One seamless day

For oft I look at the clock to find

it tick tick ticking another time,

Luncheon dishes sitting statuesque

And half an hour before we dine?

 

This day, another, the one before

stitched, sewed,stretched into one seamless day.

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Roll roll rolling like baby’s fabric ball

Not much bounce and few escapades

‘be it a surprise then

to find folded laundry found

For yet another washing round?

 

Climb into bed and climb right out

An hour thin, a minute stout

Sportingly I say , ” I ‘d sleep with shoes on today”

Time does bend, I’ll make do and mend

Wonder then

How many things I start with

And never finish anyth?

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For oft I look at the clock to find

This moment that is now

turn threadbare, antique

Edges distressed

Flea-market-esque.

 

 

 

The elephant in the room.

I CAN’T ignore it.  It is too BIG.  Too distracting.

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It follows my mind, sneers at me, makes me shorter than I am. Comes after, goes behind. With its appearance (decidedly handsome ) and its manners (truly appalling) , it puts me down.

mirror-mirror1 My toddler doesn’t trouble me as much as the ELEPHANT in the room. Cool as the summer sea, it smirks as it watches my tea get cold. It humphs a cold, demure ,”No” as I catch myself in the mirror. It makes me give up , tells me ” let go.”

Does it sleep? I think not. Does it eat? A LOT! I feed it. I have fed it for years now. I can’t remember when we met but we did and it has never since left my side.

I remember though , the day when a teacher read aloud to the class a story I wrote while I looked down at a dancing sunbeam. I remember the chill. It was there, worthlessness. I had brought it to school. From home, in my bag, in my heart. For a little girl, that is big weight but I did alright.  Kind teachers always did spot me from behind other tall girls , pushed me on stage, worked on me, gave me lead roles, put me on the debate team with boys whose newly gruff voices scared me greatly. Gravelly voices coming from headless shoulders for I couldn’t look up beyond.

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I kept running away from any applause, collapsing with every word of kindness spoken to me. Undone with every little ‘thank you ‘, I felt apologetic for my very existence. All the while feeding the Elephant in the room. I thought my daddy would save me but I think he forgot.

Now, An Elephant is big. An Elephantine thought even bigger . I am learning to say ” excuse me ” to the Elephant in the room just like my children find their way around me even when I say no. I want to set it free. And I am failing. Too big. Too distracting. I am working on annoying it so much , it would get anngry at me and LEAVE.

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Around these parts

The breeze is broom-y as I type and, for aught I know, everything will be suspiciously still in a moment as if it never did stir. It is only slowly registering that this is home. It amazes me to recall, several times a day, “this is home.”

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I have been feverish , with all my muscles aching. It takes long to get familiar and what was I thinking? It will be laid back, piled pillows and rugs and flowers in vases. I have somehow missed that honeymoon period of affections and have been obsessively worrying over cleanly swept entry halls and a fully stocked kitchen.Only (thankfully) without a print gown and an apron.

The artist’s eye, as I know it, is a condition. It renders you slow. You sit staring into the depths of your new mahogany polished table , start to follow the valleys and rifts of the grain and position your cup of tea, just so you can see the flaming yellow flowers on it as if rising out of one of those crooked dales. Your kid tumbles at this moment ,with his cup of milk of course, and you have got reality to pay attention to, but a part of your mind is plagued if the contours of the cup are diffusing into the nature of wood just right. A few minutes later though , you’ll sweep the cup off the table, tea grown cold and dump it into the sink.

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A house of one’s own is a difficult possession, even if it has a linen closet and flowers to match the curtains. For it to be home, it needs a lot of coaxing. For it to be laid back, it needs a  lot of sweating and wearing out.  Its contours diffusing into the nature of our spaces just right. Morning light flushing sleep  out and waking up to jarring superhero stickers on a favorite cupboard and crayon and sticky hands on the mirror glass. It must start somewhere. It is starting to.

