Learning Collage

Last spring a friend sent a surprise in the mail. This is what it looked like.

I started trying to learn art journaling or soul collage as some call it. Somerset Studios magazines compels me. I took Maureen's gift as inspiration - unwrapped it from its original form and opened it up. I glued it down onto the back of a large calendar after whose pages had all been glued together for thickness. I wanted a thick base. A few more pieces of my own heart and thoughts were glued on - it was beginning to be a collaboration. Seven layers of mod podge were coated over the top.

 This is it in halves as it was too large to scan whole. It is a bit flat and lifeless still.

And a close up photo. 

But here's where it started getting fun. Gesso. Gesso is my newest friend. Gel, hard body, smooth, fiber, clear, black, white - any type. I love gesso! Smooch. 

One rough layer. Let it dry. Then I used acrylic paint, pearl powders, and distressing dye to finish the layers. In between each I mercilessly scrubbed, scraped, and sanded it. The dimension and textures are fantastic. 

What I loved most was the scrubbing off to reveal what was underneath part. What's underneath is always a surprise. iLike that. Thanks Maureen for the continuing education ....of me. 

This is the finished piece. It was beyond fun. I dance. I do. 

Try clicking to enlarge and see the details if you want. Many things changed or got covered up ~ or uncovered as it evolved.  

Tea Invitation

A dear friend invited me to her annual Christmas Tea. It was the first time meeting her circle of friends. High Tea allows girls of all ages to be princesses for an afternoon. Everything was made from scratch. The lights welcoming us inside drew us to a table decorated with the finest setting. My eyes feasted on the vignettes in every corner.

High Tea is about careful details, ritual, and reveling in all things feminine. You want to be your best and enjoy it to the fullest. Gratitude abounds because of the invitation. Ugly can't come in the door. Every woman around the table seems to become more and more gorgeous as the conversation blossoms.

My hostess's deceased mother Helen, was mentioned several times. As I asked questions, it seemed like she was the common thread among them. Her influence had effected each of one.

 One of the stories made a deep impression. Helen kept her table set for tea at all times. Her hospitality was framed in a tangible, enduring way. She was expecting you, hoping you would come and be served delicacies from her heart and hands. A magnetic woman ~ drawing other women to allow themselves the luxury of being nourished.

These are old photos of Helen's welcoming table. 

She also wrote and sent cards to friends all her life. Many of the women there not only had kept each one, but had adopted the habit themselves and were leaving their own legacy.

One precious woman had enjoyed the set table herself so many times, she has been doing the same thing in her home for years.

She drank tea from a cup she had given our hostess many years ago. It was bittersweet for she is ill. Each year she is at the Christmas Tea is a gift, like each day she wakes. Full circle.

I think we have to experience a thing before we can absorb enough to have the wherewithal to give it away. Receiving it like a sponge is the only thing to do in these cases.

We were all reluctant to leave the magic. It was uplifting. The tastes and flavors lingered on our tongues like the memory will in our hearts. One afternoon of respite. One afternoon of nourishment and nurturing. One afternoon of such a gift spills over and drips on everyone and everything around us. It multiplies. I left wanting to pass it on, pay it forward.

Little girl tea parties are as playful as big girl tea parties. As I drove home I felt blessed to have been in the room with so much collective wisdom and luster.

Thank you ever so much for inviting me Kathy. 

Cracked Open

Our heels crack from weary walkabout. 

Minds crack and shatter wanting to fold. 

Hearts crack without tears. 

Skin cracks and peels from lack of moisture. 

Heads crack against buttresses impenetrable. 

Our bones crack from heavy packs. 

Finally, our very souls crack open 

wetting cracked lips.

 It's the only way to find our voice. 

Take courage my friend. Being cracked open lets your story out. It is still being written. 

Bird Below

White bird
circling high
above the valley
weaves a bouquet of
mountains together
below me



Waimea Canyon, Kauai. November 2010

Playground for Light

End of season fluff 

used to be harvested

by tribal prairie people

for diaper filling 

and women's flow.

 Bed mats too, softening 

sleep on earthen floors.

Soft cotton free and plentiful.

Disposable?

 Recyclable? 

Renewable?

Back then? 

Farmers hate it like 

gardeners hate dandelions.

 One strong gust spreads 

millions of floating seeds waiting

to root. Blackbirds roost and 

nest in cattail marshes before

deciding to strip a field of 

sunflower seeds. 

"But wait, please don't kill the cattails" ~ I pled.

My first firefly show

happened here

long ago. 

The glow of it

 has yet to dim. 

Gallant Loverby 

got wet catching

one buzzing light ~

a love trophy for 

me, his new bride.

Captured magic 

~love's light~

magnified in 

a mason jar. 

This fall, Loverby stopped to let me take a picture at a thriving cattail colony in the slough. It was still there in spite of planes spraying for complete eradication all those years ago. I had gone crazy when I realized they were systematically trying to rid the prairie of magical places where fireflies played. When I came stumbling into the house sobbing because the planes were spraying overhead with a vengeance - my mother in law held me and cried with me. She explained that the blackbirds came in hoards like locusts and cleaned out the sunflower fields. The cattail sloughs were their breeding ground. They would have no harvest to harvest if something wasn't done. I hated not being able to offer an alternative.

I was an idealistic young woman raging against the destruction of the place where cotton batting grew free, and light played and lived.

 I still don't notice blackbirds. 

Cellar Remains

  

Playmates won't slide down this cellar 

door. It is gone like the house above. 

Rocks split on the grain 

were dry stacked flush 

by hard hands.

 An artist holding hammer 

and chisel raised the puzzle 

one row at a time. 

Small rocks 

fill empty spaces

 between 

big ones balancing careful 

until corners meet 

woven and strong. 

This cool dark hole 

preserved harvest well

until the long winter was done.

Homestead wives 

went down stairs outside 

to the store around 

   the corner  

      underneath 

         their porch. 

Barefoot Heart

Comes a time 

a wintery time

between summers 

when my 

earth widened  

sun browned 

barefoot heart

has to squish 

expansive parts

unwillingly

back inside

uncomfortable 

tight spots 

constrained by 

framed by 

culture

no air cleansing 

no water cooling 

no sand tickling 

earthiness

no circles

only rows

no love feasts warm

celebrating at the table 

of friends

only

clacking plastic  

grating against shiny

metal holes passed somber 

with 

baskets of crumbs

dead and dry and tasteless

unable to breathe 

or wriggle free

monstrous waves 

of panting panic

attack 

until ties are loosened 

buckles unfastened

restraints kicked 

off and away toward 

the preferred 

expanse 

of summertime's

intended 

green  

freedom

where 

no blisters rub

my barefoot heart

raw

Maureen encouraged me to join in the fun happening over at One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday. Even though I feel quite shy about it, playing with others and learning from them is good. Poetry only recently found me. I'm most thankful.