, and through the big eye of this interweb creature. Those of you who read this post will understand how touched I was to receive this:

It will be treasured. These days will be treasured. I may be scared, but I am awake, and the world is full of love.

Gruel Sky

2012-01-14T16:19:00.000Z

The gruel sky hangs dark and low.
I am cowed.
One vulnerable ribbon,
pulsing in the winds,
shines blue.
In that blue
a buzzard
luxuriates
on a winter thermal.
I can breathe, for now.

Stomping out the fear

2012-01-01T15:49:00.000Z

My husband, too ill to move, signals for a kiss from his bed.

Our daughter races ahead of me and wins the prize.

Losing never felt so good.

Another small stones month. I'll write one whenever I'm here, but that won't be much. Thomas is leaking energy daily, and with it strength and colour. Pickle is volcanic with energy - many walks a day, ever increasing, and phenomenal rages when thwarted. She feels our fear too, and wisely takes our feet, hers and mine, to stomp it across fields, leave it in little piles under trees, scatter it on the fierce winds which whip round us every night or into the newly thunderous streams. Sometimes she just stops and roars. So do I. Sometimes she just stops and cries. So do I. Sometimes she just wants her mum to carry her. So do I. But I am the mum. That's feeling heavy right now; heavy with responsibility and with privilege and black hole-heavy with love.

Our future is unknown; could hold anything, just like yours. 2012, the Age of Kali Ma, Mayan prophecies, squabbling consultants wielding power they cannot hold, the greatest heart I know struggling to tick-boom like it needs to... whatever. It's cold and wet and windy and muddy and dark outside and we've got some stomping to do.

Looking for a uniquely personal gift?

2011-12-07T11:37:00.001Z

Of course you are. So am I. I've come up with a solution by making personalised name plaques for people. In the process, I've created a new problem of trying to squeeze in the odd bit of blogging and, you know, life, around creating them, but they're so much fun I'm kind of addicted.

I liked this one so much at the halfway point, I almost stopped there. What kept me going was looking at it with a child's eyes (Jasmine is 10) and deciding I would have preferred the full-on colour explosion when I was that age.

I've got a few more to do for people I know, but I'm also hoping to take commissions. I've been sketching for a new oils project for a couple of months, but now I've got embroiled in the fun of my brush pens again. Somehow it feels less like 'proper' art than using an actual brush and paints, so I let myself be freer.

I think I would have been proud to have an original work of art with my name on it when I was a kid. I've got a vision of making these for adults, too - weddings, housewarmings, birthdays, whatever - but I feel I can go a bit crazier with the colours for the children's ones, so they're the ones I'll enjoy making the most.

They're up on Etsy, possibly too late for Christmas, but this is when they have arrived and maybe they'll catch someone's eye.

I'll leave you with my song of the week - literally, the song I'm replaying endlessly. My family have been tolerant thus far.

This too shall pass

2011-11-28T11:43:00.001Z

First, apologies if you've been frantically trying to hear my short story, 'The Clown' broadcast on Soundart Radio. It took a little while to be available online, but you can hear it now :o).

In other writerly news, I have failed (by quitting NaNoWriMo early) to write 50k words of my novel in a month, which seemed such a modest aim, and as a result I've collapsed into a despondent mood about all my creative endeavours. I must be feeling more positive than last night or I wouldn't even be writing this. I can blame illness (mine and others), or visitors taking up work time, but really it was just an awful slog - too much like school and not enough like skipping after the words as they dart ahead of me. Maybe another year, or maybe it's not for me.

And I certainly don't want to be complaining about our visitors. They came bringing music and song,

never minded when Pickle joined in (she's lately added the kazoo to her repertoire - one saved from our wedding) or the endless toddler impedimenta (they had to sleep on that sofabed, under the dangling elephants and boinging beefly),

and introduced us (and our neighbour who came to share his latest toy and discover the wonders of Becherovka) to apple and chocolate pancakes.

As if music and pancakes weren't enough to cheer me up, here's a group of heroes doing a ten-day-and-night chant. This is the lovely Fiona explaining the point of such a thing, or you can tune in to see them live - a kind of voyeuristic spirituality which feels ridiculous at first, but quickly becomes mesmerising..

And speaking of heroes, please bear with me while I share another little film of those good people at Chagfood:

So, an odd day. I haven't decided if I'm enjoying it yet. I'll leave you with this November strawberry from our garden, which I also have mixed feelings about:

and, finally, this poem, which did make me better, in at least one way.

Big Lips: The Clown and poor Pickle

2011-11-22T14:20:00.001Z

My story's being broadcast on the radio tonight! I haven't been so famous since I was on Songs of Praise with my school choir. (Did I just type that out loud?) It's Soundart Radio, only available locally, (okay, not even as famous as my few minutes intoning Laudate Dominum in an excruciating haircut, blouse and blazer combo), at 7:30 tonight (It's Tuesday), but everyone can access it online via this link. It's called 'The Clown' and I remember thinking it was funny in parts when I submitted it eons ago. I will be making myself listen, even though it might be like hearing my own voice on an answering machine. I had the option of reading it myself, but I'd rather have my tongue pulled out my eye, so someone more competent will be doing that. And I should mention that it has the great quality of being short.

I'm almost 9,500 words behind my NaNo word count target due to - told you there would be excuses at some point - visitors, illness (mine and the Ent's) and Pickle smashing her face on the side of our bed this morning (she's over it; I'm nowhere near). She's got her first fat lip and she's still dribbling blood, but our saviour arnica has reduced the forehead marble to half a pea and her cheese-and-raisin obsession is unharmed, so really she's fine.

I've raved about the wonders of Chagfood here before. The Observer recently ran an article about Ed, Samson and co, which I heartily recomend: Inspired by the Levellers (not the band) Ed Hamer's radical vision of farming involves a commitment to making the land work for the people. And it helps to have a big horse
Do have a read if you've got a minute - it's so refreshing to hear positive news about people acting from conviction, intelligence and not a little courage, and I'd really appreciate it if you listened to my story and let me know what you think. Enjoy!

The Burn

2011-11-14T15:42:00.001Z

At 25141 words I'm just ahead of my National Novel Writing Month word count target, so here I am, as promised, with no excuses to make (yet).

Our house is being held to ransom by a couple of particularly stubborn molars (or particularly tough gums), so all bets are off on what may be achieved in the coming week.

Pickle and I went on a brief foray into the city (for winter boots - for her - the price of which made me sweat a little) and were confronted by this creature:

Pickle was, understandably, uncertain, but then decided she loved her and produced some fine moos for the good people of Exeter to enjoy. She stands outside The Real Food Store, a community owned food shop, bakery and cafe. I can heartily recommend it if you're near. It is the only time strangers have joined in with our whispered chorus of 'If you're happy and you know it, touch your nose'!

After the horror that was Hallowe'en, I was nervous about taking Pickle to the Sticklepath Fireshow. Every year there's a crowd of thousands and the surreal play which precedes the fireworks is about half an hour and even less comprehensible to a toddler than to the rest of us. Four generations of our family went in the end and we all had a good time, despite Great Granny scuttling off to get lost in the crowd and Great Grandpa struggling to move at all over the lumpy ground and Pickle being startled awake by the ambulance siren in the safety bit before it had even started.

As ever, the set was impressive. The two skeletons to the left were crafted by that most handsome of woodworkers, Thomas Hine and if you click on the Fireshow link above, the big dragon head was also his.

Hundreds of volunteers make the whole spectacle happen and the work of each of them was rather lost on our girl, happily snuggled in her ear defenders (one of our best buys ever), but she did wake for the fireworks - the best display I've ever seen, which I won't demean with our dodgy photos.

And she was quite mesmerised by the burn. Great Granny couldn't believe people had worked so hard to create such a huge and intricate structure, then those same people would merrily set light to the whole thing and start again for the next year.

As we watched each new piece collapse, we talked about how rare an opportunity it is to see a fire on this scale, and particularly to watch a building burn.

Fire is an energy much feared in my western/British/English culture, or so it seems to be in the main. Anger is never welcome; there is no admittance of a healthy way to express anger. Sometimes we can justify it, but never welcome it. Sex is something that is mostly discussed within the safety of comedy, or else it furnishes us with many of our swear words.

When I first became pregnant I was shocked by the fierceness which came along with the tenderness. I hadn't experienced it until a crowd surged in my direction and I locked my arms in front of my belly, ready to take them all on! With most people I never mentioned this new intensity; it is the opposite of what pregnant women and new mums 'should' be feeling. But the truth, now as much as then, is that, to protect my daughter, I am capable of things I could not later justify. This is a fire which will not go out.

And so to a whole group of people desperately trying to keep their fire alight. I can recommend no blog higher than The Hermitage and in particular this latest post on travelers. Do please take a look. The two little films are each haunting in different ways and Rima's artwork is worth a visit in itself.

I love living where I do. You've probably gathered that by now, if you've been here before. I spent a few years being nomadic, but really I'm a roots person. And as a rooted person, I am grateful to all the traveling people for adding their difference to my world. It is perhaps a way of life less afraid of fire and passion than the one around me.

I hope we can learn.

Happy New Year!

2011-11-07T14:38:00.000Z

Happy new year, everybody!
Samhain has passed. We're all on the dark side now... :o).

When I last wrote we were full of excitement about Pickle's first experience of trick-or-treating. We left treats at the bottom of our path (the route to our door being too genuinely dangerous for kids high on sweets in the dark) clenched between the teeth of a skull and lit only by the world's most menacing apple. (A Crawley Beauty, if you were wondering.)

Just before we set off, Thomas rushed to get his mask. Sadly for those of us with a sadistic sense of humour, he noticed and evicted the hibernating wasp before he put it on. But as you can see, he failed to notice the massive spider about to crawl into his eye.

Strangely, given how attractive he looks in that mask, Pickle cried and he had to take it off. Then, when we met up with our friends, one of them had full Sith face paint and she got truly terrified. Slightly mollified by being in my arms rather than in the buggy, we carried on, but every painted face caused her to cling to me in such desperate horror that we soon turned back. If I didn't know face paint existed, I'd have been running for the hills too - if only to avoid catching something!

Samhain is our anniversary of being together (five years now), so we'd planned a babysitter so we could go out once she was asleep. But, after her traumatic evening, we just couldn't bear to risk her waking without us there.

Fireworks night was far more successful, but Thomas has taken the camera to the sea, so more of that when I'm here next.

And that may not be soon. I'm in the midst of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo to those in the know) and attempting to write 1667 words a day. As a compulsive editor, I can delete faster than I can produce words, so to give me any chance, I've resurrected a novel which I've been ignoring for months... or, actually, years. It turns out to be a) bordering on chick lit and b) bordering on good. Still trying to work out how those happen simultaneously, but that's how it is. I'm up to 11,885 words, which is on target (to save you the maths) and appreciating being online so much less. Maybe it's the 'net rather than the screen which gets to me.

If I stay on target, I'll give you an update on my progress; and if I don't, I'll make my excuses on the other side. (Now those I could write about at great length!)

Wish me inspiration!

Harvesting

2011-10-31T14:16:00.001Z

Autumn's toes are getting chilly now. The fine ladies of this town are sacrificing hair for hat. The mornings are beautiful when at last they open their eyes to us.

And the colours bring joy enough to see us through to the other side.

In our school playground, apples patiently queue in an admirably English manner. Some have arrived in such number they burst from every door of a car; others are nestled in a basket with just a few friends.

All are destined to be pressed. Here Yuli Somme, felter extraordinaire and creator of the most beautiful natural woolen shrouds, blithely ignores the instructions written on the funnel - with no unfortunate consequences.

The resultant mush is packed in a stack of gridded tins lined with muslin,

each carefully wrapped,

then squeezed by young and old working the tightening wheel. The nectar is carefully poured into bottles

and the leftovers taken away by the firstcomer for excellent composting.

This is our freezer. More is in our fridge. More still is in our systems already, keeping the doctor away, we hope.

Fueled by this seasonal sugar bounty, we have been getting creative. Pickle spent ages using the stick end of the brush to make the most beautiful design of dots and dashes. Them she stuck the brush in the black and covered it all up. I make art because I love the process, but it is awesome to watch Pickle do it with not a scrap of regard for the finished result (or the laundry).

