the same breath
as my art.
the same breath
as my art.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I keep my distance from the news.
I have to, because the moment I face the full ache of this thing, I feel the pain of the entire world. Already, I’ve felt the fear of the dying and the sorrow of their loved ones. I’ve intuited the secret shame of the many humans walking the earth who are afraid that they will be next. (It’s okay to be afraid, by the way. You already know that, though, don’t you. )
Anyway, I’ve felt it all, and…I’ve felt helpless, quite frankly— especially since I’ve been wallowing in a pit of my own selfish pain for quite some time now. Because life (all of it, the whole joyful ache) still happens, even when there is a monster on the loose.
So I zoom right out, and I really look at it all.
What can I do about all these aches everywhere? All the lonely people. All the fearful people. All the dying.
Guys. I know what I can do.
I can write.
With all my heart I can write, with all my days, I can write. For you— for anyone that needs something more than what they have—until there is some relief in sight. Until we are all able to live fully and wholly for ourselves again.
I can’t cure this disease (omg, lol, no ha ha ha) nor can I erase the ache of a world in despair.
But I have lived. And I can write.
And so I will write.
Over the coming weeks, I will do my very best to show up here every day, and often, with new life, new breath, new feeling…just because I know that it is right.
I know that it is right.
So get ready to live it all through me. Love. Heartache. Tenderness. Humanity. Peace. Fire. Sex. Sensuality. Softness. Community. Spirit. Sunshine. LIFE.
Everything. All of it.
Because that’s what this place was always meant to be:
The Little Blog of Everything.
With all that said…let’s kick this virus in the butt with all the bloggy goodness.
Just because we can.
So much love, bloggy family. I may, or may not, love you all dearly. (Oh, okay. You’ve got me. I so completely do. 🙂 )
It’s the morning.
I’m sitting up in bed, leaning against the material laden backboard of the bed I bought when my life tore into two separate pieces. It makes me feel more comfortable than the old wooden one. I feel safer, more at home, to have a bed clothed in the softer materials of life.
I’ve just been crying. And you should know by now that I don’t consider crying to be a bad thing at all. It’s one of the most beautiful connections we have to our bodies and souls; a bridge to connect the two, you might say.
I have a feeling— among all my so often elevated feelings— that I am here to teach the world this, and I will not stop speaking my truth until I’m satisfied we’ve all heard, and understood, that it’s really quite beautiful to live and love with all of your heart. To laugh and cry and feel it all.
And be grateful for it all.
The reason I’ve been crying is: a few minutes ago my insides were melted by the most beautiful music—music that has just tumbled down my cheeks in the most blissfully warm river of tears. It wasn’t the music itself that drew the tears. It was the life and meaning that lived within it all that moved me, so.
This is a gift, this beautiful life.
Music. Friendship. Love.
We are so lucky to be touched by the people who feed us beautiful new parts of ourselves. We are so lucky to have these legs, these hands, these eyes, these voices, these hearts.
We are lucky, no matter what the outside of it all looks like.
Don’t waste a minute wondering what if, my lovely bloggy friends. Don’t fight the logistics of circumstance. Just take a deep breath and jump in.
Turn your heart up to the highest notch, and go and find— and live—your truth.
Who are you? What do you want? Where is your real home? No really, ask yourself these questions, guys…because what else is there to do? Truly. What’s the point of life if it is not to live?
So, please, you guys. Post your artworks on Instagram. Look into that yoga teaching course, even though your Mum and Dad think Yoga is for ‘that dreadlock band of tree-loving hooligans’. And for heaven’s sake…tell that girl/guy exactly how much you love them. Tell them with your eyes.
Because surely the point of this crazy wonderful life is to know there is more,
and to be it all.
Anyway, I’ll pop back into my cave now, I suppose.
I just wanted to say all that.
So much love, everyone.
Your friend, always.
(I really do mean that.)
Is this a rainbow I see
reaching through the collective heart
of the dreamers?
Wide eyes open, lovely dreamers.
You were made to shine
the most beautiful lights on the world.
Come to me, sweet muse.
Float into my heart and wake me from sleep.
Light the fire within and shine me on my way
for a thousand lifetimes.
I see you, sweet muse, for what you are to me.
A million dreams to share.
A million dreams
to unlock the pure and gentle ecstasy of the world.
It only took her an entire winter.
But she finished it, eventually,
without even glancing
at the cupboard of unfinished things.
There were wobbly patches
but to the young boy, it was perfect.
And, so, to her…
it was all the world
in a little, yellow loop.
The brightest Angel
slides on her spectacles,
It’s the painting
that she loves the most.
She soaks the brush tip once more:
crystal blue and white,
and she paints
until her miracle
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.
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.
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.
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
‘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.