Tea cup Tuesday, not sure what to say.

This morning dawned bright and sunny. I made my tea in the kitchen and stayed for a while and watched as the sunshine found its way thru the hedge, reflected off the golden gong and onto my wall of post cards.Then I went upstairs, to be alone in my studio to gather my thoughts and write my morning pages.I opened the skylight fully to the cool breeze and the peaceful morning and listened as my neighbours said their hellos in my quiet little neighbourhood.I sat at my writing desk, full of photographs of my loves and took out my journal and sat staring at a blank page for several minutes.I guess the thing that’s on my mind the most is the Boston tragedy yesterday and how Chloe texted me the two words, “Boston Marathon”, and for a minute I thought she meant she’d like to run it. Then I turned on my pc and checked out the CBC headlines. So, while not wanting to add fuel to the media feeding frenzy and not wanting you, my dear friends to have doom and gloom form me, I must say that what’s on my mind the most is that there are people, children, who did not live to see the sun shine today and it makes me desperately sad.I made my tea almost subconsciously this morning. Put it into this gentle little Aynsley tea pot and grabbed this gentle little Colclough cup. Went outside and gathered a few spring flowers and cut up some strawberries, and then I went to choose a spoon.And I couldn’t choose one so I brought the whole pile upstairs with me thinking I’ll just make the decision up here.And as I sat here at my writing desk staring at the spoons, willing myself to write my morning pages, I realised I was looking at a UN of spoons and I smiled at the thought of how well they all get along in that little silver mint julep cup. How there is no choice as the cup is the only home they have. They sit there and coexist and tarnish together. How I wish all people in the world could live as simply as these little spoons and just coexist and tarnish and grow old together.We are not perfect, we are unedited versions making mistakes, needing help, needing love and tolerance and understanding, and a little bit of luck to make a go of it in this world, and the more love and tolerance we can show each other the calmer and richer the world will be for it.So I sat here and drank my tea and picked up a drawing pencil instead of my pen. And sketched unconsciously, not thinking about it, and it became a sidewinder, a poisonous coral snake, a king snake winding his way across the desert of my imagination. Not sure what that says about my thoughts today.Good luck world with the sidewinder in it. I’m sending you strength and hope and love, and to you my friends I’m sending peaceful gentle thoughts.Linking up with Terri of Artful Affirmations and letting her lovely tea cups lift my spirits too, and to Martha and praying right along with her, to Sandi at Rose Chintz Cottage and reliving the grand glory of the Titanic, and to Bernideen and thinking hmm, her tea cups almost match my little tea pot this week.

Ugh, Monday morning!

I’m not usually all “ugh, Monday morning!” but today was an exception. By 8am I made tea, took the garbage out, let in the house the The Rug Cleaning Company in Perth, moved furniture out of their way, and realised that not only were they going to make a racket with their shampooing machines and hoses, but the lawn service came next door and fired up their trimmers, mowers, blowers and all the other __owers they had. And then the garbage, recycling and green recycling trucks started their systematic beep-beeping reverse back lane pick up.And I realised Kerstin left me a dozen scrubby organic limes. I don’t like the taste of limes very much and have no idea what to do with them.There was only one thing for it: go hide in my loft studio.I call it a studio because it sounds nice to me, and it is my studio, but it’s also my office, my writing room, sewing room, craft room, and storage for photo props, equipment and Binky and Bunny’s toys, and, it was a mess.The thing is, this is my space, only mine, and no one is really welcome up here when I’m working, especially in this studio half, except with permission. So I decided that I should probably invest in myself a little and clean my space up. This decision was helped along beautifully by my friend Julie who wrote the loveliest manifesto, who in turn linked to this interesting girl, Gillian. So I cleaned up one half of the loft/office/studio.This is the half of the loft where the skylight makes for the best light to paint and so this is the studio half. In it are three great big desks and a large table. An easel which holds big canvases usually stands in the middle but is foldable and slips behind the roll top desk.I pulled out this inspiration board I made in 2009. It’s funny, mainly because I change the images I have around me so often, but this board still makes me happy. I still like to look at it. I wonder why I hide these things away. This one will stay out for a while now so I can look at it, but at the same time, I feel like making a new one. Haven’t made one in several years and I used to made them quite often. Anyone make inspiration boards out there anymore? I hope so.Here’s a little collage of the desks and table tops. Top left clockwise, nice things to play with inside the cubbies of the roll top desk to distract me from paying bills...lol, the French easel set up for use on the art table (it took me forever to sort out the pencils, pens, brushes, etc. I’m telling you right now, put things back where they belong after use, you’ll thank me later!), Fred the frog on my writing desk (he makes sure he looks stern so I write and don’t fool around, and here is the little owl which C made for me beside a fossil bowl full of iron pyrite and vintage lead and wooden stamps. For some reason I have a lot of iron pyrite around. I'm really drawn to it. I wonder what that means. (My grandmother always said I'm part magpie and she was probably right about that.)The roll top desk is where I pay bills, keep track of expenses, deal with business correspondence and calculate taxes, you know, all the yucky life stuff. And speaking of taxes, I guess I better get back to work. I’ll clean up and photograph the set/sewing/storage/craft part of the loft in a day or two. (when I get it looking presentable) :)I know I'm dreadfully and very unfashionably late but would still like to link up to Mary at Little Red House for Mosaic Mondays because it's a treat to visit as many of the gals as I can. In the meantime, anyone got any ideas what to do with a dozen scrubby looking organic limes? (No, I don't drink margaritas, mojitos, daiquiris or cosmos.) :)

