Would you go?

Ruth 1:16b "Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. 

Your people will be my people and your God my God." 

Our alchemy

I told you already, I will go.
Wherever you go I will be there too.
I will hold your hand until we melt together.
Like new.

Let us drink this elixir and
Travel light, with Summer along too,
And in this heat our slippery thoughts are fully exposed.

We sail,
The wind our companion
Bone and bone,
Flesh and flesh,
Dragging behind mistakes forgiven
And my unnamed future without you.

Inspired by my book Gala, which was inspired by the Book of Ruth, available on Amazon in paperback, for those who, like me, like to curl up with a good book; or on Kindle, for those modern women who read the modern way!

these days are sweet
my little ones are preparing,
counting the seconds
until Christmas morning.
like the original children
naming the coarse sugar
that sparkles on the tongue
from the curve of a cookie

I am tempted to hide
from the loud goodness that is here
but I enter the kitchen of seasons
composed and ready
my tranquility measured out
in spoonfuls
by my God who knows how much I need

today, everyday

And so life goes on
dogs fight and get hurt
unplanned vet visits are added
to an already busy week,
somehow school gets fitted in,
the toddler screams for a 'nu nu'
Mama tries to understand
as the laundry quietly grows
and lunchtime rolls round again

But later the lights are lit
on the living room tree
and the world becomes low and pretty
all woes forgotten, forgiven even,
the sounds are soothed in the dim space
and now appreciated for the life and soul they represent

the light always moves us like that
showing over and over a place of birth
a sudden energy, a new spirit
that makes everything brighter.

It's the season

It's the season of sparkles

and lights, evergreens and globes,

smiles and counting down,

full days and forgotten diets.

It's the season of caroling, 

red scarfs and hats,

plates of cookies, homemade and sugary

of silent nights, 

stars that appear in the sky, magically.

It's the season of the nativity

being shepherds or angels,

Mary wearing blue, Joseph standing by

in awe of what his woman has done.

It's the season of a gift given

wrapped and unwrapped

so inspiring

the thank you note is a book

written day in, day out

until the season comes again

and we find the next chapter is only beginning.

A touch of nostalgia

 

I made this using a supplies from Stampington & Co. For directions on how to make this card pocket folder please go here.

 

frozen in time

I see an old friend

from way back

he is looking in the window

of a store on Grafton street

his image tight

never older

I am looking from above

leaning from a small wooden chair

in Bewely’s mezzanine

and he doesn’t see me

he doesn’t even remember

those days, ‘Dublin

in a rainstorm in the summer

keeping warm’. But I remember it

I remember his thin shoulders

would pull up when he laughed

bending at the waist towards me

the smell of his leather jacket

I thought we would never make 19

‘we’ didn’t

but 'I' did

that was the year I met

the true love that

misses my shape when

when I am late for bed,

that knows my face

older now and loves me more.

‘Dublin in a rainstorm in the summer keeping warm’
- a line from my favorite Sinead O’Connor song ‘Troy’

What happened at the front gate?

1:30 pm, I am at the front gate
sitting on the iron two seater
listening to my son cry for 'out' -
out of the stroller
out the straps that contain his form
of the wheels that brought him here.
He wants to explore -
walk the road
pick up rocks
examine the mail.

He knows not that there
is danger on the road -
fast cars, fire ants piled on the edge.
But more, he knows not that I am tired
I want to, no need to, sit here
quietly on this solid bench
away from the house
from the familiar asking of his siblings
from the sound of Schoolhouse Rock
multiplication songs,
songs, I know now by heart

He persists
he is his own energy force
and I am weak to his red round lips
his blond layers, his little boy blue.

A simple click of the red button
and he is free!

I rise and follow,
capture.

My camera now full of life.

I am breaking all the poetry rules by doing something so literal, but you know poetry of the ordinary is worth the rebellion ;)

Motherhood v the world

I am not deaf to his call,

his smile, his neediness

I am not confused by the next step

he and I will take

His grip on my leg

so constant, so familiar

easing my days,

eclipsing the world outside.

By Shona Cole

These words sound sad, but my focus is on 'conviction'. I am utterly convicted that my path is here with my children. Nothing will tear me away from them and this deep seated desire to raise my kids here, at home with my husband.

I want my art to reflect my life here. Somehow. Even the purely decorative things I make, the things that look nice with little deeper meaning, the stamping, the crafts - they are for my girls, to inspire them to create too. To make the world a more beautiful place. To use their hands for good.

And boy do they create. Constantly. Completely. Larger than life. This pattern is working!

Poetry folder

I spend most of my creative time balancing between poetry, photography and mixed media. I step into one world for a bit and then when that runs out of steam I am into another. I often feel when I am writing a lot that I will never take photos again, or when I am on a collage roll that I will never write again! It is kind of like mommy guilt!! I never am relaxed. 

