Where Women Create III

 

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Computer problems caused

me to miss the July 15^th deadline for, ‘Where Bloggers Create III’, an absolutely amazing event hosted annually by the wonderful Karen Valentine of ‘My Desert Cottage’. 
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I participated last year and was thrilled at the chance to peek into the brilliant spaces of so many wonderful artist/bloggers. You should definitely check out the link at the end of this post…I can assure you, you’ll be amazed at what you see once you venture into the rooms where women explore creativity, and share their joy!

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Though too late to participate in the event, I thought to share a few shots of my own tiny corner of inspiration for friends who
stop by.

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In this room, I surround myself with things I love. Settled at my desk under the Tibetan prayer flags sent by my dear friend Sherry Blue Sky, it is impossible not to feel inspiration bubbling up to the surface.
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Mine is a space stuffed to

the ceiling with treasures,

and though tightly

packed, I can put my

hand on whatever

 I need at a moments

notice,

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Colourful boxes help keep me organized, and are cherished as
much for their beauty as for the many items they can hold.

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Pens and pencils line up in neat rows...
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and rubber stamps

stand to attention

against an

art-bedecked wall.
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It's telling that my husband never worries I'll drag him into jewelry stores, but does wince visibly when I suggest a quick look into every stationery department we pass!

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Order is good, but any decent studio
 should contain its fair share of whimsy…

It seems only fitting to me that rulers
reside in boots, and cigar boxes
overflow with jewel-toned buttons.
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While I call this my studio, there is  very little art made there, I’m afraid.
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I do tackle the odd project like this shadowbox

honouring my mother and father...

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an assemblage built around how dearly my mother loved her father...
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and a collage that says how strongly I feel about the need for art in our lives.

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But when pressed, I’m forced
to admit that my studio is
 mainly the repository of
 my many collections!
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Things old and worn call out to me….

Cameras long out of use...

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 typewriters for which one can no longer find ribbons...
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and vintage sewing notions stuffed into clear jars.

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Some pieces are loved more dearly than others. I truly believe there is magic to be found in my little storybook tins.
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 I adore this old
pen-nib box,
quickly salvaged
when it was

discarded at work...
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 and I've been collecting
wheeled tins
for so long that
they’re old friends
to me now.

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Discarded film reels,
vintage school primers,
and bright balls of wool
have an intrinsic

beauty that I’m unable
to resist!
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Clearly, I am an incorrigible

magpie!

  

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I share my studio with Miss Prue. 

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A quiet and easy companion, Prudence tends to wear all her jewelry at once and simply pulls on more layers when she can’t decide which outfit to wear...
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As I've been known
 to take the same
carefree approach
to life, we've come to

consider ourselves

'artistic' rather

than 'eccentric'!

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The very best thing about my studio is that it adjoins my library with it's floor-to-ceiling shelves and scores of books.
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A daily wander from one room to the other is the best way to remind myself how blessed I truly am...
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Hopefully, you enjoyed the tour of my little world. I also hope you drop by "Where Bloggers Create III "- it is a true celebration of the friendship, inspiration and inclusivity that makes blogging the true joy it is in our lives.
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http://mydesertcottage.blogspot.com/
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My World Tuesday

 On the west coast of Canada, the cry of seagulls is a common and welcome sound in the air.

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Yet, in spite of the years I've lived here, and the number of birds I've seen, I had never gotten a close glimpse of young gulls.

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 Imagine my delight then, when I came across these youngsters in White Rock last week.

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As we often do, my husband and I had stopped at the beach to enjoy ice cream cones and a walk on the pier.

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Approaching the old railway station/turned gallery, I noticed that all eyes were fixed upward.  Claiming everyone's attention were three balls of speckled fuzz perched precariously on the roof! Wobbly and awkward, these little ones huddled together in their shuffling attempts to navigate the steep asphalt shingles.

We could hear their thin chirping calls, and the tapping of their beaks as they examined every scrap they found to see if it might be edible. 

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 Hovering nearby, the parents kept a careful eye  on the youngsters, but let them continue their explorations. 

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It was not long before tiredness overcame the trio. They scratched about for a spot to settle, curling themselves into tight little balls.

This fellow gave our hearts a start. Every time he lay down, he began to slide backwards to the edge. More than a few of us were ready to leap in and catch him if necessary...mine was not the only gasp of apprehension.

