Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Small as I was, I could not bring a cake, or make a sandwich. I was not helping haul out benches to the hilltop under the spreading maple, not gingerly carrying chiming cups and saucers by the pile nor supporting urns slopping over with hot coffee or tea for the gathered friends and family there to celebrate another year of shared work, laughter and community.
But oh, how I wanted a slice of cake, some home-made squares, and lemonade by the gulp. So I asked if I could help somehow. And was sent out to the meadow. Come back with all the flowers you can carry. An empty bucket was set in the middle of the round mill stone girt in an iron band that we were going to use as a table outside. It was mine to fill.
Down the rocky road in bare feet, over two bridges and out of sight, through the creaky gate (close the gate, close the gate!) and into the hot summer strawberry field dappled with quietly chewing cows.
The cows didn't mind me, just flapped an ear, turned an eye to follow where I went, following colour anywhere it appeared. I have no idea still what they were called, the blooms I gathered, but an armful wasn't enough. I tucked the bundles into my shirt I and only stopped gathering when I could barely grasp its hem over the stems. White lace in abundance, and yellow bobs of flowers so heavy they bent double in the grass; Prickly tickly fuzzy gray stalks with purple-blue bells catching sunlight, facing up, bright pink in the bottom of the cup, yellow suns turned up, some turned down, orange wispies on whisper thin stems, the bright boldness of a froth of yellow, and when I dared, with my hand wrapped in my shirt, a bold thistle or two to stand above the crowd.
I knew, as I walked back, peering at the path through the cloud of colour in my arms, that this bundle of colour, this joyful riot I brought would make the whole gathering better. Happier. More of a celebration.
And I was pretty sure it was worth at least two pieces of cake.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
I spent some time looking at quotes and drawing as many liquid things as I could bring to mind. And then when I stopped thinking about it this relaxed feline just appeared.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
I thought immediately back to primary school and the inevitable tradition of planting a bean, watching it hopefully for evidence of change.
These days the sprouts come home in coffee cups, but what I remember is a bean in a glass jar, held in place against the glass by damp paper towel. It was our job to wet the paper every day, and impatiently check for any change.
The future is not some grand, distant scenario into which we step; it is the seed, the wet paper towel, and it inches toward us with every small action we take to make it grow.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Friday, February 1, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
As we send the pen across our paper, we make stories visible, even if at times they are unintelligible.
We walk our own story line. The inner selves with which we meet outer events becomes etched on our own faces, in our bodies, via the posture with which we carry our selves through the day to meet circumstances, and our habitual expressions.
My grandmother had a wonderful collection of lines, and I loved watching them, mobile as her face played and replayed the emotions that belonged to the story she was telling me at the time. She used to shrug at all the creams and lotions advertised to minimize wrinkles. Yes, but then how do folks know what kind of person you are? It's not having a line-free face that is desirable, after all. Just the right kinds of lines.
We read the characters here by their postures, what their faces tell us, and as they are depicted in the same space, we join them with invisible, imagined lines of story.