Soothing the Spirit

 

An artist en plein air on the beach yesterday. Click to embiggen. Note his red beret.

I betook myself to "my" beach yesterday. I sit there and let the sounds and sights wash over me. I love the dogs and kids playing in the sand and jumping the stones on the stream nearby. I had an intense day and needed my "fix" desperately. It always does the job.

I popped off the pic to the family on whatsapp later on in the day and a picture of the Sturgeon Moon over the sea in Kerry, Ireland, came back. Taken by my sister.

She is all alone down there, consuming books and looking at the ocean. We agreed it was so healing and centering. It's our goto.

I was inordinately pleased at the synchronicity.

And PS did you know that a fairly new profession is "climate therapist?" People are so stressed out by the non-stop climate disasters. 

My therapist is the ocean.

Lurch

What would you like to be doing, wouldn't you like to be auditing and software training?

No.

So what's next. You just had a birthday.

What I'd like to be doing is writing. And knitting when I'm not writing. And going to movies in the afternoon. Daughter gave me a loaded movie card.

There's not much money in writing.

Yeah, I know. Or knitting for that matter. That's why I need to sell my house. Then I can write.

So what are you doing to facilitate that?

I listed my house for sale. I took stress leave from my municipal time-consuming, enraging position. I backed away completely from stifling, drunken massive social events. I spaced my PGs a little better, gapped out some time for myself.
And yeah, I forgot to mention, I'm lying down for an hour in the afternoon. It's a brilliant revitalizer.

But you're not happy?

No. I'm easily irritated. I'm impatient. I'm snarky. I can't believe the world is not going along with my intention for a peaceful, blissful, last few years: Nazism? Ku Klux Klan without the masks? Anti Fa? (aren't most decent human beings?) In your face racism. Worst forest fires ever in BC? Domestic terrorism in the U.S.? And need I mention the occasional occupier of the White House?

I wish this lonely wee planet would get its act together and its useless and vile janitors thrown off it.

Maybe then I might be happy.

As if.

Intensity

When I was growing up emotional extremes were a defect of character. As if I could change my intrinsic nature. Even though at times I wanted, badly, to toughen up.

Yes, I feel life too intensely. And my feelings are often worn on my sleeve. Or shut away so tightly (you might see the real me, you know) that it hurts.

Like those quilts in the wake-room. All hand created by my friend Patricia. Thrown over every surface, every chair. Every piece of scattered fabric in her life tied together so beautifully, so creatively. Colours of the land and the ocean and the boats and the wonderful drenching of colour that residents flood their buildings with. All you had to say was "I wish I had one of your quilts" and next thing, she was on your doorstep with one.

Picasso is honoured. Why aren't these handcrafters of such beauty so respected? Women's work of course. There should be many female only art galleries, flooded with the colours of the creations of artists like Patricia. With knitting and embroidery and weavings and crochet and lace. And many, many quilts.

It seemed like my floodgates opened today. I had been locking so many tears inside me, for what seemed like a month or two.

It was Jennifer Johnston who started it. I am reading "The Gingerbread Woman". And it struck chords. And more chords.

Life is about loss, isn't it? Mainly the loss of what went before. What formed us. What ignited us. What sustained us. What we leave behind. She writes of this like no other I've read.

And I had myself a really good cry.

Pearls to Swine?

My latest card.

Kinda harsh, that header isn't it?

I was chatting to a close friend today as it is her birthday. She's an artist and we rambled on, as old friends tend to do, about the reception given some of our creative gifts.

Example 1 for me was a beautiful afghan I had knitted as a gift for some family members. These afghans are designed and executed by me and encompass over 100 hours of my time, effort and love. And I didn't even get a thank you card. I suppose a quickly written cheque would have been more acceptable to them? Probably.

Example 1 for her was a painting she had created over days in her studio especially for a couple who were celebrating their 45 year wedding anniversary last Saturday. The gift was received with a reluctant "oh, that's nice." and left on the floor while the couple went on to ooh and aah over some crystal glasses.

I was reminded of a reaction by another friend last week when I presented her with 6 of my cards of local scenes with my poetry on the back. "Oh, I have no use for these" she said as she handed them all back to me.

