Aa - The first print in my Thomas series

So, here is the first of a series of prints I have made from the many wondeful drawings left by Thomas. He had planned these as a book, but only got as far as 'I', so I am hoping they will find happy homes as name initials. There are lots of things to find beginning with 'A', but he didn't leave a list (or, in fact, ever in his life make a list) so I keep thinking I've found them all and then I find another. I'll give you a clue, though: a knowledge of botany (or a book thereon) will gain you extra finds. Enjoy :o).

From Inside a Hawthorn Tree

Lately I have been living from inside a hawthorn tree. Thorns and spikes holding me fast, drawing blood and fracturing my view while the bread-and-butter leaves have sprung out to sustain me and the heart of the hawthorn has surrounded me as a balm while my human heart has panicked a little. I remember that moment in childbirth when the pain and exhaustion suddenly tipped me over the brink from enjoying being such an amazing animal to fear that this just couldn't work and I and my daughter would die. Grief has such moments too. The pain just goes on and on and much of the time I can recognise it as a sign of the depth of my love and so live with it quite peaceably, barely writhing in its grasp. And then some trigger, often unknown, tips me up and I am so scared I won't be able to carry this for much longer. I panic that if I slip and this pain spills, it may swirl around my girl's ankles and pull itself up the xylem of her veins until it holds her heart as it holds mine. And we will both have no choice but to retreat to the hawthorn tree at the bottom of the garden and wait it out until pain or life let go.

My fear is unfounded. When I tip, nothing spills. This pain is mine alone and cannot harm others. It took a long while to learn that and I doubt it still. My daughter carries her own pain which will evolve with her. I pray it will never feel this heavy because, while she perhaps has lost more than I, she is less aware of how much lighter our lives would be if her gentle Dada was still with us.

She has her own concerns but they mostly involve what I'm cooking for tea (invariably pronounced 'Disgusting', then consumed with gusto) and the contents of her astronaut lunchbox. Lately we have found a couple of baby birds on the pavement, fallen before wings had even begun to form. We carry them to the nearest field, choose some grass or earth to lay them on and a nice leaf to cover them. Pickle knows they will likely be eaten before nightfall, but we like them to be somewhere green and good for a time. Her equanimity around death is shocking for some, but reassuring for me. It happens and it can happen right up close before you are even two; before you have grown even one feather. It is good to know a kind hand will carry you and the people you love to a good place. That feels mythology enough for now.

Here, as proof of the resurrection that is spring, are four (I think) live and squirmy babies who will by now have soft featherdown. The photo isn't great because I used the zoom so I didn't get too close, but you can just see their interwoven bodies.

When I last spoke with you I was eyeball-deep in fayre preparations. It was all worth it (as it always is) and here I am having a lovely birthday selling wares and receiving gifts

and laughing with some excellent friends.

To the left is Suzi Crockford, creatrix extraordinaire at Dartmoor Drums and Rima Staines, muse of many, over at The Hermitage, who took the first fayre photo. This second one was taken from the stall of Virginia Lee. I am blessed to have so many inspirational friends. It was a good day and ended with the fine combination of The Sweet Lowdown and cider.

Many of the talented names of Chagford and its environs have donated work for this Saturday's art auction fundraiser for Proper Job - our essential local re-use and recycle centre. It'll be a good night, with a band and beverages and banter, but I'm quaking at the thought of my work being auctioned alongside the other amazing things on offer. Click the link to see why I'm so worried. I've given this oil painting:

I've also fully set up my online shop for original work, here at Artfinder. There's quite a few new pieces which haven't made it onto this blog yet, plus a lot of prints I've made of Thomas's amazing pencil and ink drawings, so I'll run a series of regular posts with a new work each time. For now, this is Still Falling For You, which I think explains itself:

Pickle and I have been to Tintagel Castle, where she had a brilliant time racing towards cliff edges or leaning perilously over them while I held myself back from holding her back and nearly fainted from the effort and anxiety.

