Poetry

The Brightest Angel

The brightest Angel

slides on her spectacles,

and smiles.

It’s the painting

of us

that she loves the most.

She soaks the brush tip once more:

crystal blue and white,

and she paints

until her miracle

is perfect.

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A Blog a Day in May

The Cupboard of Unfinished Things

It happens every year.

The wool balls enter the stores in preparation for winter, and my brain enters a frenzy of the most bizarre kind. You see, I’m not really a knitter. And yet, every year, as soon as the first wool balls hit the supermarket shelves…an orchestra made up of little tiny people begins to play inside my head. That’s how I know. I absolutely must start knitting something. Again.

And so I do. I sit down with a new pile of wool and my pretty pink hot water bottle, and I begin to knit the one. A precious new creation. Another chip off my creative spirit, that, ultimately, I always know, will be banished to the rickety cupboard of ‘unfinished things.’

It’s quite the comedy, really. Because I can’t actually knit, my choices of what to knit are always limited: a blanket made from a thousand hand-sized patches, or, yet another scarf. All the while, the little devil on my shoulder sits and quietly smiles. Because he knows. He knows it doesn’t really matter what I choose, and he also knows the reason why. (Ah, yes. There he is. Already preparing that nasty little cupboard. Sheesh.)

Well. There I was at the supermarket, once again with the wool, and I wouldn’t let any of that stop me. The decision was made. My little boy would quite like a scarf, and maybe knitting for him would give me that extra boost to save this one from the cupboard of impending doom.

But as I examined the stacked shelves—faced with a wall of fluffy, colourful possibilities— something came to me, something big. The reason. The truth that could have saved me the shame of every project that’s ever wagged it’s sweet, broken little tail into that big meanie of a cupboard over the years.

I’m not meant to finish.

I was never meant to finish, not any of it.

Maybe for some people, knitting is about creating something useful and beautiful. But, for me…it’s really not. Yes, it would be lovely to knit something of use. Lovely. But entirely unnecessary in the grand scheme of the life I’ve chosen.

For me, knitting is about the journey.

It’s about that blissful repetitive tune, the clickety-clack that somehow soothes me and brings me back into my body when I fly too far into the land of the perpetual dreamer. It’s a way for me to take one step (or one row). And then another. And then another. Rather than simply fly through life, looking for the greener grass that lives at the very top of a hill that I just may never get to.

Who cares if I don’t get to the top of that hill. The journey is lovely enough. It’s a journey that slows me down and reminds me to just…be here. In my body. On the couch. Knitting. Joyfully aware that this scarf— just like its many older siblings— will probably never be finished.

 

 

 

 

A Blog a Day in May

A Friend Of Convenience

Her art is a friend of convenience.

It absorbs her.

It turns her delicate into raw and beautiful scenes of naked flesh on linen.

It turns her hard into lashings of angry black with no recognisable form.

The artist removes the brush from her mouth and strokes, one final touch of pink and she’ll be satisfied.

But she won’t. She’ll never be satisfied.

Because she is an artist.

And an artist, she knows, is always a work in progress.

An artist—a passionate, heart dwelling artist—will always be full of too much life, and never full of enough.

This is what living has taught her.

This is her reason for art.

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Life, Poetry

The Girl in The Frame on the Wall

There she is—

the girl in the frame on the wall.

A picture of a girl;

the softest smile

full of mischief and grace.

Love and kindness.

Hope and fear.

Joy. Sadness.

Dreams.

All of life

rolled into a girl…

who just happens to live in a frame on a wall.

Every day she fills her frame with a new dream;

a frame is the keeper of dreams

and she knows that as long as she stays within the frame

her dreams will never be broken.

But as she sits in the long grass, peering at the world outside

she wonders.

‘What if I venture beyond the frame?

What if I wish these dreams into the world,

and follow them as they go?’

She wonders, then she slowly rises.

And she takes a step.

Just one step

but already she knows she can’t go back;

It’s a knowing that tickles her bones.

Something has changed within her.