I followed a recipe (almost unheard of) and made perfect playdough. We stuck our fingers deep into it, giggling a bit nervously when we couldn't see them any more. We made rings. We made moons and sausages and a little teacup. Then we squidged it all back into a lump, which was the most fun part.

Other harvests have come our way. Perfect horse mushrooms from fields around an organic farm

and a bumper haul from Chagfood: pumpkins galore plus our regular veg box, and an evening of feasting, fire and Baba Yaga storytelling from Coyopa with musical accompaniment from Rima Staines (who, it turns out, can make an accordion snore!). The children claimed they weren't scared. I can only say they must be fools.

All that has got us in the mood for Hallowe'en tonight. Many years I've celebrated Samhain in a (fairly) serious and sacred way. But this year I'm creating a new ceremony. I'm taking my favourite little witch (seen here flying her broomstick backwards - maybe it's a stunt broom) trick-or-treating.

And if any children come to our door, this is what awaits them:

Happy Hallowe'en and Samhain blessings on you all. Let's make it through!

Our weddings

2011-10-22T11:41:00.000+01:00

Two years ago, Thomas and I got married. Here we are, landing together on a new side of the brooms. We jumped three times, which isn't easy on wet grass, up a hill, in fishnets, at four months pregnant, but Thomas had a tight grip on me and our dads were under strict instructions to ignore the tradition of lifting the brooms higher at the last minute.

A marvelous assortment of folk made it up the biggest hill around these parts (although there was a great amount of complaining from some of our city friends), to stand in a cloud, listen to poems and vows (and to make a community vow to support our marriage) and sing 'All You Need is Love' - some adding kazoo accompaniment. Kids clambered about the rocks, dogs chased each other, relatives got smudged for the first (and no doubt last) time, there was laughter and everybody cried - although no-one more than me!

As one of our many personalisations of a traditional ceremony, our wedding cake was a cheese cake - as in, a pile of cheeses. And here we are on top, as modeled by Thomas's very talented sister. (I may have bigged-up my pregnancy breasts over the phone!)

In truth, I'd spent the whole morning wondering how I'd get through being the centre of attention and unable to slink off without people noticing. In the event, the crowd seemed so much less important than telling Thomas why, of all you splendid people out there, I wanted to spend all my days and all my nights; my troubles and moods and joys and triumphs with him. Actually, it felt quite private - for all their looking and listening, and all our welcoming and sharing, no-one else could really experience how it was for us to stand on our hill and speak our hearts.

And this is one of my favourite photos of the day (honestly I had no idea it was raining at the time!):

Famously, Thomas's grandad said it seemed like every witch in town was there - but was told, No, one of them had to be away looking after her dad. I don't think he was impressed.

Later, we had the greatest bring and share feast, danced the night away to The Mordekkers (friends from Tipi Valley in Wales) and, when almost everyone had gone home, we sat around a fire and let the night embrace us. Then I remembered I was pregnant and exhausted, so we trotted off home to find our entire front room full (as in stacked almost to the ceiling!) with gifts. Every time I think of the generosity of so many people (the friend who re-made my dress repeatedly has vowed to never work with a pregnant woman again!) I well up. Blessed, blessed, blessed, and most of all by the land which held us as we made these vows.

A few days later, we did the legal version. Thomas even wore a shirt and I wore a red dress through which Pickle visibly writhed.

There was a tricky moment when we were asked, before we went into the wedding room, whether we had ever considered ourselves married. I guess this is to deal with foreign marriages, but Thomas is the most compulsively honest person ever, so I quickly said we understood that we were not legally married and never had been. Thomas frowned, but agreed that was true and they let us carry on. Phew!

The sun was out and we had fun (although I couldn't look at Thomas as I said my vows because I was heroically suppressing a giggling fit!).

There were suspicions that we weren't taking this ceremony as seriously as our hill wedding, but I can't think what they were based on. Here we are at our tea and cake reception:

And so off to honeymoon, feeling one way of living sink away...

and another roll in...

This year, we had made grand plans to have a celebratory cream tea (click on link if not from England) in the extraordinarily posh hotel a few miles from us. Despite knowing that David Bowie has stayed there, we decided in the end that, no matter how hard we scrubbed, our inherent earthiness would show through and we'd feel out of place. The chances of there being NO mud or leaves attached to ANY of us are small. (Right now, despite having had her face washed, Pickle has baked bean juice on her nose.) So, we ate at a local pub - just the happy three of us - on the day and later shared a meal with a couple of friends at Fingle Bridge Inn, then took a mini walk down the river.

We scrambled about, played Pooh sticks, chitchatted and sat about in the glorious sunshine on a handy log...

...admiring the view and sneaking love glances.

And so the days flow on, filled with art and washing up and colder, moodier skies... and new projects.

I have swum up to the Etsy shore and set up a little camp. There's a link to it in the right-hand column, or you can step through here. To my great delight, only 36 hours after arriving in Etsy-land, I made my first online sale. 'I wish' has been carefully wrapped and sent to its new home. A good thing indeed. Now all I have to do is list everything else - a mammoth task as I'm planning to sell all the paintings I have stacked around our house.

And finally, Pickle was having a happy toddle around our local re-use/recycle centre when she spotted 'Dada':

Arms open for a cuddle, she couldn't resist him. Now she carries Dada around our house and even insists that visitors give him a cuddle. Thomas is delighted that she perceives him as so muscly, and I would love to know his real name. All we know is he's a WCW figure. What a man I have married :o).

The Turning

2011-09-27T16:41:00.000+01:00

Fernworthy Reservoir reflects our gratitude for the blue. But it has shrunk during the long days, and as it has pulled inward, old bones have surfaced.

An archaeologist's eye traces the lives of a village: hearths and paths of an old way which has been lost. No, not lost; drowned. Important people needed good water to drink. This village was emptied and flooded. Now we wait for a dry year to admire their stone huts-turned-circles. I find a chunk of clear quartz as big as my hand, offer a song in its stead. Has this rock been held before? These views, balm to wind-whipped minds, were once the for-granted frieze from door to door. It is a mixed place. It is a mixed day. But the sun is giving way and the water will rise again, smoothing sharp corners until all is soft and free as dust.

The turning is tangible. Led by the huge horse chestnut which stands alone, fire, stolen each moment from the sun, creeps across the leaves. The world is still green, but closer in...

...the chlorophyll crown is slipping and we are dripping in gold. Kicking up piles of gold. Laughing and kicking as the leaves rain down and the sun shines its fading hardest.

A girl, behind bars in a floral lane, sits alone in a stone courtyard, feeling the sun warm her back and staring forever into a handful of this last light. Soon she will be gone; sold.

A slow worm of pure gold visits us on its journey into the dark. Losing speed as it loses heat, a flickering tongue explores tiny spaces where it can be still for the long, cold months.

And I, drawing in and seeking the darker spaces, find the quiet voice of poems and paintings, prayers and passion, sounds louder now, and so, this:

Sunflower

My shaggy green coat hangs heavy.
I nod, blind, high over
the scatter of chattering charms
as they try to outshine their own fade.
I am gaunt, untidy,
out of place
in this trove of trinkets.
And then.

And then, in a burst of rapture
that opens, opens my eye,
the late light
blazes gratitude through me
and I am heliotrope,
head held high.
I stare unblinkingly
into the greatest eye of all.
The bees
desert the browning pretties
and come hungry to me.
I suckle them throught the bright times
and as the eye lowers,
flocks replace swarms.
The light is less and less.
I tire.
My head,
heavy once more,
droops
and I lean
until the earth
takes me back.
I dream of my children
as they open:
standing tall, tallest,
holding the gaze,
shining a beacon of bounty.

Collaboration

2011-09-12T13:11:00.000+01:00

'In the Flow' by Lunar and Pickle:

I’m writing and I’m inthe flow.

Then, ‘Mama, Mama,’ my girl wants to suckle itout of me.

I stop, suppressing asigh, and scoop her up.

I give her the good milk.

Another rose is about tobloom outside my window and it is raining again.

Two nights ago my husbandwas rushed to hospital with big chest pain.

Now he is home and can’tgive me another half hour to find the undercurrents.

I am blessed andconfused.

I am human and hungry.

I am typing this with onefinger while removing scissors and expensive sketching pencils from my girl.

She wants to press thebuttons.

I’m going to let her justas soon as I’ve saved…

yfvfhgllyhyyt,uh6 es’;kgthttp://www.youtube.com/watch?feat0075re=player_embedded&v=DltqY2XBZJ0055

and here we have creativity from the whole family on one piece of paper. I have contributed a flower, a balloon and two poems in embryonic form; Thomas has given us this marvelous duck and tractor and Pickle has taken a more abstract approach:

The second poem came during the night, although I didn't write it until first morning milk:

Pinned awake

by the searchlight moon

reading my soul

Comfort

2011-09-07T11:15:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I posted this poem and how we met.

Today I have completed the canvas for it:

Later, I'll take it to The Courtyard, Chagford and hang it with the others.

In Residence and Under a Rosy Sky

2011-09-06T20:19:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I was 'in residence' at The Courtyard Cafe, Chagford, where my exhibition's hanging throughout September.

At first my husband very supportively came with me, but as the cafe was busy, that meant us all squashed along a high bench with Pickle squeezing her juice carton and sending jets of sticky every which way. No way was I getting my canvasses out. I decided there was no point me being there. Thomas wisely decided I was trying to avoid it and should stay and see if there was a point. Sometimes he's so annoyingly right. (When he's not annoyingly wrong, of course.)

So off they went and I slowly got out my little canvas and we stared blankly at one another for a while. I was briefly spared this public block because the corner table cleared long enough for me to hang a new piece:

Under a Rosy Sky

Then some words happened. Now, this is when being 'in residence' becomes tricky. I'm supposed to be arting, but now I've fallen into a words space and I can't help that. So I wrote for a while. The small proportion of words not crossed out at the end were these:

Comfort

In the comforting dark,

a presence.

Oh no.

By the glinting flame,

an eye.

Oh.

Under the beaming moon,

a voice.

Ah.

With the warming dawn,

a hand.

Yes, please.

It came from my desire to be alone right then, but also reflects the antisocial side of me which could merrily live under a rock, speaking to no-one. It's taken me so long to learn that much of the comfort of being alone is really an avoidance of the anxieties I have in company. In fact, it may be premature to be putting that in the past tense. And that last line speaks the slightly desperate delight I feel when real connection is made. For all my barriers I am hungry for that. Who is not?

The words had broken the freeze spell and I did some good work creating a background to support this poem. (Uncomfortable with that word - it's what proper poets write.) Meanwhile I got some good feedback on how I could clarify my pricing and some nice comments. I was more distracted than at home, but the distractions were brief; no-one demanded milk from me!

Exhibition including Under a Rosy Sky

This is what the exhibition looks like now. And the great news is that, as well as a very slow trickle of prints and postcards, I have sold an original: Tree in Sunny Field.

On that happy note, I shall wish you all adieu and attend to my whistling kettle.

Exhibition, duck herding, puppets, etc.

2011-09-03T12:12:00.000+01:00

Ta-dah! At last, the exhibition's hung. All I have to worry about now is the increased risk of people seeing my work. Yikes. If you're in Devon, it's in The Courtyard Cafe, Chagford all September. And do take a look at some of the great work being created in Devon Open Studios.

2011 Collection

We spent a day at Lustleigh Village Show. Many are the wonders to behold there, but the duck herding is possibly the funniest.

Phenomenal birds of prey were on display. I had a quick stroke of this one, but flinched away when he looked (hungrily, I thought) down at my fingers.

And while we're on birds of prey, I strongly recommend you visit Coyopa and read an extract of 'The Falcon's Child'.

I was pleased to spot this woman knitting as she walked. She's a professional weaver and actually only looked down at her hands in shyness when I was taking her photo.

We watched a hay rick being built in the traditional way, with help from Ed and Samson (below) from Chagfood.

