Artist's Date

It's "August Long" in most of Canada.  This morning I'm off to visit friends on a small acreage south of Calgary.  We'll talk, laugh, stitch, weave, knit, sketch, play with paint and dye, look at art, nap, eat fresh foods and enjoy each other.

But before I leave, I want to share this gift, shared with me and so many others on Facebook by the wonderful Parker Palmer.  He always seems to know when the world needs a bit of Mary Oliver...

A Good Friday Poem...for Parents

It's Good Friday today.  God's Friday.

And as so often happens on a Christian holiday/holy day, I search out poetry to help me sort my thoughts and feelings.  This year I stumbled upon this one here, posted by an author named Ellen Painter Dollar.  I don't know her or her work, but from a brief read of her biography, she's dealt with issues similar to those in my life: faith, disability and parenting.

In the past year the impact of this challenging combination on my life and the lives of my children has become ever more evident to me...and so this work by Wendell Berry speaks to my heart today.

I share it here for those Gentle Readers who might find solace and support in his words.

Easter cannot come without Good Friday.

The Way of Pain 

For parents, the only way
is hard. We who give life
give pain. There is no help.
Yet we who give pain
give love; by pain we learn
the extremity of love.

I read of Abraham’s sacrifice
the Voice required of him,
so that he led to the altar
and the knife his only son.
The beloved life was spared
that time, but not the pain.
It was the pain that was required.

I read of Christ crucified,
the only begotten Son
sacrificed to flesh and time
and all our woe. He died
and rose, but who does not tremble
for his pain, his loneliness,
and the darkness of the sixth hour?
Unless we grieve like Mary
at His grave, giving Him up
as lost, no Easter morning comes.

And then I slept, and dreamed
the life of my only son
was required of me, and I
must bring him to the edge
of pain, not knowing why.
I woke, and yet that pain
was true. It brought his life
to the full in me. I bore him
suffering, with love like the sun,
too bright, unsparing, whole.

                     - Wendell Berry

Too Pretty? Too Precious?

I've worked "small" for some time now...and seem to discover my niche with the creation of 5" x 7" "miniatures" since making a piece for the first "Spotlight" silent auction SAQA fundraiser at the Santa Fe conference in 2013.

I've lost track of how many I've made since then, but suffice it to say it's been a few dozen...and I'm currently making another few pieces for a local gift/antiques/collectibles shop that has agreed to take a chance on me.

Today I finished the one I had under construction earlier in the week.  Clearly the original, nearly-finished version needed something --  and I didn't think my machine could do it so I turned to hand stitch.  This took several hours.  I blended two strands of DMC floss in two different colours to get the effect I wanted.  Then, once the 'branches' (or twigs) were in place, I could see that the impression of bush needed to appear in the background and again, I knew my machine couldn't do it; I had to do it by hand.  This is the result:

Wishing Pond - (C) 2014

I have one more piece in the "nearly-finished" position -- "Winter Dinette".  It emulates "January Afternoon" from last year -- but has berries on the trees for a pop of red.  I marked the 'pops' out with red marker and then realized...no.  Tiny beads were needed...and so I have begun:

Winter Dinette - WIP (2014)

Winter Dinette - Detail (2014)

I began to wonder if I was taking too much time over these pieces, which will sell for no more than $35 retail, and of that, there will be commission to pay...

And so I went for a jog to clear my head and relax my body -- and I listened to a podcast -- "Writer's Almanac" with Garrison Keillor.  In the entry for October 28, Mr. Keillor read this poem...

I Love all Beauteous Things*

I love all beauteous things,

      I seek and adore them;

God hath no better praise,

And man in his hasty days

      Is honoured for them.

I too will something make

      And joy in the making;

Altho’ to-morrow it seem

Like the empty words of a dream

      Remembered on waking.

*Robert Bridges (1844-1930)

..and I knew I was doing the right thing by taking time and attending to details.  It's all about the process, eh?  :-)

P. S. Linking to Off the Wall Friday over at Nina-Marie's, because it's been too long since I've done so.  See you!

Captivated

When I run/jog, I like to listen to my iPod.  (Best Mother's Day gift from my kids -- perhaps ever!)  One of my favourite programs is Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac.  Each five or so minutes long, I listen to them in clusters.  At the end of each clip he reads a poem; this morning I heard the one for July 20 -- "Porcupine at Dusk" by Ingrid Wendt.




The second-last stanza held me captive:

              "...[the porcupine]...disappears at last into cattails
                                      and rushes, sunset, a vespers
                                      of waterbirds, leaving me
                                      still unwilling to move."

I came home and made this:

"Vespers" - 9" x 9" (c) 2012

I was just walking along...

When the Muse struck. I've been taking an online course from Christine at Abbey of the Arts; as a result, the ears of my heart and mind have been more open to the leading of the Muse (what I call the artistic aspect of the Holy Spirit). today, between rainstorms, I grabbed an hour and went for a brisk walk along the Alix Nature Trail. Along the way, I had an encounter, and when I got home, I wrote this:

The Buck and the Crone

A long moment they stood,

looking deeply

into each other's eyes:

he, sporting a rack,

the stubby velvet antlers of youth;

she, a widening waist
and furrowed brow,

sweaty now

despite the cool weather.

She broke first,

turning back the way she'd come,

around a corner, but

only a little pace along,

and back again.

There he remained.

She spoke softly,

"Do you want to get by?"

Still, silence.

"I won't hurt you."

She moved forward;

he turned

as if to lead her down the trail, but

seeming to have second thoughts,

walked into the long grass.

She passed the spot;

over her shoulder

his white tail waved 'good-bye'.

-- GMB, Alix Lake, August 13, 2010.

You May Be Right --

I may be crazy. (To quote Billy Joel.) To wit: I just submitted three (count 'em!) poems to the FreeFall Magazine's annual prose and poetry contest. I took the plunge before the little voices in my head could talk me out of it. All I can do now is calm my pounding heart and wait for the results.

Wish it were as easy to do as all that.