We need not have worried. Eventually, he found a corner under the eaves that offered shelter and security, and immediately dropped off to sleep!

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While I was delighted to have my camera along that day, the sight of these little guys  is something I'll be able to recall in an instant.

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There's definitely a reason our province is called Beautiful British Columbia!

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For more shots from around the world, do stop by My World Tuesday and check out the amazing entries...

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http://www.showyourworld.blogspot.com/

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I am also linking up with World Bird Wednesday...I hope you'll stop by and visit the other participants...

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 http://pineriverreview.blogspot.com

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Succinctly Yours: Arbitrary

James stepped into the workroom, noting the sun’s pale light on orderly rows of tools, and the workbench thick with curled, cedar shavings. Arbitrarily, he picked up a wood file, its rough edges as familiar as his own skin, as evocative as the sharp combined scent of sawdust and oil that peppered his childhood.

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Yet this was not the time to ponder the past. They were waiting for him at the church, anxious for whatever wisdom he might share to make this loss bearable. The role of family patriarch was now his to don, with its uneasy mixture of pride and apprehension.

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James stepped out into the sunshine. He swiped a hand across his dark suit, dislodging small strings of dust. Squaring his shoulders, he whispered softly, “ I love you, Dad,” as he gently closed the door behind him.

(140 words)

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As a wife and mother, I’ve railed against the concept that men should stoically bear the weight of grief, unable to weep openly because it is their job to be strong and ease the pain of others. Surely, our husbands and sons should be free to fold themselves into our arms in time of need, knowing we offer a safe and secure refuge in the midst of life’s trials. Sadness, like love and joy, is meant to be shared, after all…

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Grandma's Goulash hosts the wonderful microfiction meme, Succinctly Yours, where each week she posts a photo around which we might spin a tale in 140 characters or in the same number of words. Extra credit is given for using the optional word of the week, which today is, "arbitrary".

For more takes on the prompt, follow the link below.

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Our thanks to you and your daughter for this fun challenge, Grandma!

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http://grandmas-goulash.info/

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Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me, When I'm 64?

Some people never grow up…and I am proud to count myself part of that illustrious group, in spite of the arrival today of yet another birthday!

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Chronological markers play only a part in the cycle of aging, after all. I have talked to teenagers so jaded and cool that they’re old before their time…and met seniors who have never lost the sparkle in their eyes. Spirit isn’t defined by time, nor is there an age limit on one’s enthusiasm and sense of anticipation. While my body knows without a doubt it is no longer young, my inner child recalls with stunning clarity what it was like to be eleven… remembers with every fibre of her being how she marveled at the breadth of the Great Lakes and was rendered breathless by her first Canadian snowfall.
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 Snowfalls still enchant me, and if I ever get back to Lake Huron, I will rush forward with pure glee and throw myself in head first, clothes and all!

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Today, I turn into a Beatles tune, the very song I belted out cheerfully as a teenager, never grasping for a moment that one day I, too, would be that age. I admit to bewilderment at how quickly I got to this point.

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Throughout the years, I’ve struggled to be decorous. I’ve played the role of good daughter to aging parents, supportive wife to a long-time husband, responsible example for growing offspring to emulate, (all right, this last one may not have been carried off with great success, if my chortling adult children are to be believed)! Still, I’m universally recognized as a dutiful employee, a dependable friend, and an all-round decent person

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I am, however, no angel and often chafe at life’s restraints. The girl inside me enjoys a good spot of fun and still fancies shaking up the status quo on occasion, no matter how mild an exterior she displays to the world. I do think she’s entitled to get out and play a little more often now after her many years of patience!

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Turning 64 doesn't make me old.

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I think I'll know I’m old when I’m described as ‘sedate’, or am said to have ‘settled down’. Yuk!

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And the day - heaven forbid! – when I’m held up as a role model to anyone…. then I’ll know I’m old!
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Until then, I will unapologetically crunch on candy necklaces in public, fill my pockets with rocks and treasures picked up from the ground and splash happily through rain puddles in my bare feet whenever the urge takes me. I’ll dissolve into giggles at the slightest hint of mischief, and will never, ever get too old to laugh at my own foibles.