The kids had plenty of traditional entertainment too. This Punch and Judy show gathered a huge crowd. You can probably see from the photo how dark the story is, but the kids (young and old) were having a grand time yelling warnings and encouragement to the characters. I'd like to know more about the origins of this tale of a man, his wife, a crocodile and some sausages.

Hot sheep waited, nose-to-tail in a truck until...

..their coats were whipped off in the sheep shearing speed trials. If a shearer nicks the skin of a sheep, his time is disallowed. There's genuine competition, especially between the old hands and the young upstarts, although everyone acknowledges not enough people carry this skill now, so outside the trials there's huge encouragement to the men (exclusively, it seems) who want to learn.

Pickle went on a merry-go-round for the first time. She had so much fun and couldn't stop grinning afterwards.

Last night we were at Yuli Somme's Bellacouche preview. In typical Dartmoor style, apart from the usual dogs and kids, a friend had brought a pony.

And on the way home the sky was shining fire. I'd felt odd all day. Maybe it's autumn slinking into my bones, maybe it was the magical company the night before, or the early morning stroll through the sculptures in the Mythic Garden. But something is shifting in me; taking a new shape and creeping up, up to speak with a new voice. We never know who we'll be tomorrow. All I know is to face into the strongest wind and keep walking.

All I know, is that when the Wild God visits, I will give him the best I have, and listen hard.

Weeing, wellies and words

2011-08-24T12:13:00.000+01:00

Three addendums:

First, the poem-stone which goes with these pictures. Rest assured, there are no photos of me weeing - it's not that sort of blog. (If it was, I'd probably have more followers.)

Lughnasadh

Weeing in grass by starlight,

friends' faces circling a fire;

familiar and reassuring:

this is the life I choose.

Second, as promised to Lyra (whose blog I heartily recommend to you), a close-up of my most recently completed artwork:

Tree

Brush pen on canvas board

10" x 12"

Still not easy to read, I know. Trees ask a little patience before they give up their words. For the full image, see here.

And third, I can't believe I forgot to tell you how childishly pleased I am to own welly boots with my name on:

(One of Thomas's pixie doors in the background.)

May you all share the peace of my snoring husband and daughter :o).

Three weeks in the life of me

2011-08-22T16:41:00.000+01:00

Did you miss me? I've been doing everything but blogging lately, so here is a pictorial wander through my recent life.

We were invited to a Lammas homewarming and stew-and-potato feast. The sun shone, the dogs ran, my daughter fell off a chair.

This very handsome man gave Rima her first ever lesson in archery (best to start with imaginary arrows)...

with a little 'help' from Pickle in her Miss Havisham dress.

With a little of Baba Yaga in her eye, Rima fired the best round of anyone.

Lisa joined her in music-making round the fire...

and it seems they (and the rest of us humans) enjoyed it more than than Warlock, our local alpha lurcher, who was more intent on the sausages sizzling at the end of his nose.

As the stars came out, Tom told us the story of Lugh, warming up his storytelling muscles for a performance at Uncivilisation, the second Dark Mountain festival. Very sad I missed his bear dance, but hoping to go another year.

My girl nodded and nuzzled towards sleep, until her kind Gappy (Great Aunt Philippa) took her into her Romahome for a snoozy snuggle so Thomas and I could drink and loll unfettered by a staggering toddler.

Other nights have been quieter, just me and my man and beautiful sunsets. There are huge rewards at the turn of the seasons. The rain can seem relentless, but I wouldn't leave this temperate, rainforest climate when I get skies like this.

We've been to Dartmoor Folk Festival to see more morris dancers and the genuinely alarming Minehead hobby horse.

I've completed another piece for my exhibition, which is now in five days (I will be ready; I will be ready; I will).

We went to Chagford Show, saw very impressive rams,

llamas which I thought were cute until one looked like it was going to spit at Pickle,

miniature donkeys - cute by anybody's standards, but the calf (do donkeys have calves?) was only three months - too young for so much fuss and attention, I felt.

We saw people spangling around the field in big bubbles,

and the highlight - totally out-of-control terrier racing. 'Terrier' here means ' anything four-legged'. I'm surprised the llamas didn't join in. Once they've been thoroughly wound up and released roughly at the same time to go in entirely separate directions, there's the even more entertaining race between the humans to recapture their dog (who may well be barreling through picnics/toddlers/people perched precariously on stick-stools) and not be the last one yelling and lurching and grasping at thin air while the crowd laughs.

In relation to such ape japes, the beautiful heavy horses were a model of dignity, despite the silly hairdo's,

and I was quite taken by the fine whiskers of this judge.

Sadly too late to get a stall of his own, Thomas's pixie doors (which now have a dedicated blog) made an appearance on the edge of Miriam's unique jewellery stall

and next to Yuli's stall of felted wonders.

We've been spending our Sunday 'family day' time picking gazillions (I counted) of apples in our incredibly abundant allotment. If you're local, we're looking for good homes for cookers and eaters.

The trees actually seemed a bit relieved when we took the weight off them, but the three of us did a little thank you dance anyway, just to be polite.

And, most importantly, I have been doing hours and hours of this, soothing my girl as she grows her first molars:

What have you been doing lately?

Self portrait #2, Chagfood, Stones, and Love

2011-07-30T11:30:00.000+01:00

At last a new artwork to share with you. Bigger and, as ever, a new approach. My new favourite. I didn't set out to do a self portrait, but as it grew I was telling stories of myself with it, empathising with the different parts and how they met.Right from the start, when I had just drawn the moon, hearts and the first leaves, I regretted the hearts. Too predictable, too naive, too obvious. But that's me. I am frequently not the impressive or stylish or confident one. But I am true and I am loving. Many times I have regretted putting my heart out in the world, but often, as with this piece, when I can see the bigger picture I am so glad I dared and I resolve to go on daring. Because why else?

Self portrait #2

Brush pen on canvas board

10" x 12"

And so to love of an edible kind. We've started getting a veg box from Chagfood and every week it's such a delight to unpack it. The colours, textures, smells, are so good. When we go to the pick-up point, Pickle leans out of her buggy, gesturing for treats. So the produce in the following photos is a few tomatoes and some mange tout short of the full box. (Like me, some days.) It's not a normal veg box scheme. Members buy a share in the produce - a much more stable way for small, organic growers to operate. If you want to know more, have a look at this.

Chagfood Bounty (small box)

Romanesco: Architectural masterpiece

Two-toned turnips

Flat-leaf parsley, red and green basil

Sweet and juicy cherry tomatoes

Perfect, crunchy carrots just waiting for houmous

Big bowl of salad; Pickle loves eating the flowers

And a bonus bunch of flowers for the table

Naked under the sun

Naked under the sun,
my girl takes me by the hand,
walks me down the lane.
Friends stop to admire her;
she to study them.
A car crawls towards us
and we press back into hedge.
One, four, many wasps.
My friend shouts and darts away.
Stung.
Shouts again.
Now they are pouring out.
I lift my skirt to cover my child
and walk steadily away.
She, delighted,
buzzes in my arms.

Holiday

Lying
hot, hot
on the lawn,
slowly filling canvas,
I am grateful the internet
has taken a holiday.

Wool wash

So concerned
at my family's absence,
I did a wool wash.

Canvas children

I have called more
canvas children in,
to shape and nurture,
set boundaries for
and learn from,
but mostly to watch
as they grow.

And finally, love given liberty. This brought a tear to my eye:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-14271370

Various stones of knickers and music

2011-07-26T16:22:00.001+01:00

I've been away at Chagstock (foolishly taking no photos) for a few days of outdoors family jollity. It was Pickle's first festival (although she's an old hand at camping) and she loved the big puppets, the hula hooping, the noise, the lights and best of all was learning to 'Aaaarrr' every time she saw a pirate (which happened a lot as that was the theme). In fact, she got so good at it, and currently has such piratical teeth (few, not black) that a soft-hearted stallholder gave her a pirate flag which she delighted in waving in my face for the rest of the day. I truly love the rhythm of my everyday life, but it's so refreshing to drop routines sometimes. There were challenges (try taking a toddler into a portaloo and preventing them from touching the sides), but my fear that she'd crawl out of our beloved bell tent in the night proved unfounded - of course she just crawled onto my chest.

So, sleep-deprived, sun-kissed and happy, I have for you a whole clutch of stones to sort through and feel the shapes of. I hope you find one that fits your palm.

That first time

As she staggers -

bump - up -

staggers over the field,

young buzzards

take tiny loops of -

dip - swoop -

loops of flight from the hedge.

We mothers hover, cheering -

cautioning - congratulating -

cheering them on.

The Band

The band pours all over us.

Pensioners abandon stick-stools

and leap and clap and yell.

Teenagers waiting for a different sound

play cards at the back of the tent.

Babies in ear defenders

slump on shoulders

or sleep in scattered stars

across the trampled grass.

Keep your sunsets
A happy, sleeping child.
You can keep your sunsets;
I could gaze all night.

Knickers and Lego

My husband dreamed he was buying me knickers

but got distracted by free Lego.

Then he awoke in a house with

more Lego than decent knickers.

And at last the sun

highlights my heart.

And then I remember

I make the rules for myself.

And in breaking them

I am offered new patterns.

I rock

2011-07-20T11:37:00.000+01:00

I rock

I rock my girl in the crook of my arms.
A rook, wild, rocks on the branch.

I jump, catch eggs and break stuff

2011-07-19T16:58:00.000+01:00

I jump

I jump a jigged line

to the ring

of a baffled bird

meeting solid air.

An illness, an artwork and several poems ago, our family and some friends went to Belstone Village Fair. It was a typical Dartmoor example of stunning scenery, slightly odd activities and a Heath Robinson approach to organisation.

Plenty of green space to run about in left the adults free to explore the wonders of the stalls:

and, most importantly, the tea tent:

(Free kudos to anyone who can spot an Ent.)

Announcements were made by microphone, amplified by speakers which only worked if you started the car:

All generations joined in for the chaos and hilarious mess of the egg-catching (or not) game, presided over by two very strict but sadly inaudible ladies:

A pair of older gentlemen who took the 'sport' aspect rather seriously ended up sharing the prize with a pair of young girls who said, every time the lines stepped back, 'But I can't throw that far.' We all had a little chuckle. And then pretended not to laugh as a group of boys started smashing eggs over each other's heads.

In an unusual display of inhibition, no adult allowed themselves the wanton fun of smashing crockery:

There's no point; no game - just paying for the pleasure of being allowed to break stuff. The noise alone was a tonic.

And in the universal spirit of a day out, one would normally bury one's father in the sand. However, this being Dartmoor, we used the stocks. Then legged it:

And if ever proof was needed that, even on such a jolly day as this, we have reason to fear our inlaws, this is it:

A more lucid and folklore-based account of the day is here, along with a bunch of other strange but true stuff you have no need of knowing, but will be unable to keep to yourself once you do know.

Almost a rockery

2011-07-18T14:51:00.001+01:00

Desperation

The gods
drop crumbs
from their table.
I eat them.
I am lost.

Lies

If it was only
other people
who told me lies,
I would barely
mind at all.

Rain

Rain worms through my dreads.
Carefully, I split my skin,
clavicle to pubis,
opening so the water worms
can make compost of my history
and I can start afresh.

Waiting

Waiting
for something worth stating
...
...
...
frustrating.

Magic

As I sculpt words and colour
to call magic into our home,
my husband simply
builds a door for it to enter.

Patience

If you are lucky,
the patience of the healthy
is in a negative correlation
to the health of the patient.

Teething, Air, Fire and Park Life

2011-07-12T17:17:00.000+01:00

Teething

Sweaty, sick, sore.
Chewing everything,
eating nothing.
Face flushed and
wet with weeping.
My milk and sleep
the only routes to respite.
If I could do this for you,
I would,
a hundred times.

As well as writing a little poem stone each day (which I am loving and heartily recommend you try), I have completed the elements set of pennings. Do take a click trip to visit Earth and Water if you haven't already.

Here is Air. I nearly lost my (somewhat tenuous to start with) grip on reality creating this. It took hours and hours and when I looked up I could still see the pattern of it superimposed on everything else. My husband asked me why I kept blinking and staring. I have since been reassured by the information that if you can draw a perfect circle, you're mad. So there must be some sanity left.