There are dozens more examples. And they far outweigh the appreciative comments or even token "thank yous"

It's easy to say not to be hurt or diminished by such behaviour as maybe there are some who feel valued only by the money spent on them and not the painstaking love and effort put into a one of a kind creative offering.

But we're both human. And struggling artists. And it's a lonely old world when you spend most of your days in creative solitude.

And an appreciative word doesn't go amiss once in a while.

Irish Cappucino

This one I called "Irish Cappucino", being the Irish artist in wool that I am 'n all. Ahem~!

I just now packed it in the luggage as it is a gift. It draped itself rather nicely over some of the freshly painted (thank you Grandgirl!) deck furniture.

Some I have a hard time giving away.

This is one of them.

Over and out for ??? depending on connectivity in Ireland. I hope to post from the Newfoundland travelling theatre Irish road trip.

That's /30 for now.

Blog Jam

Thanks for all the good thoughts on my last post, some of you took the time to email me privately and I am so grateful for that. I am truly amazed at the circle of love out there both in blog land and in my own personal sphere. Two particular friends of mine have been like bodyguards in the last few days and another friend dropped in unexpectedly as she had some sort of vibe that things were not so good. They still aren't. I've got an action plan but patience is running thin as to implementation and/or success.

Courage! Said in the French way. Always.

Elsewhere, I found this nugget on the web. Something that prods my thinking and my creativity is always welcome.




Right now I'm doing the stuff that earns me a sorta-living. Taxes. And editing a collection of short stories along with the editor. And both promoting and planning a series of rehearsals for fresh performances of Da Play.

All a little half-heartedly. A little sadly. Sometimes a little dramatically: Why me?? Oh Gawd why me?? enunciated loudly to the dog from the bottom of the stairs as she blinks at me from the top step, head on paws, waiting for the command to descend said stairs if I could get my act together.

And why not me? Drops of rain and all that.

Disappointment

Disappointment is the feeling of dissatisfaction that follows the failure of expectations or hopes to manifest. Similar to regret, it differs in that a person feeling regret focuses primarily on the personal choices that contributed to a poor outcome, while a person feeling disappointment focuses on the outcome itself

I've been hit sideways with a few disappointments in the last wee while. And yes, I had expectations. I normally don't, which is what's so odd about it all. I roll with the punches (or maybe I pretend that I do). I enforce a daily gratitude meditation (sometimes short, sometimes long) at the end of each day. A reflection really.

I am more than aware that disappointment in an outcome can truly steal from the positives in a given situation. I am not allowing that. But still.

I remember being sixteen. A few published items under my belt. And literally engrossed in art. I couldn't get enough of it.

Our school on an island (seriously, in the middle of the River Lee) in Cork City imported many great male teachers for us. One of these was our art teacher, another was our advanced mathematics teacher and yet another was an ex-military man who was our gym teacher – the workouts (for girls! girls?) were unbelievable. I truly believe in light of today our school was extraordinarily progressive for its time. And having been recently back for a class reunion and reuniting with many of us, that is reinforced by the PhDs and MDs amongst us. But be that as it may.

I did a little web search and found the art teacher, John Teehan, mentioned briefly on another website. He was very encouraging to me. And his classes (taken over lunch periods, unheard of today, right?) were riveting.

I applied for fashion design school in England, with samples of my designs, etc. ( this was the era of Mary Quant, et al) and was overwhelmed when I was accepted and offered a scholarship.

You can imagine the reaction of the pater familias in suburban Cork when I made the announcement of my intention to henceforth toss aside my provincial education and head off on the Innisfallen for London, England.

I discovered what apoplexy truly was.

And my crushing disappointment lasted months.

And yes, I do wonder still what direction my life would have taken if I'd hopped on that ferry.

But I am no longer disappointed. Much has fulfilled me since then.

Disappointment can only take up headspace if we allow it.

Next?

Breaking into Bliss

What a lovely sentence I heard on the radio driving home tonight.

"Breaking into Bliss". Freeman Patterson was being interviewed at length on CBC and this is what he said when he described moments of acute observation and feeling joyful with one's world. He has survived many challenges and pain.

And it got me to thinking of when we reach that other side of pain, we earn those stripes of bliss. I truly believe we can only break into bliss if we know what deep dark pain is.

