My First White Wednesday

I have seen many beautiful posts on colour themes as I flit through blogland…Blue Mondays…Pink Saturdays, but have not yet taken part in one of these events. When I happened upon ‘Faded Charm’, and saw that Kathleen graciously hosts White Wednesday, I thought it was time to join in the fun!

.

Having moved from Northern Ireland to Eastern Canada, and then later across the country to west coast Vancouver, we seemed always to be paring down our family possessions. I am grateful that one of the few things my mother refused to give up was my christening layette, complete with its bonnet, undergarment and exquisitely detailed vest.

It is a true thing of beauty, my christening ensemble...a little yellowed with age, but no less glorious than the day it was bought. I marvel that my parents were able to outfit me so splendidly in those hard days of postwar Britain. It would have taken many months of putting away every spare farthing for them to afford it, and we barely managed to get by at the best of times.

Ours was not always the happiest home throughout my childhood, but my heart takes comfort in knowing how proud Mum and Dad were of me from the start.

With my mother, Esther Anne.
Belfast, N. Ireland, 1947

It is a wonderful coincidence that the only extant baby pictures of me are ones taken on my christening day. My mother and grandmother, both named Esther Anne, posed with me in the tiny garden behind my Gran’s row house.

My intent has always been to have the gown cleaned and mounted in a shadow box…but procrastination dogs me relentlessly, and too many projects get put on hold!

I am working on changing that!

With my grandmother, Esther Anne.
Belfast, N. Ireland, 1947

Having brought this treasure out of hiding, I 'm determined to look into archival display options. I promise to post the finished product when it’s ready! Please check back and hold me accountable for this promise! I'll conquer procrastination, yet...
.

Many thanks to Kathleen for hosting this wonderful chance to get together!

.

To see more of White Wednesday, or to visit Kathleen's charming blog, 'Faded Charm', please click on the link below...
.

http://fadedcharmcottage.blogspot.com/
.

Serendipitous Friday

In art, as in life, serendipity often plays a part...

On a prowl through local thrift shops last Friday, I came across a chunky picture frame. It had no glass, but was the colour of fresh cream, and was beautifully and intricately carved. At the price of two dollars, I considered it a bargain. In the next shop I visited, only a small bag of sphagnum moss caught my eye. As it was just ninety-nine cents, I decided to buy it, though I had no plan in mind to use it.

.
I’ve developed a passion for chubby brown birds, so upon finding this lovely girl in a third store, I was quick to pay the dollar she cost, and nestled her into my carry bag with the frame and the moss. The beginnings of an idea began to form in my head…

.
Since it seemed a meager day for treasure hunting, I headed home, stopping by a little nursery on the way just to have a peek.
.
As I went by the counters, my eye caught sight of this adorable baby. Instantly, I knew I had a project! At four ninety-eight the tiny bird was more than my other three purchases of the day combined, but worth every penny.
.

Once home, I gathered up coordinating paper to cover the edges and insides of the frame. A seedpod picked up from under my neighbour’s Japanese maple tree, and my standby matte medium were all I needed after that.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

In no time at all, this shadowbox came together. To finish it off, I wrote ‘fly’ in scrabble tiles over my little family, demonstrating the compelling mix of pride and sadness we all feel when it’s time for our own little ones to leave the nest!
.

My nine dollars spent gave me a fun project to make, and brings a smile to my face each time I pass it.

.

It is also a good reminder that not only do children have to fly; we momma birds must also spread our wings and soar as high as our imagination can possibly take us…
.

Finn Slough

My camera has become my ally in slowing down this busy life. I often seem to hurtle through my days, so intent on what needs done that many small and beautiful moments pass by largely unnoticed.

I may observe that the sun rising through fog has an odd coral glow. I may glance over at tidy rows of coloured pencils and be pleased by their order...but these are momentary distractions only, quickly cast aside in pursuit of whatever goal the day demands of me.

.To make time pause in its tracks, I turn to my camera. I've learned that photography involves more than calculating f-stops or reading the manual from cover to cover.

To make meaninful shots, we must first learn how to see, not as automatic a response as it would seem. Our world moves swiftly, propelling us along with it.

We've learned to snap off a quick picture before our child scoots away again, and to take countless shots because our memory card allows it. We don't pay much attention with camera in hand...we'll see the results later.
.

But if we hesitate a little..take the time to really look at the face we are about to record or the flower that has caught our attention, the image imprints on our brain and can find its way to our heart before we even press the shutter. In that moment, we connect with the world in a slower, more meaningul way.

.

.


We are currently exploring place, my camera and I, in particular the places people call home. The word means something different to each of us, but though locations may change and styles may vary, home is univerally considered the place where we can be ourselves

without censure, and can surround ourselves with the people we love and the things we cherish.
.