Air

Brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

Fire was a more soothing process and is the most literal depiction in the set:

Fire

Brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

I don't know what's coming next, which is how I like it. I do need to prime some more canvasses and, judging by my performance last time, that could take a while. I'll try to set a personal best.

Meanwhile, I have spent many sunny hours at the local park, being terrorised by Ickle Pickle's fearless antics.

She climbs up the big kids' slide or the rope ladder (despite not yet being able to walk on the flat without help!), then has a great time spangling across the rope net and the wobbly plank bridge and just being higher than sweating, pulse-racing me.
"Aren't you high up? Well done. Oopsie, caught you. Oh, you want to do it again? Great! Hold on tight..." - all delivered in a slightly shrill cheerful voice whilst wearing a fixed grin. I just keep reminding myself it's best she learns while I'm there to catch her.

Despite my anxiety for her safety, I am so proud of my little girl's confidence in her body and her growing skills, and she always comes back to her Mama :o).

Which reminds me that the wheel of bureaucracy has clunked around and I am now officially a Breastfeeding Peer Supporter. Feel free to email me direct of you think I may be able to help you and you don't want to talk on this public forum.

New teeth, new words, new art, new climbing skills, new role... exciting stuff :o).

In Menstrual Mood and Note to Self

2011-07-11T11:09:00.000+01:00

In menstrual mood, I say,
I'm sorry I'm such a dreadful old woman.
You're hardly an old woman,
says my husband.
...
Or dreadful.
Too late.
Way too late.

Note to Self

To make art
is to be an artist.
To write
is to be a writer.
Nothing else,
no external confirmation,
is required.
All the rest
is just paying the bills.

Spider!

2011-07-09T14:14:00.000+01:00

As I lie in bed,
A tickle crosses my belly.
Spider!
And the trained response:
That is very unlikely.
I try to sleep
and fail.
I turn back the covers.
Spider!

The 21st Century and A Band of Sun

2011-07-08T12:11:00.001+01:00

My mornings include
breastfeeding and strength training.
My husband's evenings include
cooking and knitting.
The 21st century
is a good place to be.

A band of sun
trails gold satin across the land.
I lean in
to its Midas kiss.

When he's not cooking or knitting, Ent can be found in our woods, making wonders such as these pixie doors.

Stern Green Man Pixie Door

4.75 " x 2"

And I'm so pleased to have got my blog all dressed up fancy. It may never have happened without much technical help from Rima of The Hermitage fame. If you haven't yet discovered her blog, do follow the link - you're in for an inspirational treat.

Cows and Laundry

2011-07-06T11:24:00.000+01:00

Cows,
made skittish by dogs,
bar my path.
I,
made skittish by cows,
turn back.

I discover the laundry basket
has a bottom.
Success!
'Well done',
tweets my sister.
'We have seven baskets.'
I gasp
in horror and awe
as I contemplate
Being a mummy
four times over.

Boots

2011-07-05T16:50:00.000+01:00

My husband has a damaged leg.
He needs new boots
to support it, ease it.
He comes home with
mini dragon wellies
for our girl.
I try to scold and fail.

Marriage

2011-07-04T10:25:00.000+01:00

After spiked words,

We pause.

A hand on my shoulder

As I make two cups of tea.

Marriage is all in the recovery.

Stones, Earth, Water and A Message From My Daughter

2011-07-02T12:07:00.000+01:00

I've been busy. This is Earth, the next piece for my current collection. Stylistically, it is a close sibling of Yes!, but also it is the start of an elements set. Didn't plan to create a set for this exhibition, but that's what's happening.

Earth

Brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

Here's a sidelong glance at its edges (well, one of them) and some background stuff which I liked too much to crop away.

This is the second in the set, Water. I've got the colours as close to real life as I could, but you can see the complex flow of it. My eyes were rebelling by the end. By my next post I will hopefully have finished Air and you'll see why my mind has been addled by looking at it for too long.

Water

Brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

A River of Stones has launched its second challenge to fully notice, then write, one small moment/stone every day for a month. Here are my first two stones:

1st

From my window

All is bees on roses,

A buzzard in blue,

And green and green and green.

If this isn't heaven,

I don't want to go.

This Morning's Adventure

Tottering in first shoes, I see

A blackbird puffed with death,

A wiggly worm on the road.

We wave our shadow hands.

My legs buckle,

I swing by one arm.

I am carried home,

Telling it all in my own tongue.

And finally, a message from my daughter:

Yes! and a Family Portrait

2011-06-27T13:01:00.000+01:00

Hallelujah! I have been struggling through self-doubt for ages, wondering if there's any merit in what I create at all, feeling the glare of exposure as I show my developing work to the world, including people who were at this stage of their craft as children. It's been tough (admittedly, not in the way that mining or firefighting can be tough), but I'm peeping over the parapet now.

A couple of days ago I sat down with a few child-free hours ahead, clear in my mind what I wanted to produce. Then I thought, No, I want to just follow my inspiration. And I made this:

Yes!

Brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

Incredibly, I wasn't interrupted, and I drew the whole piece without thinking ahead once. Every shape, every colour, was a surprise to me. Occasionally I found myself thinking, I can't do that, it'll spoil it. So I did those things and they all worked.

So here's the crucial note to self: Just sssh your busy, clever little mind and do it. Trust your hands to make it right.

Hopefully you'll be seeing more of these soon... if my hands feel like it.

In other news, we spent part of our sacred weekly Family Day picking oodles of currants and berries from our allotment. Actually, Ent did most of the picking while I popped plenty into the baby bird ever-eager mouth of Ickle Pickle. Such a delight to fill her with divine spheres of juicy wonder. What was left by the time we got home was this:

Hmm, we did eat a lot. Now they're all in the freezer (except for the gooseberries) awaiting the apple harvest so they can become God's own jam. We are lucky to have our friend's three bee hives on our allotment. And whenever we spot a swarm on the loose, Ent cycles like crazy to fetch our friend and we earn ourselves a jar of the most perfect honey. Beyond good. This year the apples were so heavy on the branches I knocked many off so the boughs wouldn't break. Had to explain myself to each tree as I went because it felt weird to deliberately lose unripe fruit, but many other creatures will benefit.

And, just because it amused me, here is a portrait of our family life as seen on the table before we made room for the berries:

Can you spot: pavement chalks (for sunny day graffiti); tea tree oil (for the nappy buckets); a string of camels, llamas and elephants; a pair of chimes; a fake pot of nuts which in fact contains a worm which bursts out with a huge screech; a cornet (destined for Ent's dad, bought from the Flea Market, which we can get nothing but hilarious farts out of); a bib; a carrier bag of spanners; welding kit in a treasure chest; a book; baby wipes; a book on geology (we just had an earthquake: 2.5 on the Richter scale; and (what home would be complete without) a crocodile.

Finally, this which I found on Terri Windling's blog:

Do please share this about, particularly if you will reach young adults. In my experience, it just keeps on getting better. Hope the same is true for you.

Solstice Sex, Partying and Hilltop Reflections

2011-06-24T13:55:00.000+01:00

A few days before the solstice two friends shared a birthday and the usual suspects gathered to eat, drink and make merry, with the obligatory musical feast. (Rima and Tom [Edit: also make a moment for Coyopa] had to bargain hard to eat before they played!) Below is also Howard and, under the hat, David. To the right is one of Dartmoor's finest fairies. Only don't call her a fairy because today she may be a princess. And she was running about with a (water-firing) machine gun, so approach with caution!

Handsome men had earnest discussions by the fireside in time-honoured fashion (although I have reason to believe they may have been discussing computer games)

and the children's energy outlasted the dogs' as they charged up and down from fire to orchard, with only minor incidents (e.g. "Mummeeee, he's weeing on my leg!").

On the actual (calendar) solstice, I found this happening in our pond:

I knew these were Red Eyed Damselflies, but I couldn't understand what they were doing. Before they landed on this grass head, they were flying around with her dangling off his, um, tail (?) and it looked most peculiar!

Turns out (having consulted my friendly local ecologist who usefully was in my living room), he (on top) was depositing a package of sperm on the back of her neck (feminism is slow in the damselfly world, but at least she doesn't have hair to worry about) which would then slide down her back (there MUST be a better way, surely) and fertilise her eggs as she laid them in water, later that day.

Afterwards, she flew off and he rested on a leaf for a bit, eyed hungrily by one of our little frogs, who is just a bit too small for such long fare.

That solstice evening, we marched up the hill we live on (me panting quite a bit with no-longer-very-Ickle Pickle on my back) and sat enjoying the mixed skies and reflecting on the view of the hill across the valley, where Ent and I got married in October 2009. We still chuckle about making everyone walk up that hill.

And I had a quiet moment for my lost boy. The prayers I have said between these stones...

The dark clouds blundered across us without spilling and we celebrated the turn of the light-tide with cider, chocolate and a fab aeroplane - Jason's Fathers Day present. (Ent received a magnifying bug viewer - a tie would only be a comedy gift around here!)

And best of all, better even than chocolate, is the fact that my girl believes the whole world lives like this, that it's normal to play music around fires; watch life happen in your own garden pond; climb a hill with friends and gaze out over miles and miles of green.

Right now I'm struggling with symptoms of a chronic auto-immune disease and sometimes that weighs down my mood, but then I have days like this and I am so grateful for all the good things in my life. My hope is that such good things find you as the shadows roll in (or out, down there).

Spiral and Sky Blue Pink

2011-06-17T16:02:00.000+01:00

Two more additions to my fecund family of pennings. I managed to halt long enough to capture Spiral before I added colour, but was too excited by Sky Blue Pink to pause and take photos part way. You can imagine, I'm sure. Have taken a couple so you can see the (rather tricky) extension of the designs over all sides.

Spiral in progress

Spiral

Artist brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

Sky Blue Pink

Artist brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

Meanwhile, have not been back at the ranch. Spangled about on bog woppets, dragged Ickle Pickle away from fires and sang ridiculous songs at a hostel in a Welsh hanging valley for a few days for Ent's joint 90th with two school friends; then a couple of days deep in middle England admiring my parents' new home and apologising for Ickle Pickle after she pulled that face (pressed lips, red cheeks - ask a parent if you're unsure) whilst sitting, nappy-free, on the scoot-along car they had for her.

So, much laughter, cake and many, many raisins to prevent (not entirely successfully) travel meltdown later, I am home and, as usual, behind my desk and my schedule. The months sneak past, but the exhibition collection grows, so I suppose it will all be alright in the end. At least we got out of that bog with all our footwear and Ickle Pickle wasn't sitting on the cream carpet... yes, things have turned out rather splendidly.

Just another day in Chagford

2011-06-04T12:48:00.000+01:00

It occurred to me that the kind of thing we, on the edge of Dartymoor, take merrily for granted (regular morris dancing stopping traffic in the town square; the rule that every type of community event must incorporate a hog roast; three or four generations (human and canine) at all parties, etc.), is actually rather odd in other, more worldly, parts.

So here is a glimpse into the latest gathering of morris dancers who kindly visited us to make our lives dafter and, therefore, better. It wasn't any kind of festival or eclipse or celebration that I was aware of - just an opportunity to prance about on a sunny evening in a traditional manner.

I'm more of a Grimspound Border Morris girl myself, but I can enjoy a bit of hanky-waving when the opportunity arises.

There were two sides: Raddon Hill Clog Morris in Dennis the Menace rags

and Winkleigh Morris in Suffragette ribbons.

There was the requisite surfeit of bells, in this case made from bottle caps:

and men with burly forearms sporting Ascot-worthy floral headgear. Marvelous.

But it's not really about the bells, ribbons and rags. Witnessing the hilarity which follows every slip,

it's clear that this dance form is taken seriously by its participants in a very different way to all the others I know. But the music and, even more so, the beer, are sacrosanct.

For more of the same and lots of very different, have a look at Westcountry Folklore.

Twist

2011-05-31T14:57:00.000+01:00

Get your Afro wigs and spangly flares out, I've gone all disco psychedelia! And you may want sunglasses, too.

Anticipation...