And we have spent more time with my parents, comparing the wide open spaces of Somerset to the moor we are used to.

And all this time, while I am angsting about money and schooling (don't get me started on that) and art and her falling off cliffs or bikes or trees, Pickle is sensibly getting on with the business of growing up. She grows out of her clothes faster than I can say, 'Maybe I did a hot wash by mistake', can get her own breakfast and do most things all by herself (al least until she's tired) and has even started writing/dictating letters to her friends.

Oh, and she has produced her first book - fully illustrated and bound by her own fair hand. It mostly concerns the movements of snails and is the most delightful thing I have ever read. #Proud Mama moment :o).

A Fayre, A Pirate, A Decision

The Spring quickening hustles me along in its skirts. I am preparing for our next Artisan Fayre in something of a flurry, but looking forward to it particularly as it will also be my birthday. Special days can sometimes be especially dismal because it's hard to turn away from the thought of, How would this be if Thomas was here? So, a day of distraction among a great array of art and craftwork and marvellous people will be ideal. Do come and see us if you're near enough. There's cake and tea, of course.

Meanwhile, my postcards are selling at the new Silver and Moor studio.

and I have a new online shop for my originals: https://www.artfinder.com/lunar-hine

Pickle enjoyed dressing up for World Book Week:

and the sun, at last, has done some shining:

As soon as the light reached my brain and my skin felt its first direct star-heat of the year, all became clear to me. An extra six months of risk and worry? Nope. Not worth it. So, no reconstruction for me. I shall join the 'flat and fabulous' sorority and that feels... fine, actually. A relief. They'll fit me up with prosthetics so I can choose when to be flat and when to fake some foobs, but I can't see myself wearing them. We'll see. Now we are back to snow and hail, but my clarity remains and I have my last appointment before surgery on April Fools' Day. Ha ha, chortles the Universe. Ha-dee-ha-dee-ha.

Ink Tree and Chagblood

I sounded so sure yesterday, didn't I? Last night long hours of fear chased me around and through and away from dreams and I find myself wobbling again. Reconstruction would mean so much more recovery and set my eventual hysterectomy back at least six months more than having a simple mastectomy. What, said my frightened mind, if I get ovarian cancer in that six months? What if I died because I didn't want to wait a few years to have foobs? What if my girl lost both her parents before she was five? How could she recover from that, ever?

And I know, I know, now that it is light (ish) and I have had a couple of coffees, that the chances are so very small... but my love is so very big and the fear changes size and shape too fast for me to keep abreast. (But not enough to stop me sneaking wordplay into otherwise serious sentences.) It is a very unmerry-go-round.

Nonetheless, it has created a wonderful thing. When I put the link to yesterday's post on Facebook, my friends started commenting with offers of help and, due to a misremembering of my blood weirdness (I have ITP which means my platelets are low), one even offered me her rhesus negative blood to have on standby while I have my surgery! Which, amazingly, prompted other people to list their blood type in case they could do the same! This has become known as Chagblood - the latest in a long, successful run of community ventures. I am overwhelmed by the generosity of my people and feel the gratitude running through my veins.

Meanwhile, my last few evenings have been spent doing this, which I recommend for stilling the mind.

Happy Birthday Pickle

Pickle is four! This year she definitely wanted a proper party, which she hasn't had before. I hired the local hall and she carefully made invitations.

When the big day came, we were both slightly overexcited. I sang happy birthday at the exact minute she became four and she was very proud. Then the present-opening began.

Having failed to make a tape dispenser whistle,

Pickle had more success with her new 'binocliers'.

And then the party. In a frenzy of performance anxiety, I'd planned lots of games, but actually the children spent more time playing with balloons than anything else.

 

We played musical chairs (with joint winners who squeezed into the final chair together) and pass-the-parcel and then feasted. All food groups were represented: sugar, salt, jelly and fairy bread.

