Cosmic Dancer and Blackberry Squeezer

Cosmic Dancer by Thomas Hine, now appearing in an Etsy shop near you.

We are back into a new term-time schedule. I am remembering what I like about that, such as being able to write during the day, returning to Forest School to find it full of mushrooms, and walking into Pickle's nursery to find her deeply focussed on playing a steel drum. I am also remembering how very much Pickle hates having her flow interrupted because I want her to be elsewhere. Sometimes it is important that she be given unlimited time to sit on the floor snipping and taping bits of card and any suggestion that she might need to stop can create a banshee response. Pickle is a girl who knows her mind, as all the best of us do. 

However hard it is to get out the door, I am glad to have these bits of time now. I can feel the dark loom of my wedding anniversary approaching and am already spiralling down. It is good to vent some of my maddest moments while Pickle is impressing her teachers with her new-found number skills or (right now) attending a dog birthday party with her Gappy.

On the very last day of our holiday we went to a fantastic event in the woods. Everyone who's anyone in these parts, and several of us who aren't, gathered for a day of wonder. Chagford bloggers were out in force... but we have all been sworn to secrecy... for now...

And since, we have progressed from T-rex brownies to T-rex gluten free flatbreads and the most delicious blackberry tea picked from our garden and squeezed by a delighted Pickle through muslin. Here she is enjoying the leftover mush with yoghurt. Our table may never be the same again.

Last night I went out (I was shocked too!) to an African dance class. We learned a Zimbabwean harvest dance, complete with brow-wiping and snuff-taking-then-sneezing moves. I loved it, but it made me confront how unfit I am. Luckily I only have to harvest blackberries and cherry tomatoes, although Pickle has grand plans for her garden next year.

Other than that, I have been painting in the evenings as usual and will show you the results soon. I think I need to do lots of these little posts to catch up with myself.

Harvesting

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!

What I REALLY want to be doing

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

Cosmic Mother

OK. Brace yourselves. We're going into what may seem weird territory for some... But if you've started reading a post called 'Cosmic Mother', you're probably not scared easy.

So. Another painting by yours truly. And this one has a story, which I will tell a little tentatively because it has fronds reaching to the very core of my heart. 

Cosmic Mother

Oil on Canvas

16"x16"

I was on a course run by Eagle's Wing Centre for Contemporary Shamanism. 

Amongst other acts of crazy sanity, we buried ourselves alive. Yes. We dug our own graves and, like the free-thinking, independent warriors that we are, we followed instructions to get into them at sunset, lie down... and listen to the earth being shoveled over our wood and tarp roofs. The sound of soil hitting my roof in ever-quieter thuds and sprinkles may never leave me. I have rarely been so grateful to have recently peed. 

And then the strangest thing happened: I stopped feeling scared. In fact, I felt safer than usual; comforted, like a baby.

The Earth was holding me, I realised, not in her arms as she normally does when I walk her surface, but deeply in her womb. I felt a breadth of love I have only had sniffs of with people, even my very loving human mum.

And then... I knew. I had the most curious Russian-doll feeling that I was a baby in the womb of the Cosmic Mother and in my womb... Oh. So that's why the digging was so hard.

And the best feeling, of being able to express this booming love I was receiving, washed through me. I was a holy conduit calling into me the love of the universe and flowing it into the child I carried.   I was a mother.

All night I blissed and loved and dozed in this Russian-doll blessing. I spoke with my child; my boy. Not words; not mind; just a connection so I could sing my love into his tiny, tiny body and he could let me know how urgently he had wanted to contact me. Every time I recall his urgency I am so grateful to have had this unique experience. So grateful.

And at dawn, when others eagerly fled their graves, I was reluctant. I feared losing the love I'd felt. And, anyway, I didn't feel like breakfast. 

But, of course, the love stayed strong and is with me still.

My boy - he has a name, but I will hold that close to my chest for now - is not with me. When I was ten weeks pregnant he left. And I grieved like I had known him all my life.

And so I learned that the love of the Cosmic Mother is not pretty and easy and sweet in the way we often use the word. It is vast and powerful and sometimes terrifying. It is all truth and no mercy. And still I am grateful.

Perhaps, without the burial that night, I would have escaped the bereavement I experienced. But I would never have met my son. And what mother would choose to not know her child? Not this one.

The love I experienced that night now guides me, sometimes minute by minute, in the raising of my healthy, happy daughter.

I wish you all the luck to feel such love and the courage to withstand it.