spring tears and feeding the ravens

I woke up this morning with a day off and what happened? Preparing my breakfast, I literally bashed my head into a kitchen cupboard as I was getting up on a chair to reach something high up. Pulling a bag of frozen chocolate chips from the freezer, I iced my head while the tears flowed. Sometimes I think I'm moving too fast to catch up with myself and it really does take a bonk on the head to feel my own heart. After that, I stepped outside to walk, only to discover that it feels like the first day of spring. After months of cold and winter, the sun today shines warmth onto our heads. In spite of the beautiful, long-awaited for spring weather, I've been weepy for most of the day. Not dramatic tears; not tears that actually stem from anything in particular. But honest tears that come from somewhere. Does it matter that I dig for the source? I don't think so. They are, I suppose, tears of joy and tears of sadness and tears of winter gone and tears of spring come. I am reminded that so often I feel I need to be strong; to have something valuable to contribute, to be a warrior for the things I live for. And... it's equally important to feel weak sometimes.



One of my errands today required that I pull one of my paintings from its frame and bring it to a shop to be scanned. It's one of my own paintings; of a joyous woman feeding the ravens. She is explosive and energetic; the opposite of how I feel today. But she is inside me somewhere, or I would not have been able to paint her. And she reminds me of home. Home is a city of ravens. On this first teary-eyed day of spring, I invite the woman who feeds the ravens to visit again. For today I am not on anyone's schedule but my own.

Found childhood treasures

In thinking of my childhood, I see two rooms; one room is filled with the turbulence and excitement and laughter of a household of nine and a neighbourhood where in one city block, we could count over one hundred children. The other room I see is the place where I would escape to whenever I could; a place where I found a quiet place and stepped into the stories I read. There I entered castles, underwaters, treetops, towers and and caves.


Whenever I step into a second hand shop, I find myself instinctively searching through the books, looking for illustrations that might kindle those daydreaming hours of my childhood. As children, we leafed through a set of green books called "My Book House". Book one begins with simple lullabies, book two with poetry, book three with faerie tales and on it goes. The books were published in the 1950's and early 1960's, around the time I was growing up. While stepping into a small and junk-filled second hand shop the other day, I came across two of the "green books". They have been battered and torn and worn but that made no difference to me. I snatched them up as greedily as a person might snatch up a sweet bun, after abstaining from sweets for weeks. I also saw a red hat that took my fancy, with a tiny brim of paper flowers around its crown. It seemed to go with the books; fanciful, childlike and playful. The moment I arrived home, I began leafing through the pages. I found a poem my father used to sing to us about blackbirds. I saw (and remembered how it had delighted me as a child) an illustration of an old man whose beard was so voluminous, a number of critters had made their home in his beard. And a girl walking among the owls; her cape flowing like wings into the sky. These battered books are like the carrier pigeons of my childhood. I welcome their messages and notes with open arms. It seems to me that inspiration can come in many forms. And for only a few dollars, I can bring myself to a gentler place. Some might call me frivolous. But I'm sure Jane Eyre would approve and applaud the few purchases!