Suddenly she feels the sun on her skin,

 feels a heart beating inside of her that wasn’t there before.

Suddenly she has wings

and her frame is empty,

hanging on a lonely wall

on the dark side of the rainbow.

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Arts

This Creative Life

Isn’t the world of creativity fascinating? For so many reasons, really. But I’ve always been fascinated by the unconscious aspects of the way we create, particularly how the unconscious feeds the creative mind, almost as if it is a direct channel from the soul.

What makes the whole thing even more fascinating to me is this: no matter how many times I am dragged away from my creative world—by the hustle and bustle of life, by lack of time, lack of resources—it seems that I always come back to it. Always. Like something bigger than me is in charge of this whole crazy shindig.

Over the years I’ve struggled with finding focus within my creative world, and I suspect that many creative artists might feel the same way. Because the thing is this: creative energy doesn’t seem to care how it gets out. All it seems to care about is that it gets out.

I feel an affinity to many of the disciplines within the arts—music, acting, writing, painting, the list goes on. And the choice as to which discipline to use in order to create (to tell that story of my soul, you might say) really doesn’t feel like a conscious choice at all. To me, the urge to create is exactly that. An urge. A push. A tug. It’s the magnetic pull to the piano, or the computer, or the scrapbook—and I get the impression that my only job is just to go with the flow and get swept along in the breeze of it all.

In my experience, this is such a hard concept for the rational mind to reconcile. Because the rational mind, the one I use to bring sense to everything, seems to crave control. It seems to be at odds with all the wonder that explodes so organically within my creative universe. It seems to want to make sense of something that simply cannot be explained. The imagination. I mean. How can such a wondrous, wondrous world ever be explained?

There are not too many things I am totally sure of in this world. But what I am sure of is this: every single person in this whole wide world has a unique imagination. And every single creative artist sets their imagination free like nobody else in this world. We all see the world differently. We all live in the world differently.

What a lovely creative mess that’s all bound to make.

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Photo by Adrianna Calvo on Pexels.com

Life

The Dreamer in Me

It’s a world for thinkers, isn’t it, this one we live in?

A world where everything has a name. A world where everything and everyone has a reason to be. In this thinking dominated world, it’s all about the boxes, isn’t it? You know the ones—you’re hovering over one right this very minute, trying to decide if and how these words will fit into your life. By the end of reading this, you should know which box this little blog post of mine belongs in. And for the real dreamers among you…you knew from the very first sentence. Didn’t you?

I should probably explain this idea of ‘boxes’ from my place in the world as a creative person—a musician, an actor, a writer, a dreamer—because I’m betting there are flocks of my kind out there, who glide along on the surface of life, happy enough to go with the flow, but feeling, somehow, that they are a bit of an imposter in this big old world of thinking and doing.

When I was in my late teens, I looked at the world and I just knew my wide-eyed dreams didn’t quite belong. Every face I passed on the street seemed to live under a blanket of grey, dead eyes going about life like it was just something that must be done, without question, without…colour.  Was this what I had to look forward to? Dreams all wrapped up, locked away behind the curtain of responsibility? Right then and there, in my sparkling seventeen-year old wonderland, I closed my eyes tight and I swore to myself. This will never happen to me.

I’ve thought about that moment so many times over the past fifteen years or so. Because guess what? That promise I made to myself, the one that gifted me a life of floating in the breeze, of spreading my wings wide and flying into the setting sun—I smashed it to pieces. This thinking world smashed it to pieces. Sucked up the dreams. Spat me out on the other side all shiny and nice and ready to please everyone other than the person that mattered most in my life. Me. I know when it happened, too. It was around about the time I joined the work-life crowd when I bundled everything I was into neatly labeled boxes and became a responsible adult. And right before my very eyes—without me even knowing it was happening— my lovely little dream world was trampled flat.

For those of you who’ve come to know me via this blog, or my old one, you might be surprised to hear that my dream world ever went anywhere—since I very definitely have been plonking bits and pieces of it into these little bloggy worlds of mine, for a few years now. But yes. It did go somewhere for a time.