Sometimes I hit the perfect sweet spot, when all my loves come together. I think that is why the project in Week 12 in my book is my favorite. It is the 'Poetry Box' and combines all three together.

Well, here is an alternative to that project. This is a poetry folder. I printed out some poems (about 8), photos and created some mixed media pieces to mingle in with the poems, as visual relief. Then I made a folder (like this one) to house them and a bag (like these ones) to give them to the recipient.

I just love it! Enjoy:

The front of the poetry folder

I printed the poems onto cardstock and trimmed them all the same size

I sewed a little pocket to house the poems and artwork

A mixed media piece with a bird stamp that I carved from a photo

I layered mixed media and photos with the poems

The back of the folder

I made a gift bag for the folder

My valentine poem

From the other room
I hear the pages turn

the coffee sputter into the mug,

the yellow one?

after 16 years of marriage

we have not eclipsed one another

are not frozen in action, daily and stale

no, we are still learning each other’s ways,

still finding treasure

I tread, welcome but trembling

you are the continent I choose

over and over, my feet never tired,

my journey never over

I wake and am aware of the singleness

when you are gone

the bare bed vast and cold

knowing you are next door

reading some impenetrable tome

or emailing a brother I have not seen

for years, laughing at his jokes

a continued conversation of your own

you are the master of

a world that defines you as not me

I travel on

I am not lost, just wondering

you are still the thrill I seek

still huge, stable, secure

this morning you came back to bed

your cold body needing mine,

you crossed the ocean to my side

finding that equalizing of heat

your chest on my back, arm heavy on my shoulder,

legs entwined, tight

like a picture that I sometimes see

of my eternal place beyond this land

a star formation

of lovers always together

Making something to prove I am still me

In my own comments yesterday I said I would make something, just to do it.

So I did. A simple 10 minute collage on a tiny notebook I picked up at Target the other day. Nothing profound. But it reminds me I can, yes. This is me, I can pull something together. 

I heard clearly yesterday from some readers, sweet commenters and from emails -  we are many in the boat of mother, artist, balance, worry. It is so good to know I am not alone.

But how I wish we were all together in real life. The internet is great for bringing us together intellectually, but how nice it would be to meet in real life! Shannon Mucha and I have a bold idea to one day open an art center. It would be so cool to have workshops and classes and bring together like minds, if even for a weekend. I know there are tons of retreats around, but for me now with my 5 young kids it is not doable. I know that is probably the same for many of my blog friends. But it is nice to have that dream, that 'wild hope' for the future. It keeps me motivated to stay in the game all the while I am raising my beautiful ones.

A poem for today too...

Afternoon Homemaking

By Shona Cole

it is odd the way the gold

drifts across the tile

in the afternoon

I notice it when I pause

at the stove

spoon in hand

browning the meat.

I am at my station

I am where I need to be,

people come in and go out

but I stay here

stirring the pot

dusk is falling through

the door way

coming in with the dogs

the chattering children,

their father

all breathless with delight

pulling the day closed behind

 




** Often I forget to add 'by Shona Cole' on my poem posts.... but just in case you didn't realize most everything I post here I wrote.

what I need

Taken at the baker of Bellville's castle.

A day with the kids, and about 100 other homeschoolers - running with swords, in costume, listening to Canterbury type Tales, playing with dogs, climbing, laughing, painting, getting wet in the mote.

With all the kids occupied and my mother there to push Maximus around in his stroller I got a little time to myself to think and plan. And see myself. What I need.

My life is not all about me, but sometimes I need a little of me. Sometimes I wish that I had two days for every one day. One where I could be the housewife and indulgent mother, soaking up the largeness of my kid's world. The other where I am me, sitting in a coffee shop reflecting, praying, writing and remembering.

In reality, these parts of me have to co-exist. My daily life is a process to make it so. I am so tired of not feeling like I am getting the balance right. I want to let myself see that I really am okay, I really am there, that this is it - this is what it looks like to be a functioning Christian artsy mother, but I cling to the self angst that has been so familiar for so long, looking always with a critical eye.

Can I even know how to live without it? The angst I mean. It is almost scary to let go of it and allow myself to appreciate where I am. To be satisfied with where I am, now, today. I think I fear that if I am satisfied then I won't progress. But really, I am still as ambitious today as I was, but now my ambitions for myself share time with my ambitions for my kids - for my kids to be wonderful, God fearing, happy human beings. Again, back to the me and my mothering. The balance. The co-existing of parts of myself. And round and round I go. It is hard being the daughter of a psychologist, analysis is in my blood and I think, my generation. Ladies, we are getting older, let's agree to call quits on the self war and finally be enough. Oh, I say that but I know I won't commit.