For me, it begins with the kitchen and the bathrooms. I need the assurance of sturdy plumbing and smooth flowing drains. With that out-of-the-way, my kitchen painted all white, cabinets and tile, is a striking contrast to my rustic wooden spoons and wicker baskets. I thought I was mature enough to be minimalist but the bohemian in me rises as I dump my cold tea into the sink for the third time. I need a colorful back splash. A Turkish blue and red or plum and indigo to wake me up!I need crystals and pompoms on my window!! I have got to cope with a thousand spills a day after all. I am adding a link in here to Plumb Tile , I was asked if I would do a sponsored post for them. I took it up only because I am in the thick of making the very romantic decisions of what color, what texture , what kind right now. I found that they have a number of designs and brands , even handcrafted tiles ,which are particularly delicious to me , in one place here : Glass tile and stone.

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OH! and I did land up on the fantastic idea of just changing the pulls and knobs of old furniture,  little silver baubles as pull-outs for the drawers of a distressed Manor blue painted baby cot would be precious , wouldn’t they? Knobs and pulls

And gold faucets contrasting with stone washed bathroom walls! Bathroom sinks .  A witty Norwegian touch for the times when I want to stay hidden forever.

I love it when I can recreate an expensive look that I have spent precious minutes admiring on Pinterest for much less. Making lifts me from merely eking out an existence. It is an affliction , indeed it is and I want to never be cured.

As I pursue the wistful dreams of an old brass knocker on my front door and a table beautifully laid out for luncheon, I move around with a duster in hand, which by the way stays in the right bottom cabinet of my kitchen, with toddler in tow and the eight year old aiming with my spray bottle at the vivid sunshine. I am grateful. This is home.

anything-but-all together-trifling News and flowers.

Dear Reader

Thank you for still being here and before any wild ideas start to fly , allow me to hush them by saying ” No, it isn’t that kind of news.” It still is wacky wonderful news though!

just for me

First of all it is this little (awesome) space of mine’s Birthday. I have babbled here for a complete year now. I would like to think it has not all been tiresome twaddle. Your narrator is making a poker face here , dear reader, pretending not to, but wanting you to say that you have loved it. Just being jolly here. I am still the bashful wench I was a year ago, addicted to worry and afflicted on most of my days by crabby kids.’ Most of the days ‘can easily turn into a number of weary weeks, you’d know if you have a bunch of those. Or even one.

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I haven’t been able to toss away my clothesline , and haven’t turned into the wonderful keeper of the house with the well stocked pantry and exquisite copper kettles but I have found that I ain’t missing funnybones. There isn’t wholesome wisdom I  have to offer,  I  have a serious deficit. Neither can I promise to daily dabble. But if you would stick around I  have a lot coming up. To wit, prior to this place here, I could not have associated  words as blogging or writing or illustrating with me but a year later , I wish not to disassociate myself ever. I am definitely more well-endowed (intend the pun or not!) and more balanced than a year ago.

Here are some flowers I want to offer.I really do mean the Thank you. They will look pretty on your phone!

wallpaper 1spring for your device ,here

WP_20160518_08_24_58_Progiant bloomers,here

WP_20160518_08_24_07_Prothe whole bunch, here

 

 

In other news , I took up the 100 days challenge on Instagram. I post a painting  there everyday. If you haven’t taken a look,  pray DO!!

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My preoccupation with it, has hit me so intensely, so wholly , that my ears have become capable of reducing my toddler’s intense tantrums to the decibel of soft falling snow ( I  am in air conditioning). It is awfully addictive. Terrible love, I tell you. I am living pictures. Condition me to wear woolly padded socks in the blazing sun , I ll do it. I  must mention that Big Bear has been rather cuddly and cooperative.

Wait there’s more! We are moving. Rather soon now. I won’t wander with words on the state of my mind on account of that . I have a picture to let you see .

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I am going to do a series of posts here on how our new home evolves room by room. Stay around . What’s not to like about a new start? All of us need one.

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Love myself, despite

It is hot.  It could distort-a- thought hot. Melting like morning butter on toast. There is no more coaxing our little pine. It is a goodbye. The babies get sad when I try to explain.

The wind has sat down. You’d think it will move again but it won’t.  It just sits getting heavier. A loss of free will. You’d think evening would bring relief  but by twilight , free will is thickened jam.  Store in a jar and refrigerate.

Pour yet another glass of a chilled something for the children, worry what if even watermelons will evaporate. Check again and be positive that the window panes are starting to swell. Go look once more and be positive it is only an illusion.