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 I will play hide-and-seek with tiny friends, though scrunching up in closets has become a challenge, and will return their little girl hugs with all the fervor kids put into every second of their lives. Birthdays are just another day, filled with endless possibilities as each one is! There are shells waiting to be gathered at the beach, puffy clouds to be watched and wondered at, and stories clamoring to be written down. Of course, I will also wash dishes, weed the garden and mop the floor, as mature adults must.

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But there is a big bottle of bubbles I bought last week that has yet to be opened…trying to get a good shot of a fleeting, iridescent bubble should amuse my child-like sensibilities for quite some time!

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Thursday Tales: No. 68

The night felt like a dream to me but the dread I experienced on that path was all too real. Ahead of me stood the shadowed house, its sinister presence looming over the subdued landscape, oblivious to the surly clouds that roiled around the malevolent tower. As evil as it looked outside, it was knowing what the tower sheltered that caused fear to grip my stomach in its icy hands. He was there…and I was the only one who could end his madness.
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I shakily moved on, slowly putting one reluctant foot in front of the other…sealing my fate as surely as if I’d taken a knife to my own throat. What did I think I was doing? I could not possibly win. How could I hope to defeat one whose sole goal in life has been to inflict endless misery on the innocent? Yet, it was for these same innocents that I had to try. If we were ever to be free again...if we were ever to breathe air no longer tainted by the dark fog of despair, I had to go on.
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The large front door swung slowly open as I drew near. Seeing a stark shadow outlined by the putrid yellow glow from inside, I understood he’d come down from his tower to welcome me personally. I took a breath, and muttered to myself, “Fine! I don’t need to deal with your groveling minions. This is between you and me now.”
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“Well,” came the silky drawl as I slowed to a halt, “It’s you they sent in the end, is it?”
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I tilted up my chin and defiantly met the hard gaze that washed disdainfully over me.
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“I suppose I should have known it would be you,” he continued in the same soft tone. “Indeed, we have a history, you and I, do we not?”
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His mouth turned up in a rictus of a smile. It was a horrible thing to see, this travesty that lacked all warmth and humanity. I had not known such a smile was possible before he’d introduced terror into my life
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Abruptly, the fearsome figure bowed at the waist and swept an arm backward into the room. “Do come in, my dear”, was the grand invitation. “Make yourself at home”.
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I had no choice. Though I wished nothing more than to flee, I knew I must enter the foul domain...live's depended on it. I stepped across the doorway with more confidence than I actually felt, managing to repress a shudder when the door closed gently, but resolutely, behind me.
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It seemed the feeble farce of civility had lost its charm for my host. The eyes that met mine now were empty and cold, the face assuming its impenetrable mask once again.
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Silence stretched on interminably before he continued, the same cold softness of his tone chilling me to the core. “Now, remind me again how old you are, my plucky girl”, he purred cruelly. “Ten? Eleven?”
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Anger and humiliation threatened to choke me. “I’m not...” I began, but quickly coughed to hide my pathetic attempt at a response. “I’m not a child! I’m thirteen, almost fourteen,” I managed to get out more firmly this time.
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Another silence greeted my words, until at last my adversary deigned to answer.
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“Thirteen, going on fourteen, you say, “ he mumbled, looking to me for affirmation.
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Unable to speak, I jerked my head in the approximation of a nod
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“And when exactly will you turn fourteen, dear one?” he drawled, clearly enjoying the fear I was not altogether able to hide at his oily words.
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“My birthday’s next month,” I responded in a voice that came out more shrilly than I’d intended. “I’ll be fourteen then”.
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The dark figure turned away from me. When it seemed he had forgotten I was there, the force of his hatred came round to me once more. Again, the mouth twisted up in an odious line, and I knew with certainty what he was going to say before the words were spoken aloud.
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“Whatever makes you think I will let you live to see another birthday?” came the expected response, breathed out in the quietest and most measured of tones.
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I could no more stop the tremor his voice sent through me than I could erase the twisted past that had brought us both to this defining moment in time. I opened my mouth to speak, but what, after all, could I say?
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Instead, I stood silent in the face of evil personified, and waited to see where we went from here…

Possibly to be continued...

