Poppies.

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Well, I was going to make double poppy seed packets for all my friends, but somebody wanted the opium in my pods. Ripped all my plants right out of my front yard! What a strange and vexing violation!

Oh well! The above is a painting I did while they were blooming. (It’s peonies and poppies) I never actually painted a double poppy though. I should! And here are a few shots of the poppies themselves :)

20140716-094721-35241696.jpg20140716-095509-35709871.jpgI got a temporary bottle of pink dye for the tips of my hair so I could match them!20140716-094721-35241409.jpg20140716-094721-35241994.jpg20140716-094723-35243127.jpg20140716-094722-35242715.jpgThis was the last one!20140716-095001-35401678.jpg

Seeds and paints.

20140715-091109-33069003.jpgI have a canvas of earth and a garden in my heart ready to unfold its bright swirling petals. I love how we have been infused with the seeds inside to create beauty, and the tools to make our visions bloom. This has been a season of petals and stamens and color for me. I breathe and sleep their tufted forms. And I watch them burst forth along my front path and up from my water color paper. The earth returns my love to me, and as always, there are surprises and delights even I could not imagine. A gift for my faith in tending a seed, and inspiration for another jewel toned painting. 20140715-091108-33068698.jpg

Dark Underground Cities

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Peonies
By Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

The other day Joey read this poem by Mary Oliver to me while we sat in the Horticultural Center’s garden. I was swept into it as she read. I immediately wanted to paint the ants. It was the prettiest, most exotic description of a bug I usually have a strong distaste for! I love finding beautiful ways to look at things we are frightened of.

Here is Joey in the garden. Aren’t those poppies amazing!?
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Puck

20140706-092915-34155838.jpgWhen Harry was born I liked to call him Puck (from a midsummer night’s dream, as depicted by Arthur Rackham) for his red hair and one pointy ear. Little did I know he would live up to his mischievous personality too! His Grandma recently asked what his name meant. She figured it must mean something like her Daughter Nicole’s name “victorious” because she was victorious over her mother as a toddler :) (I had forgotten what Harry meant! I didn’t name him for the meaning, but for Harry Potter.) We ended up having a really good laugh.

Harry means Home Ruler. 20140706-085002-31802684.jpg
This morning my dew drop prince’s hair was in rare form. His ear grew into a round shape but his hair and giggly sneaky self is still Puck!

And Harry may be the master of his own affairs, but he is also the funniest and maaaybe the cutest little thing I’ve ever encountered. He makes every day more exciting! And when he finally concedes to not having his way he slumps and says, “awight. Mama, I sorry.”

I adore this little pixie spreading mischievous magic in his wake!

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Light within

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A while ago my intense anxiety exploded into a full blown panic disorder. I would wake up with my chest aching, my heart pounding. Any decision or stress would send me spiraling into panic: numbness, hot flashes, sweat, rash, jitters, and the sense that something terrible was about to happen. My chest felt like it would explode. Every morning I would say to Beau, “I can’t shake it, I can’t shake it, Beau. I’m really not well.”

But I was still saying to myself and others, “I’m just overwhelmed. I just need to cut some things out, stop seeing so many people.”

But deep down I knew it was more. And cutting things out became everything. And seeing less people became everyone. And the boys became a burden instead of the treasure that they are. And I knew it would only get worse.

I painted this painting the day I finally went in to get help.

I felt like I was accepting defeat, but I kept hearing God say I was only sprouting wings. Accepting and allowing change.

“And the day came when the risk to remain right in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

On the first day without any chest pain I found this little Geometer moth. And the sunset had wings.
20140703-121010-43810642.jpgThat was only a couple of days ago, and my heart is pounding and my face is going numb writing this, but I wanted to make a truthful declaration here. My life is not all beauty, though there is beauty in darkness…it is real, and a journey, and much of the light that is to come is cocooned waiting to come out. I want to try my best to let it, and I want to encourage others to be brave and do the same. 20140703-121011-43811194.jpg

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn

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“The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. –Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.”
~William Wordsworth

Last night my mom showed me this poem and told me it is her heart. Then she cut a bouquet of roses for me from her arbor in the windy dark as petals fell all around us and sent their scent out to the sea.

I wanted to capture it, but this painting is what came out instead. It’s a good thing I have all the time in the world to keep trying and keep seeing and keep listening for wreathed horns.

The Birch Path

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One of the most inspiring places in my life is Rachel’s homestead, The Birch Path. She’s a city girl turned Country, chickens and all. This week her brood started laying blue eggs! The kids all fought over who got to hold the latest treasure and I had several cups of tea in my old pink tweed chair. I could paint a hundred little scenes inspired by her world. And I think I will!

I painted these two with Gouache. Kill me, a new medium is HARD! I had a picture in my head of how I wanted the paint to flow and that stuff just stayed gloopy and muddy. It wouldn’t blend and bleed and flow the way I love watercolor to do. BUT I am learning. And the curve is steep. For all the hours of perseverance I can sense the magic seeping up through the page. I’m close!

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