As you may have gathered by now, I can get a bit overexcited by colours. So now that I have so many artist brush pens to play with (post-birthday), it was inevitable that something quite bright would be created.

I love the process of planning and arranging colour combinations. I've been doing it since I was a toddler and it's still fresh for me every time.

Okay. Shades on? Here's the finished piece:

'Twist'

Artist Brush Pens on Canvas

5" x 7"

I wish...

2011-05-23T12:50:00.000+01:00

Completed another piece this morning, having experimented in yet another direction. I'm appreciating how this series is hanging together well, even though each piece explores a different style or idea.

This one, 'I wish', contains my favourite poem by my favourite poet. It would take me a week to boil down to my top ten poems, but this is clearly number one for me. I recommend I Heard God Laughing to everyone.

I wish

Mixed media on canvas

5" x 7"

This is my favourite poem because it so perfectly expresses my intention. Much of what I do is moving towards this. I believe we are perfect. And if only we had the faith to believe that, we would behave like it. My own winding animist/mystic path runs nice parallels to the Sufi ideas of Allah in everyone; in everything.

All of which makes me sound very saintly to ears which are accustomed to hearing 'perfect' as a long list of what it is not. The more I think about perfection, the less I can exclude from it. My daughter teaches me about this. She is indisputably perfect (at least, I strongly recommend not disputing it in my hearing!) and this is not changed when she learns she can draw on the wall with her toothbrush, or that I make an entertaining noise when she pokes me in the eye. Just perfect, with lots to learn. Like the rest of us.

How about you? Are you perfect?

Resistance Training

2011-05-16T13:01:00.000+01:00

Three weeks ago I discovered that my new batch of allegedly identical canvasses made my brush pens bleed a little in a way the old batch never had (like this). Sigh. So I scuttled off to my group of unfailingly helpful artist friends who recommended priming the canvas (and reassured me I wouldn't lose the texture I love). Primer was duly ordered, dispatched, held up by The Wedding and, more importantly, Beltane (see what I was up to here), but arrived in good time - nearly two weeks ago. I sat it on the little shelf by our kitchen door so I could take it with me the very next time I went up to my studio. And there it remained.

Since when, I have suffered all the woes of resistance. Everything seemed a bit pointless (because it wasn't what I really needed to do); my writing has been coming along, but it's been slow and grueling (because really I was in an art mood). All the time I just wanted to paint (or 'pen', or whatever it is that I do), but I couldn't because first I had to prime the canvas... oh, too boring to even think about. Priming... not art; just the thing you have to do before you can do some art... ugh. Bored already. I'll read some more blog posts...

Then today I decided to actually do it. No matter how awful the experience was. So I got my bum off my chair, collected the little pot which had withstood so many hard looks from me (coming between me and my art!) and walked all the way to my studio. Which is uphill. Uh.

Only, it's actually in my garden. It's a two-minute walk, and that's if you spend a minute inspecting the pond and looking for signs of growth on tadpole leg-buds.

Our thriving mini pond, complete with skulls, stones and prayer flags

So I made it all the way past the pond, and through the door. This door is genuinely a bit of an obstacle. It once slid open, but since then half the building's fallen down (would that I were exaggerating) and been reassembled, so now you push the top across while hooking your foot between the doors and kicking the bottom part. If you get this right, you may enter. If you get it wrong, the door falls off. You still may enter, but you will need to spend a very frustrating and sometimes painful time getting the door at least partly back in its runners. Sigh. But I made it in with only one swear word, and not a particularly bad one.

Immediately I had spider web across my face. Aaaagh! Now, I'm considered intelligent (although the intelligence of those doing the considering may need examining) and am capable of moments of rationality as long as certain things are not present. If my daughter is present, I'm all heart, which is a nice way of saying, 'brainless'. Around crisps I'm just a motorised eating machine and you'd better not get in the way (or, worse, ask to share. I do not share crisps.) And the other thing is spiders. (Note to Ent: I know we could expand this list, but let's not do so publicly.) I totally understand that no spider in Britain can hurt me. (Genuinely, there is a collection of dangerous spiders just down the road, but we just have to trust their keeper that they won't escape. The snakes would eat them, anyway. Or the geckos. Or the... let's not think about it any more.) And, of course, there isn't a web anywhere (this side of Middle Earth) which can hurt me. So twirling around clawing at my head was probably unnecessary. But like I say, unnecessary happens in the presence of certain things. Shudder.

Having survived the hill, the door and the web, I surveyed the interior. It looks like this.

Inherited junk languishing in my studio

Which is another reason why I have been so loathe to enter. It looked a lot better before I started cleaning one optimistic day. To distract me from the filth and the plants growing through the walls, I lit some incense and said a quick prayer for creative guidance. Then I noticed the three canvasses from the old non-bleedy batch which I'd forgotten I still had. "That was quick," I added. Clearly, spirit doesn't have the same trouble getting round to doing stuff as I do. I tuned the radio into something about Gershwin and took a deep breath.

My easel/altar

When I'd finished choking on the dust, I got a bigish brush form my brush box, shook (just on the general principle that most things benefit from a good shake) the pot of gesso, opened the lid and brushed a layer evenly all over the canvas. That Herculean task took me, what, one minute? Sooo much less effort than all that resisting.

So, the new, primed canvas is drying and awaiting my experiment upon it another day. And I have three canvasses to play with right now. All I have to do is actually get on with it. I'll just put the kettle on again...

If Only You Looked Like Barbie You'd be Happier / 'Them and Us'

2011-05-03T15:14:00.000+01:00

I'm scared. In this Saturday's Family section of The Guardian, Oliver James has written an article which speaks to my deepest fears. Based around a study of 500 16-year-old Fijian girls, he describes how television, and in particular social networking sites such as Facebook, are bad for girls' body image.

'At the most simple level, the cause is television. A definitive proof of this came from Fiji. Before 1995 there was no TV there and a full female figure was the preferred form. In that year, there were no cases of bulimia recorded, but within three years, dieting suddenly became widespread and 11% of young women were bulimic. The problem was three times more common in homes with a television.' - Oliver James

'However, further analysis showed that social networking was a considerably greater problem than TV, especially when combined with absorption in American culture.' - Oliver James

The researchers concluded that the consistent images of women who are happy (or who are skilled at appearing so) and who look tall, skinny, and gorgeous in that standardised way, eventually convince the subconscious minds of young girls and women that, if only they too could look more like that, they would be as happy as all these chirpy and elegant presenters, pop stars, actors, models, etc. But what they really become is bulimic.

Obviously not everyone is affected in this way, but enough are for it to be a serious problem, including the millions who never develop an eating disorder but still experience lower self-esteem because they can't match the airbrushed people. And I can't help but wonder if my gorgeous (in her wonderful non-standardised way) Ickle Pickle, who currently enjoys 'squidging' her healthy baby fat with me, will one day look at an equally healthy amount of fat on her body and feel depressed or disgusted or unworthy.

James calls for 'an independent body to prohibit the use of exceptionally good-looking models in all advertising', but despite all my fears I still balk at this. Wouldn't that infringe our 'freedom of the press'? I'm undecided.

In the course of having a similar debate on Facebook, I did discover that the adverts on the right all have a hidden 'x' in the top right corner. Clicking this allows you to report why you didn't like that advert. I'm on a mission to report all weight-loss ads as offensive and I'd love it if you joined me.

In happier news, although strangely related, my latest artwork is an exploration of shape and titled, 'Them and Us'. Here it is:

'Them and Us'

Brush pen mosaic on canvas

5" x 7"

What do you think about legislating to ensure more normal-looking models?

Do you have an insight into body image? Or the modeling business?

As ever, any thoughts on my art are appreciated.

And do remember to 'x' those Facebook ads if you want to report them.

Kaleidoscope

2011-04-25T15:52:00.000+01:00

Introducing the fourth design in my mosaic series:

Kaleidoscope

Brush pen mosaic on canvas

5" x 7"

After hours of looking at that, I glanced up at my computer screen and only saw the shapes of the letters, without reading them or associating them with sounds, meaning, etc. Couldn't possibly choose to do that and I guess the last time I did was before I could read (30 years ago). Weird.

I really enjoyed this one. From the start I noticed my new batch of canvasses (exactly the same as the ones I've bought before) were bleeding the ink slightly, creating a slight blur, particularly in the centre. I decided to carry on anyway (while primer was en route to my studio) because I learned so much from the prototype I made. Having completed it, I'm enjoying the rather drunken feel that blur gives in the midst of the psychotropic effects of the rest. I really have been staring at this for too long.

I'm a week behind my schedule of a design a week. And that's with leaving no time at all for getting postcards printed and promotion. And the short story I'm working on is coming in clunky clumps at awkward moments, making it harder to plan art versus writing time. Still, Beltain's coming, which always has a new year feel to me, and this weather (plus coffee) is keeping my energy up. And I've spent my birthday money on more PITT artist brush pens :o).

This month's Bookworm book is Cassandra's Disc by Angela Green. I heartily recommend it. The title is a bit meh and the cover wouldn't have inspired me to pick it up, but the story blew me away. We are reading the memoir of Cassandra as she records her exploits, generally in relation to her very different and much favoured twin. She recreates her birth story from what she knows and imagines. The differences between the sisters are immediately obvious: Cassandra is huge, loud and dark; her twin is petite, blonde and demurely quiet. Their mother just cannot find love for them both and Cassandra is much neglected.

Having often felt a bit of a heifer next to my 'mini me' sister and that our different temperaments have brought us different treatment, the very end of this book shocked me so much I gasped out loud! I shall say no more, but DO read it if you can possibly squeeze it in. What I shall add is that my sister is very wonderful and our relationship in no way reflects that of the twins in this book. Thank the mercies!

Do let me know if you've read Cassandra's Disc, and any thoughts in my artwork are always welcome.

Happy Easter/bank holiday/Monday everybody!

A whisper is all I have

2011-04-19T18:38:00.000+01:00

Today's post is whispered. To speak at all is a little too much, but I can just whisper.

Spring. It takes me like this sometimes. I go running into the sun, arms out, clothes off, singing and laughing... too much. Too sudden. My heart has been sheltered in her winter cloak of darkness and huddled safety for so long. This sharp exposure is a shock. My feet burn with each retreating footstep.

I tried to speak to you days ago. I sat for a long time. I typed a little. Every word boomed. Too loud. I wept. I stopped. I yearned for bed, to hide alone with a book for some hours. But it was teatime for my girl so we cuddled and swayed to Jeff Buckley until our Ent had made our food, then we read books and hung out until it was time for robot pajamas and milk and bed.

And the next day Ent worked in the morning. I could hibernate in the afternoon. But no. He had been up much of the night and needed, more than me, to be in his bed. Okay, I said. It's tough being a mum sometimes. Ickle Pickle and I were as gentle with each other as we know how, but she is so small. She needs laughter and bouncing and games and that electronic toy guitar I bought her in a truly selfless moment. She needs me to be out; open; full. I was emptying fast...

And then...Family Day. You may know this as Sunday. And I was posted back to bed, to forget 'together time', housework, planned outings; to rest, write, recoup my soul.

I scribbled in my journal for a while, until even that felt like work, then I read all of my bookclub book. More of that soon, but not now. I read for hour upon hour. I haven't read for that long for over a year and I had forgotten how it is to inhabit a written world without one ear open for a m'aidez. It was after 1:00 when I got up again, full of gratitude for my Ent and my life.

That would have been enough. I could have gone on strong from there. But the day after that was my birthday, so another day of revitalising non-work was spent with my little family. I was given splendid things, the best of which being an impressive holder for my harmonica (with room for a future second harmonica) commissioned by my Ent and made from Devon leather by our inspiring friend Tom Hirons.

We spent the day by the soul-quenching sea on a forever beach just for us. Tourists crammed far away where they could see their cars and our half mile tramp/slide over immense sand dunes was richly rewarded. I danced in the sea, watched Ickle Pickle play with shells in a mob cap and lounged about in a thoroughly enjoyable manner. The sun, that tempter, blazed down, but I held true and moved slow.

So today I am a little sunburned, but I have an ocean memory to carry me when the impulse to run ahead of myself seizes me. Steps, is the way. Maybe skipping steps. And when it is really, really summer; then I can run across the green as far as the moor will take me, keeping step with myself all the while.