This Sunday whirl is awash in mysticism...must have been the words (and that wall)

Yesterday C and I walked beside a beautiful wall webbed with Virginia creeper just starting to bud out red and lush. I told C that I really felt like writing a poem about that wall and she said, "Hey, what are the words?" The Words, as she calls them, are the Sunday whirl words posted on the FB page on Saturday. Most Saturdays I read the words to C and R and they tell me the first things on their mind as inspiration for my poem and then I usually go with something completely different...lol.So I read the words to C and she said, "Good luck with that one mom!"But reading the words over and over this morning I thought of The White Horse in Uffington. I love to walk that land and always feel a terrific happiness there. I took this photo of harebells growing at the ancient white bones of the horse.saturate, control, bold, unwind, sword, oftenskeptical, slight, might, sigh, ninth, thresholdI often climb the hill to the White Horse to unwind.To walk around his massive body, to rest beside it, to sketch and write and dream of the ninth century, of the Celts and of magic, of the maiden the mother and the crone.To sit on the damp grass and let the sun saturate me with warmth; the Vale stretching blue and violet, the horse shining white and bleached and bold in its green pasture flecked with daisies and harebells and butterflies.Walking close by is a woman. She doesn’t look back at her husband; there’s no need. She knows he is behind her by the familiar sounds his body makes as he exerts himself.He is skeptical about a line of rocks and resents being sent from the air-conditioned, captain’s chaired coach now cooling in the parking lot.He picks up a piece of the body, a bone white rock, a skeletal part of the horse’s back, passes it from hand to hand and tosses it in the grass scattering the crickets; the sweat from his forehead dripping off his chin.The day fractures and the breeze turns on itself catching a dandelion clock in midair, swirling the parachutes around and letting them float to the ground with a sigh.In the stillness of that moment she knows she has to leave. In that stillness I was sure that if she stayed her body might dip into the earth beneath her feet.I lift the stone in my hand and hold it in the breeze and wash it in the sun that has warmed it inside and out for so long, smoothed back the little loosings of powdery rough so when the breeze calls the horse again he’ll know which way to look.The man wheezes and turns to leave. He doesn’t realise that mounted in his hill of gold and green, the horse can’t call the breeze but only hears it breaking on his body and feels its aching pull.There’s nothing his wife can say. She follows in her mate’s footsteps across the meadows. He turns to see she is following and there’s a slight controlled smile on her lips as she glances back to me.She smiles to say I have to leave but I am still here. This is the threshold of my being. I am still made of that magic that I touched for a few moments today.And a sword held in the hand of the mother is passes to the hand of the crone deep within the barrow, turning the breeze from east to west along with the setting sun.

Rainy day...let it rain we say.

One thing’s for certain about April. One day it can balmy and warm and I’ll happily plant out little seedlings and the next day a massive windstorm blows in causing me to fear for their safety. Such a windstorm blew thru Vancouver this past Wednesday knocking out power for most of the day and playing havoc with the shallow rooted firs. And the windstorm has blown the clouds around and slammed them into the mountains where they gathered into a blackish-gray mass and it hasn’t stopped raining all day.It’s ok we say. What do we care when we can play and nap and have tea.

