Gruel Sky

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

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.

Weeing, wellies and words

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).

Self portrait #2, Chagfood, Stones, and Love

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

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

And at last the sun

highlights my heart.

And then I remember

And then I remember

I make the rules for myself.

And in breaking them

I am offered new patterns.

I rock

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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.

Reasons to be Blogging, One, Two, Three

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).

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.
? 

Three Reasons to be Delighted

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!

Two Stones; One Strand

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

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

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

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.

Small Stones, Queensland and the Solar System

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.