I have done this before; this rush and retreat. I guess I will do it again. But I am learning how to be still when I need to. I am learning that some days it is best to whisper.

Do you know this? Do you have whispering days too?

Happiness Week :o).

2011-04-11T16:43:00.000+01:00

As advertised, Happiness Week is now upon us (yay!) as Action for Happiness launch their nationwide (British) campaign to increase cheer and contentment. For those of you who live elsewhere, all of their ideas and research can be applied anywhere, so please still check out their website.

Each time I blog this week I shall endeavour to bring happiness to you all.

Thinking about how I might do that, I have come to realise that I am always, in part, doing just that already. This is a way for me to have a voice in the wider world and it's important to me that my input is positive. Sometimes I discuss what's not working or what I'm struggling with (see Love in the Snow and The story of an imperfect artwork), but my hope is that in sharing the trickier parts of my journey, I can support and encourage you when you come to a stonier path. Even if you're not a writer, artist, mother or animist, we're all capable of drawing analogies and learning from each other. Why reinvent the wheel every time?

For happiness in sound form, here's a beautiful link from Thomas Hine of A Basket of Leaves, a truly fantastic blog in every sense.

Just now, as I was eating my lunch, I found a story that brought me happiness in the way I was just talking about. And the strangest thing is that I found it in the Daily Mail's online paper! Now, I don't read the Daily Mail because I get angry. If you're British, you'll get the gist of my politics from that. If you're from elsewhere (please send sun), you'll know of an equivalent in your country which is generally avoided by open-minded, inclusive folk. Either way, do watch this.

So here I have discovered a story of love, courage and wisdom where I expect to find the opposite of all those things. Read it for yourself here.

With little time to spare before my working day is over, I have finished my current artwork:

Gazanias

Brush Pen Mosaic on Canvas

5" x 7"

Thank you to those who left helpful comments on The Spice of Life. The existence of gazanias is a source of happiness for me, as is this mosaic, even though too much light came through the canvas on the scanner. Still working on my technological prowess...

I'll leave you with a story which genuinely made me cry with laughter. Thanks to Terri Windling because I found it on her multi-faceted blog. If you click one link today, make it this one.

What makes you happy? Would you share it with us? Tell us about it in the comments, or email me direct with a link and I'll include it (credited to you, of course) during the week.

The Spice of Life

2011-04-06T11:57:00.000+01:00

Gazanias - 'Treasure Flowers' in progress

Brush pen mosaic on canvas

5" x 7"

Something different again. I'm still calling this a mosaic, although the tessellating technique has been very different with this piece.

I'm so pleased I've discovered Gazanias. They totally deserve the name 'treasure flowers'. All the colours and combinations I've used are true to life, and there are more I haven't used. I've stylised the form, but the variety is accurate, too. Some have pointed petals, some rounded; petals can have four or five colours in them or just one and that bizarre blue and purple example in the bottom left corner is another fantastic variation.

There's still work to do. I'm undecided about leaving white space on this one. I'm tempted to keep layering blooms behind until I've filled the canvas. What do you think? The leaves are a fascinating silver which I don't feel would work well here.

100 Stories for Queensland, including my short story, Cake, will be released worldwide on May 3rd. I was very pleased to discover that my name is on the front cover. Click this and look down the left. There I am!

Like the Gazanias, this anthology promises to be a richly diverse collection of uplifting stories from all over the globe.

And I'm pleased to announce that, in my spare time (mums, try not to wee when you laugh), I have become a Bookworm Babe. My fab friend Maria has set up a 'little' (so we thought until we had to close membership and establish a waiting list!) book club. We're in our third month, but we've only just been named and made official through the library. We're a very eclectic bunch with rather conflicting tastes in reading matter, but that's just what I want from a book club - motivation to read what I would normally pass over.

This month we're reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (catchy!) by Mary Ann Shaffer and I'd love it if you wanted to read along with us and let me know what you think. You've got until May 2nd to finish it.

[Edit: It turns out The Bookworm Babes are at the back of a 50-book club queue for The Guernsey business, so this month we are actually reading Cassandra's Disk by Angela Green and the word on the street is to not be put off by the cover!]

And finally, if you've ever felt you've made a fool of yourself or looked ridiculous in some way, this will reassure you you are not alone.

Vive la difference!

Illusory Reality and Breasts

2011-04-02T10:22:00.000+01:00

Ocean Sunset

Brush Pen Mosaic

So, I've completed the second mosaic in my planned collection of twenty. I need to do one a week to have them all ready for exhibition in September - and that's without creating cards/postcards or promoting it at all. Keep breathing, Lunar, it's all possible.

Having much enjoyed the process of creating this and sustained a 'this is working' feeling throughout, when it was actually finished, I felt disappointed. I'd worked from a photo of an actual sunset and stayed true to the colours there, but they seemed so unlikely on the canvas.

Fortunately, overnight some helpful hinky punk (that's a Devonian pixie) had either improved the mosaic or gentled my eyes. I suspect the latter. Stepping into my bedroom to see if it was time to give a 'big banana smile' to my girl, I saw it from a greater distance; took it in as a whole, and my first thought was, yes - that is JUST how a sunset can look.

And, maybe more importantly, I liked it. Maybe it won't look 'real' to you, or you wouldn't choose to have it in your home, but I like it and that's my criterion for claiming an artwork as a success. For now at least.

And finally, you may know I'm training to be a Breastfeeding Peer Supporter with Barnardo's. At the last class, we were asked to mention it in conversation and see what reactions people have. The theory is that every time breastfeeding is mentioned, it is normalised a little, making it easier for women to do /speak about in public.

So would you please let me know how you feel about breastfeeding itself, seeing others do it, talking about it, etc? Thank you very much.

Edit: I would love to hear from men, women who haven't had a child or haven't breastfed and people who are less than easy about other folk breastfeeding in public as well as breastfeeding enthusiasts. If that doesn't cover you, I'd like to hear what you think too! Thanks. And anonymous comments are fine by me.

The Elastic Limits of Spring

2011-03-26T12:11:00.000Z

Spring has sprung with an energy which startled me at first, until I recalled how startled I am every year as I thaw and stumble into the sunlight.

My daughter's newest word is 'daffodil'. Well, okay, 'dadill', but hearing her call it out as we buggy past each stand of daffs is a heart-burster nonetheless.

Dadills from our woods

And we are joining the chorus of openings and beginnings and letting daring tendrils feel their way into the world.

My entish husband, Thomas Hine, is working on a new art commission for an intriguing book collecting historical and contemporary postcards depicting The Cornish Litany, and he has just been asked to write a guest essay for a folklore blog.

You can explore his art and writing in the fantastical world contained within A Basket of Leaves and learn everything you might want to know about Westcountry Folklore.

If you were with me for Small Wonders and The story of an imperfect artwork, then you'll be expecting the next piece in my Patterns collection around now - the 'new first' one. As is often the case, the process of completing a prototype germinated many variations on the original theme. So this new piece is more of a scene and less abstract:

Tree in Sunny Field

Brush Pen Mosaic

I've begun thinking of these as mosaics rather than simply patterns. My new artist brush pens create lovely lines, making each 'piece' feel more solid and distinct. The logistics of placing each piece so future pieces can fit are similar to those of mosaics, although without the advantage of being able to pick them all up again if it doesn't quite work. I'm developing techniques to deal with this all the time, but a lot of it is just being able to visualise where they're going to go - and then remember what I pictured.

This week I started training in quite a new field - as a Breastfeeding Peer Supporter with Barnardo's. I was a bit anxious I'd be expected to be an evangelical lactivist, (LOVING that word) but that's not the case. It's just about information, support, having time for someone at a phase in their life when they may have little time for themselves. Not quite sure where I'll squeeze this time from, but committed to doing it anyway.

To find out about talking with a peer supporter, or becoming one (no cost to you in either case), phone Barnardo's on 0117 978 2441.

And I have also just accepted a commission to write a children's story for our local preschool. I haven't tried writing for children before, but I read several kids' books every day (and several times each!), so I feel like I've been researching for the past year :o).

A few words from me, about dreaming, are kindly included in To Sleep, To Dream, on the blog of Claire de la Luz. Thank you Claire.

Spring blessings on you all. If you haven't sent me anything for Happiness Week yet, now is the time.
And do please share your new ventures too.

The story of an imperfect artwork

2011-03-10T17:14:00.000Z

The other day I was talking to an artist friend about what we do when a piece just doesn't work as we'd planned. Sometimes the deviation from our vision is a wonderful surprise, but here I'm going to talk about those times when the surprise is less than wonderful.

If you've been following this blog, you'll have seen a couple of progress reports on the first of my new Pattern collection for my upcoming exhibition. You'll know how excited I have been to let go of 'what I should be doing' and allow myself to diddle about with felt tip pens doing entirely abstract patterns on tiny canvasses.

Prototype Stage One

I very much enjoyed creating this pattern, and in that sense it has been a success. But, as warned by some of you, the colours have already faded. You can see the beginnings of it here, particularly in the pinks. At this stage 'Pattern One' (of twenty, gulp!) was retitled 'Prototype'. Obviously a fading piece would not be good enough to exhibit or sell.

Prototype Stage Two

At this stage it may have been prudent to stop work, but I know from experience that the trickinesses experienced at the beginning of a piece are often different to those encountered at the end, so I continued in the spirit of experimentation.

I relearned some of what I used to know about felt tips: how individual pens need different pressures and angles to get the same result; how the colours can bleed and mix; how the texture of the surface influences the final appearance. And a lot of that I can make use of when I begin the real Pattern One with my lovely Faber Castell Artist Brush Pens which will NOT fade :o).

Prototype Stage Three

By Stage Three you can clearly see the fading. Compare the blues. And the red (below) has disappeared! But also I could see how much I liked the idea; I was buzzing with multiple variation possibilities as I coloured and that alone makes this exercise worth the time and squinting.

Finished Prototype

So, did I create art good enough to exhibit? No.

Was it what I wanted? Not entirely, no.

Has it been a necessary stage in creating fabulous, quality works I can sell? Very possibly.

A final thought: After I'd finished this and lined up all my progress shots, I started wondering about the lovely shapes more obvious in the incomplete canvasses. So, not only has the process taught me a lot about how to create the finished piece I want; I also realise I need to reassess when each piece is finished and that photographing my work is a useful way of getting that perspective.

Do you make prototypes of new forms?

And how is it when you're less than thrilled with your work?

Small Wonders

2011-03-03T14:34:00.000Z

Some wonders for you today.

The first is me in print. Amen to that! You can now buy Pay Attention: a river of stones from Lulu for £6.99. It contains 320 small stone poems and some prose words by the editors and other stoners. (Really have to get over myself about that word. I'm 32!)

Also, if you want a long list of reasons to be proud of your fellow humans (and, let's face it, that's not always so easy), watch this.

And an update on my latest art thing (picture? piece? It's not a painting because I'm not using paints):

Pattern One mid-flow

I've got until September to get my exhibition together, which seems a long time, but my art time is limited and I want to create about twenty. Watch this space...

And if you're inspired by any of the above, do send me your contribution to Happiness Week. Thank you.

Art, Identity and Connectivity

2011-02-28T12:20:00.000Z

A query trouble has come upon me. Reading part 2 of Rima Staines' insightful interview Around the Table, I find myself musing on how being an artist affects my connections with people.

In my last post I said that one of the reasons I blog is to discover new friends and to offer friendship out to the world. That is certainly true. What I am realising right now, in my solar plexus, is how in some cases this dive into my creatrix heart pulls me further from other areas of my life weave.

Choosing my side of the fence

There has to be sacrifice. As I allow the muse increasing control in my daily life (in between the obvious 'now I am doing art' bits), I am attracting beautiful, wonderful, inspirational people into my orbit. And, too, I am watching helplessly as other friends, also beautiful and wonderful and inspirational, spin out of my orbit, our hands outstretched in an attempt to regrasp even as we wave goodbye.

