By the time we reached this date in January last year I had given up posting here! My last comment (January 26th) was a sketch of my glue bottle and remarks about feeling stuck.
This is the time of year when I find it hard to keep going. January seems to last for ever, and the days are dark and cold. But browsing through my posts for this date in past years I also find hints of what keeps me going. One is being creative in some way, stitching most often. The other is in discovering the garden’s ability to continue to grow through the dark moments.
Two years ago today I sketched some early rhubarb. The exuberant and almost neon colouring of forced rhubarb is always a surprise, and is a great reminder that even in the dark short days of winter there is hidden sweet brightness just waiting to be discovered.
January 28th 2017
Not yet enough for a crumble, but sufficient stalks and leaves emerging from the dark earth to give a little thrill. The intense pink and acid yellow colours of the early forced rhubarb provides a jolt of pleasure, and gives me a moment of wonder as to how such bright vivid colour can be produced in a complete absence of light, only revealed when I lift the cover.
However it does it, it always cheers me up!
Posted in creativity, Drawing, garden, growing, mindfulness, small stones, spirituality, stitching, Uncategorized, writing
Tagged Rhubarb, Small stone
Today I have been reminded of the time when I made the blue patchwork cushion on the writing chair where I sit each day. On this day four years ago I did not know what my pieced together shapes would become. I did not know they would become an object which has supported me through many days of ups and downs, and hours of reading and writing.
Perhaps the lesson I can draw today is that it doesn’t really matter if we don’t know what it’s for, the important thing is just to get on with the business of creating from whatever we have to hand. Its purpose will be revealed later, maybe years later, and maybe not even to us.
January 25th 2015
Cutting up bits and pieces
Into carefully measured
Then joining up the little pieces
Into carefully arranged
Now what do I do with it?
This is the product of my cutting up my “blue Monday” fabrics, and piecing them together at an Embroiderer’s Guild workshop, using shaded four patch blocks. Quite a satisfying (although fiddly) process but I don’t know what to do with it now!
The story of our lives, perhaps?
I didn’t go back far today in my browse through my January small stones. Two years ago I sketched the same chair I am sitting in this morning, and it certainly isn’t beautiful! I notice I have added another cushion since I drew it two years ago, crocheted from a colourful ball of wool in my stash. But what a mish mash, and how muddled it looks! And the piles of books and papers around it appear equally disorganised.
But this eclectic hotchpotch of a chair has supported and inspired me through many creative endeavours. So I will just accept it that way, and be grateful for somewhere to sit and dream.
January 24th 2017
A rather weird drawing experience this morning. On impulse I got out of the chair I was sitting in, and looked at it, and decided to sketch it. This is where I have spent many, many hours writing my journal and my blog. This is the chair I have sat on while reading, researching and writing for my Masters in Creative Writing. And this month I have done most of my sketches sitting here.
An old second hand tub chair draped in a huge Indian shawl throw, given to me by a friend, I have it padded out with two mismatched cushions. One cushion is a patchwork of some of my favourite blue Kaffe Fassett fabrics, which I cut and peiced together with great care. Most days I don’t look at the cushion at all, I just sit on it and squash it out of shape, completely disregarding the time and effort I spent in making it.
But today I have looked with new eyes at the chair and the cushions which have been supporting me throughout those hours. I noticed the soft folds and subtle shapes of the throw and thought of the friend who gave it to me. I remembered the precision with which I cut the patchwork shapes for the back cushion, and recollected that the seat cushion was a sale bargain from Laura Ashley over thirty years ago. The chair itself was an eBay buy, with a previous life. This incongruous hotchpotch of things from the past, so often unacknowledged and unappreciated, is the trusty place which holds me secure as I sit and contemplate the day. It is far from empty…
As I look back over my posts from the last seven years sometimes it is hard to chose just one to share again. Today was like that. I chose this moment in the vegetable garden partly because this morning, like that one, is frosty, with intricate ice patterns on every surface. But also because of my readers back then, some of who commented their appreciation of the way small insignificant moments can make us aware of the present, but also pave the way of the future.
I had no idea, when I paid some brief attention to those leeks back in 2015, that I would relive the moment again four years later. I still love leeks with or without frost, and will be eating some more homegrown for supper tonight.
January 23rd 2015
leaf shapes traced in crystals,
embellished with silver threads
and frozen drop beads.
I noticed these leeks in the garden just before heading off to the Embroiderer’s Guild meeting. No competing with nature…!
This was one the first “small stones” I wrote, posted here seven years ago. It was published in an anthology of small stones called A Blackbird Sings. All the pieces of writing were collected by Kaspa and Satya Robyn, their importance lies not so much in the finished work, but in the mindful, paying attention process by which they were written. The book also has a lovely introduction about the process of writing small stones.
January 22nd 2012
Nestled in the shelter of a mossy stone,
Green spikes poke through dead leaf litter,
Delicate white flowers touched with lime
Dip their heads, hang like shy lampshades,
I bend my knees and crouch
To look into their light.