We recently came upon a unique community on the south arm of the Fraser River. Historic Finn Slough began life a hundred years ago. Today, it is the last working fishing village on the Fraser River
and home to roughly fifty people who live
and work in a manner closely linked to their heritage.

.




Imbued with a palpable sense of history and times past, weathered homes on stilts and floats lie nestled in the slough, some accessible only by a rickety wooden drawbridge. Although close to Richmond and Vancouver, this village has a charm and simplicity that set it well apart from the modern urban areas that crowd around it and threaten it's future.

.

I know I'll be drawn back to this oasis often, lured by the memory of ducks rooting through the marshland and a landscape changed hourly by the tides and the river light.

.

I can only hope it will still be there waiting for me...

.

The Young of Belfast

Though religious conflict was always a part of my childhood in Northern Ireland, it did not erupt into violence and death until after we had emigrated to Canada. From across the sea, I watched in horror as the Troubles escalated and families lost their children, their security and their way of life. I have always been grateful that I did not have to raise my sons in that state of oppression. My heart still breaks for the mothers who did, and who suffered horrendous loss because of it.
.

I am not a poet, but was moved to write this piece in 1985 after watching yet another mother grieve for her son, his life now reduced to a headline on the evening news...

The Young of Belfast

Suckled on mistrust, the young of Belfast

learn early to hate.

They know fear from the first nervous clutch

of a mother's arms,

And anger from the stiff, defensive line

of a father's back.

Rage is their heritage; a birthright passed

on from generations

long nurtured on the feast of prejudice.

Through streets divided,

memory dogs their steps with practiced zeal.

Young mouths taunt...

Young hands hurl rocks in a battle that was

promised to them

long before they were born to wage it.

Children fight children

in imitation of hurts both real and unreal,

and childhood games

meld into the adult world of reality.

.

More than bodies lie wasted in the struggle.

Dreams fall to ruin

beside innocence early vanquished;

and victory gained

only serves to lock the narrow cells of embittered minds

that shroud themselves in righteousness.

Good soldiers all,

the young of Belfast obey rules they

were not free to choose.

In this war of liberation, they have become

the true wounded...

.

The photo above is one I took of the many murals still seen on walls throughout Belfast..grim reminders of a time when violence so easily conquered reason.

I've Got Mail!

Last month, the talented Natalie at 'Tins and Treasures' hosted a giveaway to celebrate her birthday, and I was the lucky winner!

.

In a twist of coincidence, Natalie's box, complete with birthday confetti, arrived just in time for my birthday.

.

And what a treat this gift was to open...

filled to the brim with sweet treasures

all pink-wrapped and beribboned!
.

I love this spoon rest...it is

going into use immediately.

.

The floral theme

continued with a clipboard,
notebook, cards and tags, all

in the same girly pink...

so pretty!
.

I must admit, my

reader's heart quickened

when I came to this wonderful vintage book:
'The Teen-Ager's Menu Cookbook'.

It comes complete with Market Lists,

Timing and Utensils Needed. I could

have used this when I was learning to cook.

.

Hmmm...I could use it now. I wonder how

my boys would like Toad-In-The-Hole?
.

For indulgence and relaxation,

these chocolate masques promise

a way to escape for a while, and

come back refreshed...
.
As if that wasn't enough,

this charming little necklace and

exquisite lace ornament were
nestled into the midst of everything else!
.

Natalie... your generosity and

thoughtfulnes touched

my heart and made my birthday

extra special. Thank you! I'm delighted to

have you as a friend...
.

To see more of Natalie's lovelies, stop by her blog and have a good visit. I know she will make you feel right at home...
.

http://tinsandtreasures.blogspot.com/

http://tinsandtreasures.etsy.com/
http://nataliesnotions.etsy.com/

.

My Sister...My Friend

.