When they were quite stuffed, I brought out the cake. I can take no credit for this fantastic creation - it is the work of our good friend Davepops and his gang of helpers. If you're planning to be an astronaut, this is the kind of cake you want:

We sang and blew out the candles

...and then it was back to the balloons. There was a great turnout of dads, some of whom wisely lurked close to the food, some discussed dogma and humility in the context of science and religion (or something like that)...

while others took a serious beating.

Eventually we got everything cleared up, party bags distributed and friends sent smiling home. We locked the big old door with the very impressive key

and went home for more presents and a cup of tea.

I am so glad Pickle had a great birthday. Of course that's what she deserves - what all children deserve - but also I have today decided to have reconstructive surgery after my double mastectomy and that will entail some serious recovery time during which I won't be able to be with her like I normally am. A few days in hospital (still trying to cope with that idea); a couple of weeks of lifting nothing heavier than a kettle and mostly needing to rest; then many more weeks, until three months in, before I can start to live my normal life and lift my plumptious wondergirl into my arms again. Basically, a lot of sacrifice for Pickle and a lot of help needed from my family and community who I have already leaned heavily on over the last couple of years. But then hopefully I will have a body I'm happy with and can focus on creating Pickle and I a joyful future.

Moments of happiness in the long time of waiting

"Mama, I wish Dada could be here just for Christmas." This, whispered in my ear at the busy table on Boxing Day, almost broke me. But this girl's Dada is not for Christmas any more than he is for life - unless you count the trees he is growing into, which we do. Despite this one rip of the heart muscle, Christmas was much less painful than last year. At one point, humouring my mum by joining in a stupid flute-tooting game, I laughed so much I had to reel back from the edge of hysteria - the kids don't need to see that. Pickle had lots of fun with her grandparents and cousins and could barely keep her eyes open for her bedtime story.

And far away a small boy had his very own name on his bedroom wall - a complex commission involving much research into sword design, which was unexpectedly fascinating:

The flowers each represent a member of his family - a really lovely addition and a fun contrast to the weaponry.

In January I finally saw my mastectomy surgeon, expecting to be 'allowed' to make a decision about surgery and be put on the waiting list. But no. What I got was a physical examination which, because my wonderful friend, neighbour and brewer-of-healing-tea was there, caused giggling rather than trauma. The surgeon was checking whether I had sufficient 'resource' (my new favourite word for fat) to create foobs (fake boobs) with my own flesh. Stomach: "There's nothing there," he said. Yes! Feeling smug, I turned around and he started kneading my back (when did it last get a really good scrub, I wondered). "Oh yes, we could make you a good pair out of this." What? How do I have so much more back than belly fat? Is that normal? At this point I'm topless (I'm discounting the preposterous 'cape' which only highlighted the nudity underneath) and he mentioned the possibility of using buttock fat. "Oh, she doesn't have a bum," said my friend, thus saving me getting my trousers off and earning herself extra Kettle Chips. Then clothes on for the statistics and the discovery that I can't be put on the waiting list until I've seen a clinical psychologist who, if she's worth her salt (? I don't know - my Nana used to say it), will diagnose me with chronic stress caused by waiting for surgery. But then I go to my online BRCA forum to complain about how looong this takes and there's people on there who can't have the surgery at all or are considering mortgaging their family home because their insurance doesn't cover this. And I remember how desperately grateful I am for the NHS which gave my husband 30 more years than he would have had, rescued me when I ran out of platelets and housed us both so we could be with Pickle while they helped her through her first 3 weeks. I'm still spending some of my nights running scenarios where I don't have the surgery quick enough and Pickle's orphaned at 4, but mostly I'm just trying to trust it will turn out okay and distract myself with other things.

Like hunting down every clothes moth and its spawn in my house. Grrrr. I'm coming to get you, you beautiful flutters of dust and writhing hole-makers. I've got cedar oil and I'm not afraid to use it.