Happy birthday my sweet Clover...this post is going to go on for miles and miles and quite possibly make you hungry

Everyone who is my friend of FB already knows it was Chloe’s 21st birthday yesterday because I went on and on about it practically all day.But just in case you missed it, or if you’re not on my FB, (why on earth not... come be my friend), then here is a little look back at this most wonderful day.I drove up to C’s university and grabbed her and her friend Taylor for lunch at our local favorite restaurant Burgoo. Kerstie and the babies joined us...... and Binky gave C her prezzies.We shared Burgoo’s special fondue and Bunny had all the grapes.Then we had some more yummies: French onion soup for C......and muscles for me.Then I returned a very reluctant C and Taylor back for their two afternoon classes and a very important group media presentation which C’s had to present and caused her tummy to break out in a bad case of butterflies.But then it was over and we drove X-town, Adam, Kerstie, Bryson, Chloe and me, to Merchant’s Oyster Bar for supper. We were there but no Jonathan.Pastry chef Claire brought us some champagne. Not only is she beautiful but extremely talented and writes a wonderful food and craft blog liviasweets.com.Happy birthday clinks all round.But still no Jonathan!Oh here he comes. What is he like?Lovely, crusty French bread was brought on a cutting board sprinkled with sel de fleur.And Jonathan ordered drinks, wine and 24 oysters.The oysters, especially with champagne mignonette spooned on them, were absolutely out of this world delicious.Kerstie, Adam and the babies had a holiday at Parksville over Easter and Kerstie told us stories of gathering fresh oysters at low tide and eating them right at the beach and, later, barbecuing them for supper.Claire came back and took more orders for some cold appies.Jonathan ordered albacore tuna poke, bison tartare and cold roasted beet salad.Then Jonathan ordered more wine and roasted bone marrow...... flat iron steak, confit pork belly, salmon, and two orders of scalloped potatoes.There was so much yummy food!Jonathan went to talk to some friends and restaurant patrons and that may have been the wrong time......because just then Claire came with her amazing desert creations.We shared desert but, as the birthday girl, C got to lick the knife. (I know, I brought her up well!)We had the most amazing day/evening/togetherness fest and I just couldn’t stop taking photos of my beautiful three.The reason my heart beats, the loves on my life.

A rosy tea cup Tuesday with children

So you know how I go on about my URCs (ubiquitous rosy cups), and that I’m not so keen to use them? Well, seeing all your rosy prettiness from Tuesdays past has inspired me, so for this Tuesday I got some of my rosy prettiness out of the cupboard.Kerstie gave me this lovely three tiered rosy cake server for Christmas last year. It is called Fashion Rose from Staffordshire. Earlier in the day we were all feeling like having something sweet and creamy and stopped by our favorite bakery for treats, so it seemed like the perfect time to have a rosy tea party with the babies.The tea cups I chose were, left to right, Tudor Rose by Collingwoods, America Beauty by Royal Albert, and Adderley.The little gold finch cake server was on loan from Kerstin who just bought it at a church bazaar for $5.I’ve had these bone china children’s nursery rhyme cups for nearly 30 years and the children used them for tea when they were little. I always thought that the one is Tom, Tom the Piper’s son and the other is Five Current Buns, but I might be wrong.Binky gets milk, she’s a little too little for tea and the pastry sugar buzz will be bad enough without adding caffeine..lol. Milk is poured from Mrs. Marmalade Cat’s milk jug.Let the tea party begin!Linking up with Terri of Artful Affirmations and thinking, “that’s a spectacularly pretty tea cup!”, and to Martha and feeling so happy about her good news, to Sandi at Rose Chintz Cottage , loving all that delicious cream tea wonderfulness, and to Bernideen and thinking, “wow, this girl has so much cool stuff!”I’m so glad you stopped by. :)

Come walk around the garden with me

Morgan’s up for a little walk, she’s not impressed by the glorious ranunculus at the kitchen door, I am, how about you?On the back patio I’ve started cleaning out and replanting the blue pots; so far this year in hot pink and red geraniums.Most of you know I call C “Clover”. So she loves clover and has chosen to grow this beautiful little plant in its own special blue pot.Guess what I found in the very back of the garden, in last year’s forgotten carrot pot. Brand new, sweet and crispy carrots. The pot needed to be emptied and cleaned so the carrots had to be harvested, but what a little treasure we got for tonight’s salad.In the back flower garden the muscari have gone a bit crazy. This year I’ve been giving clumps to friends and relatives.Milo likes to guard the hole in the hedge where the aggressive orange cat sometimes sneaks thru. Not on his watch!Here are the trilliums from the shade garden. I’m not sure how everyone else feels but to me there’s something so romantic and special about them. Such a fragile West Coast plant and so protected that you rarely see it in the wild. Mine did not come from the wild; they came from my late aunt’s garden.But the star of my early April garden is the camellia tree. Almost as tall as the house, with flowers the size of side plates, it never gets rusty in the rain, never drops its buds, and blooms its little heart out for me.I’m sorry but I do own the most beautiful camellia in the world! Ok, in Vancouver then...ok, in my hood.Thanks for coming with me. :) See you tomorrow.