Journaling

spill here mother

a blank page

waiting whiteness

that frightens the fool

the unplanned,

mute

quench me with your color

lines and hopes

find in the curves

fellow thoughts

layered

nuanced

unspoken

true

sifted

laid bare

enclosed

closed

put on the shelf

forever telling

my story

Art Finds Friday - January 21, 2011

There is a glass window to the forest

we see our last days here

winter is mild about us now

the low cool gone

the blankets stripped back

revealing what we should have

known before

we always forget the leaves

that came and went

the branches bare and struggling

to find their breath

I know spring will come

and breathe life into our days too

fact’s happy speech!

So I will enjoy this lingering winter

before the sun’s white gold

takes our sorrow.

by shona cole

1) PHOTOGRAPY

 Check out these photos of a decaying Detroit!  

2) JEWELRY

And this beautiful blog, Jean Jean Vintage.

3) WORKSHOP

I will be taking some classes at Art Unraveled in March. I am going to learn about using resin on paper and a few other classes too.

Where my time is spent

family walk

All the same for you, for me

time moves away,
spilling sometimes
so fast I see my children grow
inches as I plow my feet into the earth

and so like you I go about my life
walking with my people
soothing the baby crying for his momma
chatting about the fairies on the pop up page

brushing my floors, wiping the sink
replacing toilet paper
finding the sippy cup, the naked doll, Nerf darts
folding the Christmas tree skirt

and meals, measured out and relentless
a constant reminder of our mortality
heat, cool, texture, color
the sacred rite of motherhood

and at last
journaling my mind
listing my goodness and plans
looking ever outwards
and ever inwards
reconciliation measured in
a thing actually completed and mailed
in a photo posted and acknowledged

and so it goes
and so it goes

to this year I bow, we all cheer
for what we will accomplish
with our tiny mouths.

Raising a daughter

Being a parent is a whole lot of work. Beautiful work that pulls you in so many directions. I have been aware recently of how independent my kids are, how well their personalities are shaping and how one day I will no longer have the influence over them I have today. I want to do today what is best for each of them. Like every parent I worry is it enough? am I on the right path?

I have been thinking about 

raising a daughter

Raising a daughter
By Shona Cole

she is young
her smile easy
her long hair crumbly, in need of a brush
she is in costume today
there are pools of clothes all over the house
her putting on different faces
looking for her space, her season of self

I have labored long beneath her form
she will not hear me one day
so today I whisper ‘you are OK’
the stage is something silver,
bright but mean, a frozen pond
a long winter that wants our time
that stamps it’s foot when we falter

I am powerless
shaken, poured out

I wake each morning with
her name on my lips
I am scared for her
I pray, I pray
to my Father
‘Lord, let her glide graceful
to the self you planned,
let me see, let her be’

    now the desert
    dust of who I once was and
    nothing besides remains. *


* This line is from the great poem Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

This day

Before the birthday
of mine
was this day
this stepping out
in new shoes
dapper, handmade outfits
on the way to the modern
world, but not quite

the timeless hymn
the same trees
in infancy
today great towers
of knowledge
arching over time
with the slow joy
in the creation of new
reasons and patterns

this day, this flicker of life
that all ancestors bear
and give along
to the next and the next

this day that could have existed
for anybody else
but didn't, was theirs,
their moment,
but is now yours.

By Shona Cole

My Inventory

Save for her voice
from upstairs
drifting loose
I am in the quiet
alone with my thoughts
this notebook
taking stock
pulling strands

the walls around,
I feel them knowing,
understanding better than me
why I came here
it is as if they can see the future
and won’t tell me if it is good
or if it is bad.

The mended memories of home
cloudy today again
the open fields, closed
the empty rose beds
my grandfather dead this long time
his grave, my blood, unvisited
until now
in my memory that often
forgets it’s place

I put my pen down
I can no longer hear her voice

Memory

I am becoming
gentle dust
thrown
ancient
changing forms
over and over
until I no longer
recognize even me
my face shallow
in the dark light
the wind down
then up
the decade of
gentle decline
coming fast
and I still
can’t read the writing

by Shona Cole

The beginning of a story

Once it began, it began for good

an irrevocable story

of friendships, of a marriage that lasted

and lasts still to this day

peering from the eyes of my children.

There has been an excuse made!

an attempt at an excuse,

to not move continually onward and upward,

to not apply myself, happily

within my wealth

but today I feel the cost of their decades

lived as well as could be

the sensation is open to interpretation

but the white wall around the family home

in my memory shoos me on and on

I lift my head high

their tombstone is black and faces the sky

and now that frozen moment of youth,

the beginnings of Truth,

their smiles, a maternal reminder –

‘live well, child

you have only this one, quick life’. 

By Shona Cole

Finding

Part of life that was forgotten
in envelopes, mailed a distance
or boxes wrapped with plastic
taped and quietly waiting

found on an empty day
spent looking for art,
scratching the surface
for some meaning
for these grey clouds to part

and in a final triumph
December's loom weaves
and my family's yesterday
comes bearing forward
to my waiting arms

eager but yet poised

Shona Cole