Creativity Disguised as Jane Eyre and Tea

So many things seem to have been transpiring against me lately in terms of keeping up with this blog. I lost my camera, which was definitely a set-back, though until I replace it, I've resorted to taking pictures from my cell phone. The main setback, of course, is that time-consuming thing called "earning a living". But that is not the focus of my ramblings today. Rather, it is the story of my search for creativity, when the hours of the day close so quickly around me. And when, after work, I find myself plopping down in the evenings,somewhat depleted of energy. While I was working as a full-time artist, I could not only find the creative impulse but also transform it into something tangible. How much harder it is to cultivate something I cannot see; something that does not become actualized, but rather remains in the world of ideas and emotion. Or does it? Let me consider what becomes of my creativity when I unable to create a piece of art. To begin with, for a few months now I have been reading all of the Bronte sisters novels, in my evenings. I've read novels by Ann, Emily and now Charlotte. The words and language that these amazing women write are nothing short of delicious. Their characters have incredibly rich inner lives. I am, at this moment, half way through Jane Eyre. Jane is a working woman and does not have the luxury of oodles of free time. Yet she exudes the mind of an artist; simply by her manner of observation and keen reflection on all that surrounds her and all she experiences. I too, am capable of intentional observation; I too (I tell myself as I place down the book each night) am able to absorb the world through artist eyes. How do I cultivate this? Sometimes through keeping a graphic journal; sometimes by sitting with a friend on Saturday afternoons and discussing our challenges and joys; sometimes by throwing together a batch of muffins in an effort to use up a zucchini that is looking rather wilted in my fridge. And then, finally, with a cup of tea at the end of the day, celebrating the moment by reading another chapter of Jane Eyre.

the creative act of noticing

I've spent the last few months moving to a new city and beginning a new job. It has been a bit overwhelming at times. For someone who always manages to carve time into each day for art-making, this has been quite a shift. Yet I value the perspectives this gives me. How can I remain creative in my every day when each work day is (when taking into account my commute), ten hours? I've decided that I will make a creative practice out of simple observation. Sometimes those observations will become integrated into art and sometimes not. Last night it snowed a few inches, covering everything in that clean, white blanket of snow we all love. On my way down to a church service, I noticed that only one person before me had broken trail on the sidewalk. The lone person had walked the four blocks, weaving and the entire length. I naturally added my footsteps to theirs and, in doing so, made the foot path even more of a noticeable weave. After the service, as I clumped up the hill, I noticed that a dozen or more footprints had been added. And each person, to my amazement, reinforced the integrity of the original path, zigzags in tact. I don't know why no one attempted to straighten the path, but I love the fact that no one did. Eventually, with people coming outdoors to shovel their walks, it will inevitably change. But for a few hours, strangers all silently agreed to enjoy the whimsical nature of the original walker. Maybe that's how it sometimes works. Maybe if the first person is bold enough to explore a new and joyful way of walking, others will follow. I did. And apparently, so did a dozen others.

My second act of noticing came in the form of tea-leaves. My friend and I were sharing a cup of tea and, as I like to use loose leaves, when my cup was empty, the leaves had formed themselves into a shape. It seemed to me to be a woman, sitting reading a book. The image stayed with me and a week or so later, I carved a small print of that same image.

one of a kind lapel pins

I've made these pins from vintage lace, vintage buttons, wool felt, raw and hand dyed wools from Ireland, wool tweed jacket scraps, and tidbits pulled from vintage hats and dresses.

moon through the window

The other night I was sitting on the couch, feeling a bit tired and worn, just having put the polishing touches on the day. And when I looked out of my front window, I noticed the moon was shining directly through a glass ornament I had hung from the window over the Christmas holidays. (The truth is, I have a number of places in the house where I've left up the decorations. It's part laziness and partly that I like the way the ornaments look.) These are two pictures I took, ten minutes from each other. These are small blessings; these windows that bring me the moon.

plum jam

I've made plum jam every year for years, from a plum tree in what is now my mother's back yard. Years ago, it was my back yard. We had transplanted a plum tree from the bush and my Italian neighbour grafted the tree with a branch from his own plum tree. This year, we must've had over a hundred dusty-blue plums... or "plooms", as my wonderful now ninety-year-old neighbour pronounces it. Each year, I skin the plums and make the plum jam and though it tastes delicious, it always looks a bit brownish in colour. This year, I did not peel the plums. Instead I simply cut them in half, added a cup of honey and a bit of agar-agar. I brought the mixture to a boil and then poured it into two large jars. The colour is so amazing.... a brilliant, deep purple-red. It's a bit like the colour of red currents. And it also tastes amazing. I love it on toast with a nice nice of swiss cheese on top.