Sunday whirl, got my act together this week!

Oh boy, it’s difficult to have a story line in my head that has little to do with the Sunday whirl words, but I persevered and hope this try doesn’t disappoint.merge, project, activate, technology, unity, mantra,smudge, sing, delicious, inquisitive, urge, stellarIn the crush of the people who merge from different corners of London into Victoria Station, a forced unity of technology, the evening exodus on the 19:35 to Haywards Heath, across the aisle from me is a girl with unbelievable hands.They are pale, which suits her, and graceful and smooth and look like they sing fluent piano, even with thick rings of blue and green and one with silver butterflies fluttering together with every movement, tinkling on the correct fingers.She slips the rings off in some urge to be free and lays them all on the table in front of her.The butterfly ring rolls around the table and she stands it up and forgets it, and it rolls over the edge with the curve of the train and tinkles to the floor.She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind but studies her hands which flit in front of her face now like messenger pigeons; her fingers project forward and fold to her palms in a delicious rhythm influenced by the swooshing of the train.I watch her hands reflecting in my window although I think she might know because there is nothing past the window but the stellar night, so I wipe at a smudge to guard that I am watching at all.She checks the articulation of her fingers according to the diagrams open in front of her and continues with her graceful mantra, every sign mirrored, not that I would understand the difference.As the train stops at Gatwick she picks up her rings and folds the patterns of speech and secrets them into the pocket of her peacoat.I notice the butterfly ring on the floor as she begins to walk away and bend down on one knee to retrieve it.“Miss, I think this is yours.” I call out after her, but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t hear.She steps from the train to the platform of the active station and into her soundproof dark.She throws one inquisitive look to the window and I, looking back, don’t know what to say.

Where she yarn bombs Binky and Bunny

Kerstie, Chloe and I went to a church bazar this morning and came up trumps! A whole box of knitted bits for $5.When we're finished yarn bombing the babies we will wrap and knit the bits around the old apple tree in the back corner of the garden and show it some love. :)

Belong, Belonging, Beloved. A little love letter to us, my Wordsmith Studio friends, on our first anniversary.

Yesterday I finally fell into work in the studio. I set all projects aside and simply created from my heart, created for you and for this post.I love improvisational work, nothing feels better or truer.It can be hard to let go, to be free, to be true. This kind of work is dangerous. What if people don’t like it? What if you...who are so important to me and so in my heart... what if you don’t like it? But it’s the purest offering I can give you.Let’s talk about this insane thing we did. A year ago this April, we came together, complete strangers, over a challenge to grow our on-line presence at Robert Brewer’s My name is not Bob blog.We took a chance. We built our platforms, we circled each other, we followed each other, we read each other and we liked each other...but then we found out that we really did like each other and we started to support each other, to share more than just our work.We come from different corners of the world and every walk of life, but when we are asked what are we doing this for, our answers are:Because it makes us happy.Because it makes others happy.Because, as our skills develop, we can feel ourselves developing as writers, as poets, as artists, as photographers.Because the language of our art is ancient and we want to speak it proficiently.Because we always knew we would do creative work.Because at one point in our lives we decided to finally do what we wanted to do all along.Because we never want to give up.Because what we do takes courage.Because we believe there is value in being vulnerable.Because sharing is good.Because it makes us laugh and cry.Because it’s good for our soul.Because we believe in each other.Because we love to and because we want to, and each time we are asked we think of seventeen more reasons.And sometimes the work is not a joy, sometimes it is forced and no one, including our own brave little heart, believes we can do it, but we carry on.Here we all are together, birds of a feather.And tomorrow we will be braver and work on, and tomorrow we will be less tired and tomorrow we will share some more of our hearts with each other.And we will create.In the end it’s the best way we know how to give.A careless unveiling and then, and then we will stand in the light and shine.And to my heart we belong together in our group.In my heart you are worthy of belonging and you are beloved.