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( 755 words)

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I'm not sure why all my tales are creepy lately, but I'm liking it immensely! The spooky photo prompt, aided by the fact that it was cold, gray and rainy this morning made this an obvious piece to pen. I've been thinking I would like to try writing for teenagers/young adults, and this story strikes me as having possible appeal to the Harry Potter crowd. I'll have to do some research...

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Unfortunately, the meme's word limitation of 777 forced my story to an abrupt end. I very much enjoyed the exercise, however, and may continue it next week if the prompt seems conducive.

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For more Thursday Tales, do stop by Leo's page and check out the entries...

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http://talesthursday.blogspot.com/

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The wonderful photo this week was provided by Thomas Neilsen at Deviant Art...

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http://tinypilot.deviantart.com/art/Bye-bye-Mr-Moon-part-7-25419242
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Signs, Signs: Belfast Murals

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The Twelfth of July parades in Belfast and elsewhere in Northern Ireland commemorate the victory of Protestant King William of Orange over Catholic King James II at the Battle of The Boyne in 1690. People begin celebrating this event on the Eleventh Night with the lighting of huge bonfires that have been months in the building.

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Gathering fuel for the fire...

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This ‘marching season’, as it is known, historically re-ignites sectarian violence. Members of the Orange Order assert their right to walk with Protestant marching bands along the same route every year, accompanied by the racous protests of nationalist groups decrying what they consider a  blatant show of Unionist dominance over their Catholic neighbourhoods.

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This year was no exception:

violence broke out and

riot police were called

upon to deal with the

hooligans.

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On a visit home a few years ago, I took
pictures of the murals that were painted
at the height of the Troubles.

These murals are beautiful, horrifying
 and heartbreaking
 all at once…they are people’s lives and
hearts laid open for
 the world to see.

I pray that my beloved Northern Ireland will one day find its way to a lasting peace that recognizes each of her citizens as equal and free...

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For more signs from all over, pop into Lesley's wonderful meme and check them out...

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http://signs2.blogspot.com/
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If you'd like to know more about Northern Ireland and the Troubles, you might enjoy a few of my earlier posts...
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http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/08/city-divided.html
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http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/07/young-of-belfast.html
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http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/07/immigrant-experience.html
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Magpie Tales: No. 73

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Reach out your hand...pull

me near that I might not

lose sight of all I love.

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This painting speaks to me of the disconnect we sometimes feel in our lives...in our families and our passions. Too often, doing what's expected of us has little to do with what makes us feel gloriously alive....

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Today, I feel infused with life as I've learned about a poet with whom I was not familiar, and a painter.

The piece above is titled "People of Chilmark', painted in 1920 by American artist and muralist Thomas Hart Benton. His lush, earthy work highlights everyday scenes of life in the U.S. As an admirer of Diego Rivera, I recognized some of the same elements in Benton's work.

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This is my first time to join Magpie Tales. For more tales based on this photo, do stop by the link below...

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http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

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Additionally, my friend Debra left a comment on my page referencing the English poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, whose striking and unique approach to language enlivened the strict poetic forms of the time. Thanks D.,for brightening my day! 

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Shadow Shot Sunday: Dogwood Park

As British Columbia's main port, Vancouver attracts immigrants from every part of the world, many of them coming from South Asia. In countless neighbourhoods, including my own, this migration is reflected in the numerous nationalities that co-mingle on our streets.  

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I love living in the midst of this cultural diversity, and particularly enjoy when my Indian friends and co-workers prepare for weddings by decorating their hands and feet with mehndi. There is a unique and striking beauty to the art of drawing patterns and designs with henna that is simply breathtaking.

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On a recent walk through Dogwood Park in nearby South Surrey, my attention was caught by the dappled shadows that patterned the dusty trails. 

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They struck me as being

 similar to mehndi,

 though paling by

comparison with 

the complexity and

detail found in

the traditional

Asian adornment.

 

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This off-leash dog park is

 a favourite for our Sunday

 jaunts. The lacy canopy 

offers wonderful shade

from the hot summer

 sun, a treat for dogs

and people alike

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If dogs could smile,

you would see

Meeghan with a

grin on her face

every minute of

the time we spend

 in this park!

For a variety of wonderful shadow shots, do stop by Hey, Harriet and check out Tracy's Shadow Shot Sunday. You'll be very glad you did...

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http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/

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