Signals in the dark

(Me in the middle)

I'm not talking about falling out with people, it is more subtle than that. Simply, perhaps, that as I become more definite about my shape I find I cannot tessellate, sit comfortably next to, people with whom I have shared space for years.

It is telling that these people are always on the fringes of my life. Those who are closest to my heart just crank up their magnetism to match mine and we are joined with greater strength.

So, in the midst of the joy which garnishes the days, I find a little hollow space for a lonely feeling as I let go of the people who can no longer recognise me for the friend they once met. I know this is okay, but I feel this is achey.

Always leaving someone behind

(Devon's Jurassic Coast)

And there is a question in me about who these peripheral, ephemeral friends were attracted to if not the real, creatrix me. It doesn't matter. It isn't quite me, so it doesn't quite work.

Now I have paused and asked myself, Who are these people I'm writing about? What are their names? And the answers are not clear. It is more that I feel I have chosen this mountain to climb and I can see lots of people I think I would love to climb with on another mountain; I remember us all gathering at the feet of our lives and making choices. I didn't know (despite being told) that when I chose where to climb, who to follow, who to tie myself onto, I also chose who I would not meet again until we Hallooed from distant peaks.

Myself and good friends

walking to Tyncornel Hostel

I am lonely for all the people climbing a different mountain to me. There is space in my heart for everybody, but time in my life for so few, it seems.

Wherever you climb, may the view be worth it.

Wast Water

Taken by my climbing partner Thomas Hine

Reasons to be Blogging, One, Two, Three

2011-02-21T14:22:00.000Z

To follow this bandwagon from it's first trundle out the barn doors, take a look at these (recommended) posts: John Barleycorn Must Die, Terri Windling's Studio, a mermaid in the attic and Ravenwood Forest. Or just hop on now and ride along with me while I give you my tuppence worth.

We (an organic web of blogs within the ww web) have been pondering the whys of blogging; what it does for us as people, as artists, as earners, and what we can give through it.

For me, it's a kind of apprenticeship. I am upfront about still being in the process of 'finding my wings' and through this wonderful network of words I find inspiration, tuition, encouragement and discussion to broaden and deepen my writing and visual art. I think I'm trying to say that I find friends here. And I very much want to say that I offer friendship here. Maybe that's the heart of it.

Unzip your doors and come make a fire with me.

Bring marshmallows!

I'm learning from those of you who have been flying with strength and grace for many years (and thank you, thank you for that), but I, too, have some things which I know; thoughts, creations, perspectives, which are uniquely my own and may, perhaps, be a help to someone following behind me. Our dust-trail caravan stretches far in both directions.

Here are two of the most useful posts I have discovered on my recent ether-travels:

For writers, here is an interview with Stuart Aken, about publishing on Kindle.

And for artists, a fascinating and insightful piece by Graham Hanks on modern colour theory - it may not be what you expect!

Because I have a secret dictionary addiction, I fancy drawing attention to a magnificent 'word for the day'. Today's offering is:

pettifogging : quibbling over insignificant details.

This word is on the endangered list, so your challenge is to use it sometime today, to keep it alive and well.

And my stone for the day:

Rain quenches the earth,

Gives shoots a root-up,

Bulges buds to bursting;

Drenches my sadness through

So I must peel it off

And be glad.

And speaking of gladness, a special thank you to Claire de La Luz for making me top of her favourites list. What a pleasure :o).

Do please keep sending me your words and images for Happiness Week.

What really makes you smile?

Twice in One Day :o).

2011-02-17T16:41:00.000Z

Just a quickie, folks. I took Valentine's Day off to hang out with my favourite loves (including tulips and chocolate) and am feeling the consequences.

Today is another fun day. While trawling through my emails I found two acceptances from publishers! Well, one is actually Wordquest, an organisation promoting literature from and/or about Devon. As part of this they're printing lots of free bookmarks and for one month they will carry a poem of mine. This seems a lovely project to have toe in and I'm delighted they chose me.

Another poem of mine - one of my small stones - will be published in 'pay attention: a river of stones'. So a big hooray for all that. And just when I was wondering whether I might be wasting time I could spend earning for my family.

And a stone for today:

If inspiration never came,
Perhaps I could
Arrange some words
Into the shape
Of a poem
And no-one
Would notice.
?

What I REALLY want to be doing

2011-02-12T14:14:00.000Z

Hello.

Recently, the universe has been sending me the message to look at what I really want to be doing. This has been through various blogs, emails, books, conversations, so, okay, message received. Here is my answer.

Immediately it felt that this was about my art work. I've got multiple writing deadlines and I'm enjoying the challenge of meeting them. I'm keeping up with my homework for the class I'm taking in life writing. Family's all good (teething aside) and even a rocky friendship has lately been strengthened against slippage. So, my art.

But don't I love painting? I'm on the verge of sorting out my studio (will show you the transformative makeover in a future post) and I've got an exhibition to work towards in September - a happy time away.

In my (pre-makeover) studio,

with a pinny (because I'm messy)

over my coat (because I have no heating)

But when I stopped and visualised myself making art which no-one else was ever going to see, I wasn't painting! I was on the floor (often a very creative place in our house) doodling patterns with felt tips.

Felt tips! They're for kids!

Well, I've never pretended to be a grown up. And, of course, now I've given it a go, it's the most fun I've had (art-wise) in a while and I'm liking the results so much I might even exhibit them. Had a brief wobble about writing 'Felt tip on Canvas' in the description, but decided to have faith in my medium.

Here's the very beginnings. Let me know what you think. And would you be put off buying a piece of art which was done with felt tips? Might it in some way add to the fun of it?

First Pattern; Early Stages

If you need inspiration to contribute to my Happiness Week, here are five three-minute films about people taking the Action for Happiness Challenge.

And to keep the love spreading beyond that week, why not join the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation?

But if you're the one in need of a smile, check out this rejection letter sent to Gertrude Stein.

Bright sunlight

Fine rain

I can't see the rainbow

But I feel it

Three Reasons to be Delighted

2011-02-07T12:59:00.000Z

I know delight is a slightly old-fashioned concept. We're supposed to be too savvy and emotionally stable for the kind of childish, skipping glee which delight brings. Well, I'm suggesting we all take a little hiatus from mood austerity. Don't panic, you can always get back to it by reading a newspaper.

So, the first reason to skip and clap is your opportunity to spread some smiles. during Happiness Week. I've mentioned Action For Happiness before (and I will again)and you may know that I have committed to devote a week of blogging to the cause, starting from the launch date of April 11th, with a little help from my friends. Here, I'd like to clarify what you can do to be part of this:

I'm collecting stories (true and fictional), images (photographic and fine art) and poems (including small stones) which will bring smiles, warm hearts, ease minds, to post over the course of my Happiness Week on this blog. Obviously these would be credited to you, so they can also function as a promotion of your skills. They do not need to be twee or saccharine. Sometimes a story of a hard time survived is incredibly uplifting, and images of conflict vanquished can inspire us when we most need it. My only criteria are that it is in some way uplifting and I am personally happy to post it as part of my blog. Please contribute whatever you wish, to: lunarsolargaia@gmail.com

We feed the birds,

then reap our reward as

our daughter laughs at them

The second reason to spin and giggle is the imminent publication (8th March 2011) of 100 Stories for Queensland. This is an innovative charity project which will give 100% of its profits to the Queensland Flood Appeal. And the really terrific thing about it is that it includes one of my stories, 'Cake'. And what's not to like about supporting an important charity and reading about, (amongst 99 other things) cake? Do buy a copy if you can.

Rainbow Cake

Made by our friend Tash

And the third reason to run kicking your own bottom (I tried it recently for the first time in years and it's still the most fun way to travel) is the most compelling: If you're honest with yourself, you're a good person. You get satisfaction from lending a hand occasionally. Seeing others be open-hearted and brave moves you. I know you're far from perfect, and there's been a time or two when you really, really messed up, but how else would you know what you know now? Basically, spreading a little love makes you feel good. And the beauty of this is, it's true for everyone. You know you want the best for the people you meet. Now the trick is to trust that they want the same for you. So, when you're next skipping, spinning, or running down the street, give out some smiles and watch for them coming back round to you.

Spring is coming!

In Memory of Rose

2011-02-05T13:15:00.000Z

In Memory of Rose

She was born with a broken heart.

Aged six, they mended her heart,

But emptied her mind.

Fourteen more years

Of every kind of care.

Today, her heart-broken parents

Release her back to the Earth

And weep for so many reasons.

Two Stones; One Strand

2011-01-31T12:01:00.000Z

Today is the last day of January's Small Stones challenge. I have enjoyed the discipline of regularly producing these micro-poems; I've learned (mostly that I can write poetry if I just sit down and get on with it instead of dithering about in the hope of benevolent muse intervention); and I've had positive feedback from you. A triple win. Thank you very much to everyone who read and/or commented on my stones. Here are the last two for this month:

Given the vastness of this planet,
The wonder of each human,
It seems absurd
That so much
Of my love
Is focussed
On you.

To see my man
Soothe my girl
Is to see giants
Kiss

It is my intention to keep producing just one stone each time I visit you now. That way I keep my hand in but create time for different challenges (such as the painting I've said will be finished in two weeks).

In Saturday's Guardian, Ian Samson describes how Susan Hill has written 'A Kind Man':
'She lets the story tell itself, and then stops.'

If you're not a writer, this may seem a simple thing, maybe even a tautology, but it struck me as the highest praise I could imagine receiving (like the time a child told me I danced like the music sounded). I saw how storytelling is not creation as we might imagine, but the painstaking unpicking of one strand from the whole sticky web of life. Michelangelo said the Statue of David was already in the marble; he just had to remove the excess to reveal it and that's how it seems to be with wordsmithing.

The temptation to embellish, pacify, correct the truth is often with us, and with fiction there is the illusion that no-one will know which was the true version. But they will know and they will not like it. Ever read a book which seemed to be well written, but you just couldn't get really involved in it? Somewhere, the truth had been sidestepped.

So the challenge is to write with a deep honesty. Doing so is alarmingly revealing and requires an almost (but not quite) superhuman amount of insight and courage to maintain. It is also the reason I am a writer.

The truth will set us free!

And if you have a few minutes, please read this; Philip Pullman's speech about the need to save our libraries. Thank you.

A Clutch of Small Stones

2011-01-29T13:16:00.000Z

Today, happiness is

A Playmobil pirate

And no socks.

He is
Rain to my parched soil,
Good earth to harbour my seeds,
Thirsty plants to honour my rain.

Even after she landed,
She smiled,
Enjoying the fall.

Out with baggy men's jeans
In with skinny women's jeans
Is everyone looking at my bum?

'Come look at this'

Whispers my husband.

Our daughter,

For the first time,

Has surrendered to dreams

In her father's arms.

Small Stones and Sexy Cello

2011-01-24T16:39:00.000Z

A crow seesaws
On the telephone wire,
Dignity compromised,
Ducking and Rearing,
Until he is replaced
By a smug
Blue tit.

I walk in dusk
Like a shawl;
Like a cowl.

And the sexy cello I promised you is just at the other end of this link to Terri Windling's inspiring blog.

Five Small Stones

2011-01-22T16:58:00.000Z

Decided to keep these separate this time.
Do click the River of Stones widget on the right to join in - it's never too late.
And please let me know your favourite :o).

My daughter
In my mother's arms
Is captured on a mug.
The mug,
In my mother's hand,
Captures a tear.

I have an entire
Chocolate biscuit
In my mouth.
It makes me grin.

January dusk
Enfolds the hills
Like sleep.

One crocus
And a thousand promises
Of snowdrops.
It is coming.

I am grateful for today.
It has brought me
To you.
Yes, you.

Six Tales of Courage and How To Be Successful

2011-01-22T16:26:00.000Z

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by a coalescence of happenings which all point (or shout if I try ignoring them for a while) in one direction. Today I look out over my world and am blasted by the vista of courage.

My favourite thought about courage, and I'm sorry I can't attribute this (can anyone else?), is that a fearless person has no opportunity to be courageous: courage is feeling the fear and still doing what needs to be done (slaying the monster/ removing the spider/ exhibiting the painting/ getting the haircut). So, the more scared you feel, the braver you can be. Hurrah!

