Friday, June 29, 2012

WHAT MORE OR LESS KILLS YOU WITH DELIGHT?


I had several beautiful images
ready for this post .....
and then I discovered Lenny's little boats.
They need their own post!
Don't you agree?
Do you remember making little boats
from sticks and seed pods
and trying to float them in rock pools
or down stream?
Some were successful but most not.
Lenny has the magic touch!



".... whenever I'm near water, I'll beach comb for bits of wood, feather or anything else that appeals and make some boats.

I usually stick to a loose set of rules for each construction that vary occasionally, depending on how lazy I feel - eg. I might only build the boat out of stuff that is within reach when I'm sitting down, or I might restrict the use of tools (usually a penknife)" - Lenny



See Lenny's whole series of little boats on Flickr, here.




MINDFUL by Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

~Mary Oliver~
(Why I wake early)



Sunday, June 24, 2012

A BIT DOTTY


Guinea fowl feathers float around
in almost every room of our house.
I can't resist picking them up
when I'm out walking.
I'm dotty about the spots!
White spots on black...
Black spots on white ....


.... spots, speckles and dots in nature
and in art.


Mathias Goeritz

Eunice Kim. See website here.







With Thanks to the Field Sparrow,
Whose Voice Is so Delicate and Humble
by Mary Oliver

I do not live happily or comfortably
with the cleverness of our times.
The talk is all about computers,
the news is all about bombs and blood.
This morning, in the fresh field,
I came upon a hidden nest.
It held four warm, speckled eggs.
I touched them.
Then went away softly,
having felt something more wonderful
than all the electricity of New York City.


Thursday, June 14, 2012

SHE TALKS TO BIRDS



Browsing through my Pinterest boards I notice that without thinking about it too much I've collected images that take me back to a very happy time during my childhood and with the help of all these amazing artists I am able to tell my story.


Even at a very young age I loved and studied birds....
Bird rearing became an integral part of my life on the farm.


The farm workers knew that I would look after any creature that was wounded or tossed out of it's nest on a stormy night. In the beginning many of them died which broke my heart but I found out everything I could about caring for them (my brother was a font of useful information) and soon I became very good at it.








One particular incident still makes me smile. After successfully releasing a family of weavers to the wild I was delighted that they still came back for the odd visit. Over time the visits petered out and I thought they had forgotten their ties with humans, but early one morning when the Zulu induna (headman) was walking down to the milking sheds there was a confusion of sound overhead and out of the mist a whirring flutter cluster of weavers landed on his head. He nearly passed out from the shock! When he told us about it later we rolled about in hysterics. Since it amused us so much he told the story often and it was just as funny with each telling.


There might be a time in my dotage when I'll become the bird lady again :-)



Saturday, June 9, 2012

THE JOURNEY




THE JOURNEY by David Whyte

Above the mountains
the Geese turn into
the light again
Painting their black silhouettes
on an open sky.
Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens
so you can find
the one line
already written
inside of you.
Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
small, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.
Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out
someone has written
something new
in the ashes
of your life.
You are not leaving
You are arriving.




"And you? When will you begin your long journey into yourself?" - Rumi





"This painting was done a few years ago, it turned my art into an inward search in an effort to express not what was in front of me but what is inside. Everyone has an internal compass, it has no needle to guide, you only know you are heading in the right direction when it just feels right" - Dan McCaw




Read "The Journey" by Mary Oliver here.