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Be hot-headed. Forget to drink.  A rag doll be. Don’t stop that unsavory lament of how no one cares. Don’t feel like eating. Skip that lunch. A permanent temporary solution. Allow hurtful words to play in your head. Fight for why no one stands for you. Why no one understands. Tired you, tire yourself some more.

Only don’t.

Bear with me, cheer is nigh.

Sit yourself down. Drink something. Eat something. Replenish before you can give again. Get that jar out. Sweet free will. Wash down that hurt. Butterfly float. There is second wind.

Next time, when someone unkind, says you stay home and do nothing. Don’t you wait for someone else to jump in and save you.

Up you stand and say ,” I am a mother of young children, the center of our home, I am the lover , the nurse, the laughter, the art. The heart. The hearth. I am the sum of our everyday and I am the difference our little ones will make.”

When downward bound again, repeat, ” love myself, despite.”

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Too many hugs?

There is one thing I do truly well –  asking for hugs. My kids hug me innumerable times a day, unasked. It is my pursuit of being in a long embrace with Big Bear that I am so especially good at I have made an extreme sport of it. Now before you get me wrong it is not the marital hug I talk about. That one is sparkling and full of magical beans. I get quite chirpy when I think of it but will refrain from any further elaboration.

It is the tender, the mushy , the idyllic kind of hug that I am chasing. Yes, the classic one with loopy arms , beating hearts, I know clichéd, with the magnetic  force of which my swirling big toe can crush the ground. And in the process lift me up . From whatever it is that holds me down. It is not just the hug that is critical to my quest, it is the choreographed dance of my limbs , the blissful squeezing of my eyes, the explosive ticking in my chest wanting to be held that has made me such an enthusiast. It is incurable, involuntary, persistent and  complicated. Simple , all the same, I need a hug. Right when I need it. Or I can go on asking.

hugs

I like a bit of demonstrative love. My childhood mostly bereft of it, I may have asked for one too many hugs from Big bear. I take this crusade very seriously, often think I am good at it, but not quite. I continue to stay vulnerable but refuse to waver.

I hug my children, we have lots of cuddling time everyday. It brings me peace like no other, but the little girl in me wants a hug to hide. That only the tree like Big bear can provide, but needs and moods hardly do coincide.

A giant , magnificent hug , unasked , a surprise, I keep thinking of it. I can feel its tight squeeze .  At least my boys wouldn’t grow up to be needy as I am. And I know they will intuit the need for one.

My big bear hug will be. It better be sooner than later though. I can barely function. I am serious.

About going on asking.

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Of rusty time and old grannies.

 

We stayed two days at Big Bear’s grandmother’s rustic village home while we were visiting family.  A big house in a small place, where time has grown old, spry only in the wings of a firefly or the acoustics of a cricket. Either of which may fall with a final flutter into your glass of warm cow milk, in case you were a little boy indulging in creamy sips under the yellow light of an electric luminary. That would make you squirm and old Time laugh.

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Where everyone knows everyone, where old grannies come one by one to look at the visitors. Where the skies seem to bend at the windows, curious, as if to hear what can be said in the absence of a shared language. I can comprehend just enough and not speak at all. Unmindful of it, old grannies peck my cheeks , run their hands down my shoulders, stand back, look,  dotingly smile, sit down, sip tea. I feel too young, too shy. Old grannies, little girls somewhere,soft and fragile, worn and nurturing.  Patchwork grannies , lovingly made with printed cottons, faded reds, inked blues, bleached whites, neatly hemmed. Thoughtfully grown old ,with old man Time.

Where Big Bear’s grandmother sits on a low wooden seat , as she gently gauges the generic roundness of each potato with her brown nimble fingers. With her indestructible iron knife she scores each eye that is threatening to sprout and removes it with jaunty coolness. Unhurriedly she takes off the peel in thin strips as the spud dances in her hand and with a final keen scrutiny plop goes the chipper into a bowl of water. Unwittingly she has brought on a serendipitous collision in my mind. Brought me as close to spirituality as I can get. Made me still, bent my thought like the sky at the window. Patchwork potatoes, fondly grown with pretty patterns of sunlight and red soil.

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Old man Time lets me be.  A dressmaker in a daydream. Dreaming away of chevron skies and rainbow quilts.