I'd like to share with you some of the examples which appear on my horizon.

A friend has just met up with an old friend. Not so scary, you might think. But this woman was part of a group my friend had felt rejected by many years ago. Yes - now it's scary.

Another friend is taking on a teaching job for the first time; moving out of the student space and standing in the spotlight as the one everyone else turns to for help. She's definitely scared.

One of my best friends, who deserves a break more than anyone else I know, has been sending her children's books to publisher after publisher, despite many rejection letters (and silences). I know that one's scary.

An artist friend staggered when a commissioned piece fell on stony ground, but is working on another commission now, with fresh faith.

I have organised a local exhibition of my newest artwork (more on that in a post coming to you soon) at a time when my town will be swarming with art lovers and artists. Big scary exposure!

My daughter, Ickle Pickle, is standing, with support, despite some bumps and scares and bruises.

Which brings me to that famous Goethe quote:

“Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.”

Maybe boldness is another form of courage. It certainly needs courage.

So, did these bold and courageous actions attract power and magic, even genius?

My first friend discovered that she had misunderstood her old circle of friends. They had not rejected her; they had actually missed her when she left. Now she is beginning to find some of them and re-weave the web of friendship with them. It is a magical and powerful process.

My second friend is still nervous about being in the teaching role, but is buoyed by all the people telling her how much they have benefited from her help over the years - a kind of genius, right?

My hopeful writer friend took me out to lunch yesterday to celebrate her first publishing deal. After all that magical dreaming, the genius won through and it actually happened.

My artist friend has been swamped by people eager to applaud the genius, power and magic in her paintings and to express delight about their commissioned works from her.

My exhibition, while still safely in the future, is also lurking in my studio, magically tempting me away from these hypnotic keys and suggesting that maybe I, too, can pour power into art.

And we know, don't we, that Ickle Pickle will one day run into my arms and climb a tree and, also that she will fall many times, but try and try and try. Her example is breathtaking; her method so simple:

Step One - Begin trying to do something that is way beyond your abilities.

Step Two - Keep trying.

Step Three - Now you can do it.

We can all do it, whatever it is.

Do let me know what it is you can do and where your courage lies so we can all inspire one another.

Small Stones, Queensland and the Solar System

2011-01-17T14:40:00.000Z

It is a dull and dreary day.
My daughter laughs.
The clouds are beautiful.

January trees
Dance the wind
To exhaustion

I stand, arms wide,
Contemplating
The sacred majesty
Of nature.
A labrador
Takes my legs from under me.

If one's husband
Puts his fork
In his hair
Whilst sneezing,
Is it wrong
To laugh?

Today I am full to bursting with love and, of course, that is reflected everywhere I look around the net. I have two links for you which will hopefully make you smile, although for different reasons.

The first is 100 Stories for Queensland. It does what it says on the tin. No-one's getting paid and the submission date is soon, but it's an inspiring example of heartfulness from our global village community and everyone (including you) is welcome to submit a story for inclusion. I will be. And do please pass this on to anyone else who may be interested.
[Edit: My story, 'Cake' has been selected for publication :o). Do please buy a copy if you can; 100% of profits going to the Flood Appeal].

My second link is more of a frippery, but has been making me smile all day. It is, quite literally, the song of the solar system. I recommend (when you've made it go as fast as it will so you can hear Pluto), slowing it right down and leaving it on as you work. It's like a cosmic wind chime :o). If only you could all have the pleasure of my daughter singing along.

A Path to Happiness... and small stones

2011-01-15T13:42:00.000Z

January wind seeps,

Like an unwelcome hand,

Under my clothes.

Birds startle up in a plume

Like fresh-popped champagne.

The cat,

Like the cork,

Rolls lazy in the hot dust.

This practise of poetically witnessing and relaying a moment each day is working beautifully for me. I feel more creatively inspired and happier :o). It's not too late for you to join in here. And I am receiving such lovely comments, both here and on Facebook and Twitter, that when this month is over, I shall continue with one per blog post, just to keep my hand in and hopefully keep a smile on your face too.

A happy sight last month,

almost outside my door

Which brings me to the other thing I want to say today. I have just discovered Action For Happiness. It's a movement with the sole aim of increasing our happiness and decreasing misery. The beauty of getting on board now (although it doesn't officially launch until April 11th 2011) is that you can help shape how this is done; add your ideas and prioritise actions. I'm very excited, and it meshes wonderfully with the intention behind this blog and, well, my whole life really. I do hope you join up and join in.

I will be using the launch week to publish happy-making stories on my blog (true, fictional, whatever). I will write one myself, but also hope some of you will email me your stories so I can add them and generate maximum happiness. If you have a happy-making story to tell, do email it to me at: lunarsolargaia@gmail.com . Obviously I'll need to approve anything which goes into my blog, but your story is your own so please tell it how it feels truest. (This totally applies to fiction too.) Happy writing :o).

Poetic Morsels and Whimsy

2011-01-13T16:42:00.000Z

Two more of these fun little poetry morsels we call small stones:

January mist

Softens the edges;

Unhurries time

January mist

Plays peep-oh

With mountains

And a longer piece of whimsy which comes courtesy of an exercise from my Life Writing class with Chris Waters :

I come from the woods,

A creature of dark earth and lofty hidey holes.

I come from the fields,

A woman of hard work and generous bounty.

I come from the moors,

An artist of agorophobic freedom and vast ideas.

I come from the oceans,

A being of sinuous comunity and heartful predation.

I come from the mountains,

A spirit of wild wisdom and true healing.

I come to this pass,

A devoted pilgrim seeking the future.

Hopefully I've just organised my next exhibition, so soon I'll have more paintings for you.

8 Small Stones

2011-01-11T15:15:00.000Z

If you don't know what a 'small stone' is, or you want to join in writing them, click the widget on the right, or here.

The greytone world,
Close-observed,
Is all colour.

Imagine:
Every raindrop,
A kiss.

January wind
Sheep blown into corners
Like bleating litter

Wind-sculpted trees:
Perpetual motion
Waveforms

At the summit
I shout my prayer;
Startle ramblers.

My neighbour
Is learning
To sing.
My family
Are learning
To laugh.
Quietly.

Emergent butterfly
Take refuge
In my palm

A rain-laden leaf
Nods a waterfall;
Rises polished and proud

Small Stones

2011-01-03T11:38:00.000Z

If you click on the widget on the right, you'll be transported through the virtual ether to a river of stones blog.
I'm taking part, but I'm not blogging every day, so you'll get my small stones in installments. What follows is the first three.

In the deepest pockets
Of the Earth's skirt
Snow holds on

Subtle movement
Songbird diaspora
Empty peace

Thistle seeds wait
A month.
Two.
Three.
And then
The goldfinches come.

Mostly I have accepted this challenge to inspire me and because it's fun. But there's a possibility of one/some of them being published in an anthology at the end, so I would much appreciate your help choosing which to send of for consideration (I can send up to five).

And, as always, I love to hear your responses to my work.

And it's not to late to join in! This is such a marvellous planet and we humans are so amazing. Let's pay close attention (send your brain to another dimension, etc.) as a prayer of appreciation.

Love in the Snow

2010-12-31T15:37:00.000Z

Disharmony

Two days of chilly shoulders and frosty undertones. No more snow outside. It has gathered on our hearts.

We rally round our daughter, coaxing her from tears to joy again and again. It is exhausting, but she keeps us in some kind of contact.

The Solstice fire has died. Christmas has been unwrapped. Another year looms and I am unready to meet it.

Another 365 days of nappies and hoovering and washing up and surviving from coffee with a friend until a cup of tea at playgroup.

I feel physically dis-heartened. Something has gone so wrong. I am tired, but I am always tired and I didn't feel like this last week. I don't remember feeling like this since I have been in partnership with my husband who is usually such a source of joy for me. Today he is an irritant, possibly acidic. Not even a bath of asses milk would be balm enough. I need something else.

Feeling Rather Tense

My husband needs something else too. And though I ache to give it, I cannot name it, much less find it in myself.

He cannot stay in a space with me. He laces his boots in a silent, depressed fury, kisses our girl who sits on my lap goodbye and opens the door to leave.

My breath stops. He has never, ever, refused to kiss me like this. A desperate voice from inside me calls,

'I love you.'

The door shuts. The tears track my cheeks and I hug the baby tight as I watch him descend our steps.

He turns around. He'll take his bike; get further from me.

But no. He has opened the door again.

He is in the room.

He says,

'I love you too.'

More tears. And we tell of the mirrored smallnesses which have sucked the heat from our lives.

We kiss. Find resolutions. Find comfort in each other again.

There is a bright flame in the dark and we gratefully warm our hands; thaw our hearts.

Later, I ponder what had led us to that place. Many things, of course, had interwoven the net which caught us, but I see one thing clearly: I had forgotten my machete. When the world is tangled and dense and catches at my hair I have a tool which never fails me if only I remember to use it: I can write.

I recall evenings too busy and sociable or too tired and miserable to write my journal and the dream-binding which followed; which always follows.

Fool

I am a fool. If I achieve nothing else this coming year, may I remember that writing is not only my passion and my talent and, newly, my job. It is also my lifeline, the lighthouse beam which sweeps an arc accros the unknown so I can catch a glimpse of my mind-corners and chase the scuttling creatures away.

And I am wise. 2 days of iciness out of 365? We're not doing so badly. I did call out. And he did turn around. He is the source of much of my joy once again.

And all those nappies? That's where the real love is. One nappy at a time, I am saying to my family,

'I love you'.

In Love; At Peace

Solstice and Christmas

2010-12-27T13:30:00.000Z

I've just had a lovely Solstice and Christmas. I do hope many of you can say the same, including those who don't celebrate either.

The source of much of my joy was, of course, other people. My community of friends came up trumps for the Solstice. A huge fire in deep snow; dogs haring round the field (didn't spot any hares dogging though) and children playing, building, running, laughing, sometimes crying, occasionally even sitting down.

Building the Solstice Fire

And the music, of course. We all added our magic in different ways, but I am blessed to have a group of friends who can conjure treasure from the air even with very cold fingers.

Some of my beautiful, talented friends. (Husband on fiddle).

And there is me, dancing on the right, with our bundled baby. And not making music.

I love to dance, my singing voice is not painful to passersby and I have a good sense of rhythm, so I can hand drum a bit, but I can play nothing which makes a tune. I was put off by years of enforced squawking, scraping and screeching on the recorder and violin. It was awful! If I were to play anything it would be cello, but I cannot bear the thought of dragging such a bulk about with me. I like to travel as light as possible (Ha ha say my fellow parents, but I can at least not take a cello too!).

But, one of my daughter's stocking presents on Christmas morning was a harmonica. I had bought it for less than £2, so I'm guessing it's not top of the range. But I love it! My daughter hasn't sussed blowing yet, so she just sucks it, but I've been having so much fun demonstrating to entertain her. And it fits in my pocket. Perfect.

Christmas Eve

(and my hair being indistinguishable from the plants behind!)

So now I have yet another New Year's resolution - to learn to play the harmonica. And maybe that will help me move onto my other ambition of being one of the people brave enough to sing round fires. It's happened, but often the inspiration to sing is overwhelmed by shyness.

So I'm left with a couple of thoughts. I believe I'm shy and antisocial in groups, which fits with my relief that being a writer can, at least for the main part, be done alone. But some of my shiniest times are in company, and not always when I feel super-confident either. Sometimes, and here's the weird thing, I'm in company I'm a little unsure of, I feel shy and inhibited, and I still have a really good time. This will take more musing.

Also, it becomes more and more apparent to me that all the ways I am a creative being enhance each other. And that other people's creativity enhances mine too. So maybe that impulse to massage the world into aesthetic form for a moment is, not the vulnerable exposure to others I sometimes veer away from, but my strand of the web which connects us all and feeds us, strengthens each of us.

Dreamweaving Traditional Devonshire Yule Log

And isn't that a good way to enter the new year? Even if I don't stick to all my ad hoc resolutions, I can hold to this thought: that when I fear being creative with others, it will be the act of creation itself which will dispel the fear.

Happy New Year one and all! May all your most ambitious dreams come true :o).