Well! Quite happily, and for no particular reason, it seems like I just might be back. All of me. Because after all these years of thinking that my ‘boxes’ needed to be packed in the same way as everyone else’s boxes…I’ve finally given myself permission to say this:

‘Dear world, I am a dreamer. I always have been, and I always will be. So, you can take your serious thoughts and angry eyes away from me, because giggling and sunshine is just what I do. And I will do my very best never to forget that again.’

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 8. Darling Darling Music

If words are the darling of my mind, then music is the darling of my soul.

Today I remembered it.

Just today. When I sat at the piano and sang my soul into the moment all around me.

What darling bliss it was.

I used to write songs, you know? My first experience of the muse and its silent, roaring power.

That power.

Can you imagine? A life as a song?

My life.

Memories, and loves, and the deepest of heartaches.

Today, I remembered them all: the gifts that music gave to me.

Darling, darling music.

Same time tomorrow?

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The darling blog of May

The Darling Blog Of May

It’s Happening.

The challenge is on…and I shout YES.

I accept.

A blog a day. For one whole month.

One whole month of getting to know this little home I’m building.

A whole month of getting to know all of you! 

Yep. It’ll be one whole month of wonderful. One whole month of…ice-cold panic.

ICE. COLD. PANIC.

Goodness me. Is that my heartbeat?

Oh, dear.

Just a moment. Sorry. Just breathing for a bit. One cat-and-dog. Two cat-and-dog. Three.

Okay! Where was I?

Ah, yes.

This little idea of mine: The Darling Blog of May.

Every day in May, I plan to write a blog post hovering around the theme DARLING, and the rules are…there are no rules.

I might write about the word darling.

I might write about a darling day, or moment, book or song. 

I might write about a darling person, a darling thing.

A darling everything. A darling nothing.

There are no rules.

And thank goodness for that because I’ll need plenty of room to think outside my little box of darling. (There are a LOT of days in May, you know.)

SO.

That’s my idea, and this is my invitation to you:

Come on in!

Every day. One day. I’ll be here.

It’ll be nice!

No. Scratch that. It’ll be more than nice.

It’ll be darling.

 

The darling blog of May

Writing

The Wonder of the Muse

It’s the cool rush of fire shooting down the limbs, filling up the head, the heart, the page.

The spirit.

The muse, some people call it.

But what’s in a name? said the muse, to the writer who sat his desk once upon a time,  dipping and scribbling, waiting for his words to fly.

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It’s bigger than a name, surely— this mysterious, creative force.

It’s a train that barrels through the writers imagination, often with no known destination.

It’s a one-sided phone call from the heavens, where no words are spoken, but millions are heard.

And written.

And felt.

Music. Books. We’ve all felt those.

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It’s a feeling like no other, this force that takes the creative folk of this world. Magic in a million whispers; an offer they’ll either drop or fly into the sunset with.

It’s a chest flooded with light and a dare to fill a blank page.

It’s an epiphany.

A promise.

A gift.

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A gift for writers and a gift for the readers of their words.

A gift for humanity, is what it is.

Mysterious and strange.

And overflowing with wonder.

 

Writing

The Power of Words

The word peach makes me feel like summer.

I love that.

Maybe it’s the colour: dappled orangey, yellowy, red—to me, that colour sings. Just like summer.

Summer sings.

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It could also be the many hundreds of peaches I’ve slurped down over my thirty-something summers that give the word peach that summer feeling. Sticky fingers and dribbles down the chin—loving every minute, hating every minute, too.

No wonder those classic summer fruits have chiseled a feeling into my bones.

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The word peach; the visual peach; the feeling…

Peach.

 Surely it’s not just me that feels it.

It’s the power of words, right?

Fascinating, isn’t it, that when we know a language so well we barely even think about the words that come tumbling out of us, and yet they paint our whole world.

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Lately I’ve been wondering: why do certain books make me feel down to the very core, whilst others just make me smile?

I think I know one reason.

Words.

And the magic they puff up, and around, and all over us.

Peach.

Cocktail by the pool, anyone?