When I was twenty, our mother announced she was expecting a baby. My brother Martin, three years older than me and living on his own, was as surprised as I was by this news. In her forty-second year, Mum seemed to us decidedly middle-aged. She smoked to excess, loved her nip of rye, and played bingo four nights a week to get out of the house. In the colourful sixties, while I sported mini skirts and disco boots, Mum wore prim wool suits with stockings to work, and still pined for the extended family we’d left behind in Ireland. It was almost impossible for us to picture her pregnant.
.
Ours had rarely been a happy home. My parents fought loudly and often, alternately going weeks at a time when they would not speak to each other at all. Timid and amenable, I was groomed early as the go-between. “Tell you father he can get his own dinner tonight” was a common message I got to relay, being then expected to carry back his profane response, rephrased in words I was allowed to use. Alone in Canada without family or support system, the four of us stumbled in chaos through the years, each hurting in ways large and small, yet knowing no other way of life.
.
The birth of my sweet and lovely sister changed the family dynamic forever. Joyous event that this was, it could not, of course, fix our life of discord. With time, the rift between our parents became irreparable. When Nikki was four, Dad moved out of town, Mum became seriously ill, and Nikki came home with my husband and I. She was to stay on with us until she was finished school and ready to tackle life on her own terms. With my first child only three weeks old, I became the instant mother of two.
.
I loved my new sister from the moment I set eyes on her tiny face. Folding her into our little family when my parents could no longer raise her was the natural thing for us to do, and something we have never regretted for a minute. In the years that followed, there were both good times and bad, but I may leave that story for another day.
.
Suffice it to say, we sisters have been many things to each other over four decades, and I am most pleased to say that we are friends. For my birthday this year, she bought me the little figurine pictured above. It is by artist Susan Lordi, and is titled ‘Happiness’. The descriptive blurb about it reads, ‘FREE to sing, laugh, dance…create!’ Nikki said that as soon as she saw it, she knew it was meant for me!
.
I adore the little figurine with her arms spread wide open to the world, but even more, I’m touched that my sister ‘gets’ me, as I ‘get’ her. We are sisters and friends…lucky to be alive on this beautiful earth, and even luckier to be sharing it with each other.
.
I love you, Nik…

.

A Birthday Poem

Being Me!

.

.

Because I’m sixty-three today, I’d like to make it clear,
That no one, condescendingly, had better call me “dear”!
I drink..I laugh..I even swear..I dance about with glee,
I might be getting older, but I’m happy to be me!
.

.

The years have left their toll, it’s true, I have a few gray hairs,
And there’s no doubt I’m slower getting up and down the stairs!

But in my heart I’m seventeen, and life is still a blast,
I greet each morn’ with joy renewed, and celebrate the past.
.
No canes for me, no rocking chair to glue me to TV.
There’s still so much I need to do, and even more to see.

There’s always one more chance to be who I was meant to be,
To shout out loud that I’m still here…alive, much loved and free!
.
I’ll charge ahead and make each day a chance to do my part
To make this world a better place and offer up my heart.

So celebrate today with me, life’s much more than a clock.
Just watch me and I’ll prove to you that sixty-three can rock!

.

July 20th, 2010

.

A Midsummer Night's Secret Dream Party!

What is your secret dream?


When the clever and colourful Kelly from 'A Stuffed Life' issued an invitation to share our hearts desire with other dreamers, I was clear on what my deepest wish was!

From childhood on, I have dreamed of being a writer. The act of stringing together words that can touch the heart of a reader seems to me the most wonderful art form of all. Along with skill and practice, there is an element of magic in conjuring up words in a meaningful way, if one can only learn the secret.

As a lifetime reader, I have been so often moved...to wonder...to tears; what power words have to inspire and transform! A mere twenty-six letters to use, yet weaving them together in the right combination makes wonderful things happen! I imagined myself the author of a series of adventure novels, and would have sought to emulate J.K. Rowling had Harry Potter existed when I was young.

I am not without some results to show for my sporadic attempts to write. I have had haiku published, and a series of my humourous articles made it into a local magazine for a short time. I even wrote half a romance novel that was well received by the publisher, except that I never finished the rest of it to send them as requested! It seems a meagre output..a sign of one who talks more about writing than she actually writes!

.

I saw Kelly’s Dream Party as my chance to own up to my secret fear that I might not make it as a writer! What then, if my lifelong dream eludes me? Writing is a muscle that atrophies when unused and I'm afraid mine may wither with despair! Still, I will persist!

I have looked at my life, at the things that matter most. Writing matters. Though I hesitate to call myself a writer, there is little I would like more. This is my resolve: I’m done with procrastination, with berating myself for past neglect! I will focus only on what I'm doing now, and on future plans. One goal is to be published in Somerset Studio or a sister publication. It will be a challenge, but setting my intention down for the world holds me more accountable to produce.
.
I started this blog in order to write. I may not be tackling lofty themes, or writing at great length, but the only way to be a writer is to write! Whether a little or a lot, the act of writing builds on its own momentum and words spring into a life of their own.
.
Blogging has so energized me that I've started a second site to document my travels. I’m posting photos of my trip to Africa currently, and am writing a descriptive narrative to weave around them in a way that lends a sense of place. If you get a chance, do check out the link to ‘The Imaginative Traveler’. One blog for home and one for my travels means I get twice the practice molding words into something entertaining!