Tonight, I was at Easy Down Easy, a play by Gordon Pinsent when I broke into bliss myself.

Thinking: by gum, I'll be joining Gordon soon in this playwriting thing.

Thank You, Delia.

This post is inspired by Marcia's post.

Back then, it was one of those new-fangled estates in the suburbs of the Irish city where I was born. 13 houses in a cul-de-sac. We moved there when I was six from a small east Cork town where all my relatives lived. My father had a city job by then and was fed up with the daily train commute.

There was an exotic family living directly across the road from us. Louis (pronounced lou-ee) and Delia had only a single child, named Geoffrey. Rich, red thick carpets ran all through their house and it had an art studio custom built on the back, full of light overlooking a terrace with cement planters and rose gardens back and front. They even had outdoor furniture made of cast iron. And a record player with a huge collection of music and floor to ceiling bookshelves everywhere. A sparkling Morris Minor was parked on their driveway. Louis was a bank manager and Delia was an artist.

When we moved in, they were already installed for a few months. My brother and I, aged 3 and 6, were not allowed on to the road so were locked up behind our gate where we peered out through the iron railings dressed in matching blue coats. I know this because years later I saw a painting of the two of us thus imprisoned, in her studio.

Geoffrey was a sickly child, I never knew what he “had” but his neck was covered in ugly scar tissue where glands had been removed and eczema plagued his hands. He wasn't allowed to play sports or do anything 'strenuous' like play hurling on the road with the rest of us.

Delia and Louis befriended my brother and I as we grew older and we were invited along on Sunday afternoon drives and treated to afternoon tea in hotels. Louis taught us to sing “Oh Give me a Home” in harmony on these rides. I can never hear the song without thinking of his deep bass voice, Delia's soprano, my budding contralto and Geoffrey's and my brother's interchangeable soprano-tenors. There were other songs of course but I can't remember them.

Delia gave me much, much more than those Sunday excursions. She invited me over to hear “Peter and the Wolf” on their turntable - my first introduction to classical music - which led to her sharing all of the Beethoven Symphonies with me. She allowed me to borrow books (“one at a time, dear”) and each occasion (Holy Communion, Confirmation, thirteenth birthday) in my life was marked with a special gift – one time it was a leather bound edition of Jane Austen's Emma, another time it was a hand-painted box.

She showed me a bigger world outside of our little estate and small town sensibilities. She showed me women could gain a certain prestige by devoting themselves to passion and creativity in an era where this was judged as “fierce odd” by her contemporaries and Louis pitied because of her independence for she had the unmitigated gall to exhibit her works regularly at the Municipal Art Gallery and also taught art. She even drove herself to her night classes, practically unheard of in her time.

It was extraordinarily difficult to be a Delia in the long ago and she never knew how much she inspired me and how much I cherish her memory.

One of Life's Crystal Moments

My dear friend D has had many health challenges in the last few years: heart trouble, multiple cancers and other medical issues resulting from the treatments she had to undergo.

I was thrilled for her when one of her paintings was selected by the city for exhibition in the City Hall. And hung on its very own wall there.

And yesterday, I took this picture of her peeking at her painting.

I just love it.

Magical Newfoundland Moments, Part 3

Fisherman's Daughter-1 – Peter Sobol

For Part 1 of this series, see here, for Part 2 see here.

So then it was on to the final part of our trek, a stop at Peter Sobol Art Gallery. Peter is one of the most enthusiastic people I ever met, bubbling over with ideas and concepts and he gladly showed us around his wonderful studio and his gallery, full of his paintings and ceramic pieces. It seems like Peter himself has been captivated by the faeries as they feature predominantly in his ceramic pieces, often swimming underwater. Luscious colours predominated.

He was full of stories, offered to illustrate my short story collection and commissioned me to take a series of pictures of a dear friend who was with us, whom he said had the best Newfoundland mother’s face he’d ever seen. He’d love to paint it, with a background of Newfoundland tragedies. So I will attempt to do my dear friend justice and photograph her well, face down and reverential (she is far from!) as he instructed.

He was also involved in an unusual project – he was growing garlic in this scheme across Canada, where the participants are pooling their varieties and planting thousands of bulbs before the first frost. I didn’t know that the leaves of garlic are called scapes and can be eaten in salad at the beginning of the growing season which also incidentally encourages clove production.