And life modelling. Tomorrow will be my first time for years and I'm quite looking forward to it, if we can get the room warm enough. I went last week to draw and although most of what I produced made me cringe, theree was something which pleased me about this one:

And looking after Pickle, who's recovering from Slapped Cheek (not 'a slapped cheek' - please don't write in). Here she is, snuggled up with Bill, Thomas's dad:

Looking at this photo I am reminded again how grateful I am to all the good men and heartful fathers in Pickle's life. You give her something I can't and I just don't have enough thanks for that.

Success and Failure

Our Winter Fayre was a success. We all shuffled in early to unfurl curtains and blankets across Formica tables, tak ivy to the magnolia walls and display our wares. These photos do none of us justice, but were the best I could manage between customers, on a camera which needed me to rub its batteries on my thighs between shots - real girl power :o).

I was ensconced in the corner with my neighbour who makes strikingly patterned pottery. We normally snatch at conversation as we scuttle past one another, so it was lovely to have a whole day together and we spent a lot of it laughing.

Another neighbour, Damien Hackney of Oakleaf Jewellery, was there too (we are a crafty street).

Nomi sold her amazing artwork and jewellery and the music of Telling the Bees which cheered us all more than the usual Christmas jingles.

Danielle Barlow, who organised the fayre, sold her ever-popular cards, prints and original work.

Rima was there with her traveling Hermitage, selling wonders as ever, with the new and powerful lure (I succumbed) of a Rima Staines calendar.

And there were more, who escaped my dodgy photography when even the power of a maiden's thighs was not enough to recharge the batteries. Iah of Ecofreq sold tempting fabric cuffs and adornments; Sara sold handmade funky bags and books; Sonny of The Healing Hedgerow sold potions and lotions to cure and soothe (and washable sanitary towels which one lady mistook for spectacle cases) and Danielle's entire family plied us all with drinks and stollen. We all agreed we'd do it again next year :o).

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Pickle and I have been struggling. I had thought (in a fit of self-ignorance) that waiting for my surgery would teach me patience. Nope. Instead, I am learning how astonishingly deep my impatience goes. I have a consultation with a surgeon in January, but then it could be months before I get a surgery date. Also, a referral for an MRI but no word of that yet.

So, I am stressed and needing a bit of space to collect myself. Pickle, feeling me retreat slightly, clings on tight. Which leaves me feeling I have less space than before. She wants to reduce her nursery afternoons from 3 to 1 (I've booked 2 in case she changes her mind) and move her bed into my room. I've resolved to spend as long as it takes to sing her to sleep and just go to bed earlier and earlier if she spends all night in with me, scrabbling about and asking if it's morning yet. But the beds stay where they are. (For now.) I'm finding ways to be close with Pickle, to play uninterrupted by such inconsequential irritants as laundry and cooking. It's hard - often I'd rather read the paper or have a nap, or just wash up with enough quiet to think. Failing my girl is the thing which will tip me over the edge faster than anything else. I realised I was halfway down the cliff and called for help. She got ill. A very long night of vomiting (in my bed EVERY time!) for her and laundry for me. By the morning we were both ragged. The washing machine, laundry basket and bath were all full. Everything was cancelled. We were in quarantine and could do nothing but be together. It helped and she healed from her first advent chocolate breakfast. I am back at the top again, leaning dangerously, but still grasping tufts of seagrass with my toes. I don't know which way I'll tip, but I'll keep doing what I can to find safe ground for us both in the storms ahead. Last Christmas was tough. I'm hoping this one will be easier, but this second year hasn't been easier in general. January waits to pounce with the anniversary of Thomas dying and February with Valentine's Day and Pickle's birthday, which is a joy and a wounding because he should be there, at least on her special day. And then March and the rebalancing of the light and, I pray, my mind. Let's hope we're all still standing on the other side.