I have even penned a birthday poem to myself, scheduled for posting on July 20th. It is not brilliant or serious, but it still requires me to put myself out there, something I have not always been brave enough to do. Thanks to the support of my warm and clever blogger friends, I am getting ever closer to becoming what I want to be when I grow up! I thank every one of you for the inspiration…
.
A special shout out to Kelly of ‘A Stuffed Life’ for hosting this lovely party! This is the link to her site if you want to learn more about this event, or just enjoy the delightful bears she makes. You’ll be glad you stopped by!

http://blondheart.blogspot.com/

.

The picture above is of my home library...I did say I was a reader!

Summer Cloche Party!

When Marty from ‘A Stroll Thru Life’ posted an invitation to her cloche party, I leaped right in and accepted! It did cross my mind that I have never done cloches, save for a terrarium in the seventies. No matter…I challenged myself to use one vessel in several different ways, and draw from only what I had on hand. Please let me know what you think….

.
.

The first thing I brought out was an owl my husband bought for me when we were first married over forty years ago. I'm ashamed to admit it's been closed up in a china cabinet since then, so it was well past liberation time ! Because it reminds me of Harry Potter's Hedwig, I have added a few old books and a ring of ancient keys to set it in times past.

.
.

.

This charming figurine cost me a dollar at the thrift store. She has a small hole the size of a nickel on her base, and slots in her dress. There are no other openings, so it’s not clear what purpose she originally served. I’ve placed her under glass to underline that women are often held up to a higher standard…are still compartmentalized and frequently experience exclusion.

.

As I was photographing the white lady, I glanced over at this trio of small pictures. I am very fond of each of them…it seemed a natural step to group them together. On the right is, of course Jan Vermeer’s ‘Girl With a Pearl Earring’. To the left is ‘Portrait of Harriet Maconochie’ by Scottish painter William Dyce. For the painting in the jar, I have only the name, ‘Fabiola’ written on the back. I have not been able to identify its painter and would love it if anyone has information to share with me.

The outdoors beckoned and since Marty had said birdcages would be perfectly lovely to use, I plopped a couple of my favourite birds into this vintage gem. I almost left this cage in the shop because they wanted five dollars for it years ago. So glad I got over that notion!

Naturally, the other birds wanted their share in the limelight so I put them under glass, (briefly) and they were quite happy to pose for me!

.
And finally, as I had just purchased a colourful candle and holder, I quickly inverted the jar onto a pretty saucer for the last shot of the afternoon.

.

.

.

I enjoyed this immensely, and may even have found a new hobby. I’m now eyeing everything in terms of how it would look under glass!

.

.

An especially big thank you goes to Marty for this brilliant event! She can take a cloche and turn it into a splendid work of art. Click on the link below and you’ll see for yourself! Have fun checking out all the partygoers…

http://astrollthrulife.blogspot.com/
.

Hot-Air Balloon Over the Serengeti

Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away...

Surely, few things could be more breathtaking than a hot-air balloon ride over the Serengeti Plain.
In planning our long-awaited trip to Africa four years ago, we knew it was something we had to do.

Our arrival in Tanzania came a week into the safari. Already dazzled with the beauty that met us everywhere in Africa, I was sleepless with anticipation at the prospect of seeing it from the air.

.

Rising at four a.m. to set out for the airfield, we were a groggy group of tourists, but once aloft - in time to see the sun rise pinkly over the horizon - we were wide awake, and knew ourselves to be more alive than we had ever been before.

Below us, mile after mile of open grassland swept into infinity, studded sparsely by groves of spiked Acacia trees and gentle meandering streams.

Morning light bathed all in its amber glow, and edged each leaf with gold.
.

For a time, we were low enough to see
elephants make their way across the plain, and to watch in wonder as a lone lion stopped on his journey home to regard us quizzically.

We said little, the dozen of us on board, rendered speechless by our effortless glide

across across the silent morning plain, its stillness broken only by an occasional whoosh of flame as the pilot took us higher and farther.

My soul filled with a sense of rightness and joy. In that space in time, life was the magical journey it is meant to be and I was an undeniable part of the magic. That moment of perfection is mine to treasure forever.

After an hour aloft, we began the descent that would bring us back to ground, and to the campsite already set up for us. As we'd been gliding across the sky, trucks had wound their way along trails below us, carrying tables and chairs, and copious amounts of food. We disembarked to be greeted with flutes of champagne and orange juice to celebrate our successful flight. After much giddiness and chatter now that we'd found our voice again, we were led to table and fed a sumptuous breakfast of egg and sausage, rinsed down with strong cups of coffee and piping-hot Earl Grey tea.

I have rarely been gripped with the euphoria that coloured that day. I can only compare it to the birth of my children, or the sureness in knowing the man I was about to marry was my soulmate for life.

Life is a miracle each and every day, but it is not every day that one's dreams come true. Mine did for me, that day in Africa, and I will hold the wonder of it in my heart for all time...