Then it was on to lunch at The Captain’s Table (seen above) which has a wonderful seafood chowder and where I met a Scottish woman, living here and married to an Irishman. As I am forming an informal association of Irish-born Newfoundlanders, this was a serendipitous meeting.

My cup truly ran over on a day such as I’ve recounted. When my creative juices start to flag, I’ll go back into my memory box and remember these wonderful artists and their enchanting spaces and feel thoroughly inspired!

Magical Newfoundland Moments, Part 2.

(for part 1 of this series see here )

Then it was on to our next port of call, Five Island Art Gallery which is in Tors Cove.

The gallery is in a converted school house overlooking a marvellous historic village and the eponymous islands.

Featured were hooked rugs, but what hooked rugs!




In the gallery itself, there was an incomplete rug – “Forty Shades of Green” which is being made in honour of the Festival of the Sea, an annual Ireland –Newfoundland event which is hosted by each country on alternate years.

All visitors to the gallery are invited to hook a section of the rug after a quick lesson by the owner. We all participated in this unusual interactive art project:


And before you start, there were lots of jokes about “happy hookers”. Inevitable, I expect!

What I love to see these days is the honouring of the magnificent needlework that women were so taken for granted doing, back in the day. Now it is elevated to where it should be, magnificent works of art. My mother, a phenomenal embroiderest, would have been gratified. As would my grandmother, an excellent rag rug hooker. And as am I, a dedicated and inventive knitter.


.....to be continued.

Magical Newfoundland Moments, Part 1.

There are some moments in life that you look back on and say to yourself, oh that was the time, it was so inspiring, why didn’t I see it then? I’m getting better at observing in the now – more aware, more in the magical moments, more grateful for the gift of this incredible life.

Well, I’ve had a ton of those moments over the summer, let me tell you, and I had those moments in gallons in the last couple of days.

Seven of us headed over to Ferryland on Thursday afternoon for an evening of dinner theatre and to stay overnight in this glorious old house that has been painstakingly restored. Ferryland was settled in 1621 and there are significant archaeological exploration there as the site has been so perfectly preserved.

But we were there for the theatre, a wonderful show called "Outport Taxi". I don’t think I stopped laughing from beginning to end. The place was packed and as tourist season is closing, nearly all of us were Newfoundlanders. And as is the way when that happens, everyone starts talking to everyone else and the audience becomes one huge party.


We had a PJ gathering after the show in the big kitchen of the house, slurping drinks and evil junk food and shooting the blarney. I love nights like this, a direct golden path leading to the harvest moon above the water outside the door, every star as clear as a button holding back the navy blue sky and the lilt of female voices spinning the yarns of the tapestry that make up our lives.

We had an amazing breakfast provided by the owner and her husband, a good friend, up in her café on the hill above the house.

It never ceases to astonish me, the quality and diversity of artistic talent contained (or should that be brimming over in every direction?) in a thinly populated province like Newfoundland and the joy of discovering yet others like myself, the CFAs (“Come-From-Aways”), who visit here, become captivated (or taken by the faeries as some have it!) and make a startling, sudden and heartfelt decision to leave all that is familiar and come and live here.

Our first stop was to the home of an ex-pat Britisher, Nicola Hawkins, and her husband Andy who took this old church that had been abandoned for twenty years and made an exquisite home and galleries out of it. Here is the inside:
Breathtaking doesn’t do it justice. Example: stones from the beach in front are laid into white cement in their entire lobby floor, Canadian coins, mainly pennies, are embedded into their bathroom floor.



Greenhouses, dove cotes and two lightfilled workshops cling to the hills around the converted church:
A feast for the eyes and the soul. Among other creative endeavours Nicky takes old tin boxes that formerly housed biscuits, tea, tobacco, etc. and gently beats them into astonishing artefacts, chairs, chests and tables. She also paints and teaches Yoga. And took time away from her culinary endeavours to talk to us and show us her stained glass as her husband busied himself outside, laying out a 100lbs of cod to dry.

Apologies for the quality of my photos, all due to living in Dialup Dementia, soon to be Highspeed Heaven - if all goes well.



…..to be continued.