Marisol & Me

Oh Marisol, Marisol…

Your given name says it all-

Merry-go-rounds and parisols,

Wide-eyed adventures, stories untold.

***

Yet hearth and home, heather and loam,

They call you back, n’er to roam.

Content to spin yarns of shalom

And scatter joy here in my home.

***

Let us whirl our wool and sparkled light

Sipping tea, knitting at night.

But dream we will of sea and kite,

Of picnic fields, wildflowered delight!

***

What shall we say, Marisol and me?

Our capes are ready, hearts of glee.

If we stay or go, this we see…

Joy is here ‘neath the myrtle tree.

*****

-jpe 

April 19, 2020

Have you ever made something and felt so content, so full of delight, that you thought for a moment you might never need to make anything else ever again? That is precisely how I felt as I finished knitting this little mouse. The pattern is named Marisol the Mouse, and being smitten with that name and also with the shape of this mouse, I set about to bring one to life for my own.

The pattern is perfect, offering options for a bonnet or a beret. The only modification I made in the body of the mouse was to have two thicknesses for the ears so as to have the outer gray behind the inner pink. Making the bonnet into a cape was simple enough by picking up stitches along the neck edge and knitting down to the length I wanted, increasing on a few rounds to allow the cape to flair a bit.

Of course, by this time, Marisol was chattering away with me about her cape colors and I allowed her to choose from my handspun yarn stash. She has good taste as she chose a most delicious green multi with an ever so slight hint of sparkle. Thus will surely be fetching in the sunlight as she gathers nettles for tea and gleans wool along the hedgerows.

I thought I was finished, but she continued on about how a proper field mouse needs a gathering basket for her wool to be carried in and oh she simply must have a pair of knitting needles and wouldn’t those yellow-tipped ones be just the thing?

Her wide eyes fell upon the recently crocheted wee baskets I had made out of spun coffee-filters (a truly absorbing and enchanting way to make paper yarn!) and oh my she had a time choosing which one would be the perfect size and color for her. In the end she chose the brown one for it had flecks of green and pink and she felt the natural color was a more sensible thing for her outdoor walks. I agreed with her, of course, for who would contradict so delightful a mouse?

In my utter delight with having such an adorable and lovable creature to add to my menagerie of knitted wee beings, a poem bubbled up with the frothy giggles and sighs. I was completely taken with her and as I wrote about her, I realized I was also writing about me. I could see in her what I feel so keenly these days…a wide-eyed desire for adventure, to roam around freely, to be going hither and yon gathering pretties in a basket. I too dream of the ocean and flying kites. My infrequent trips to a grocery store with scanty shelves whilst wearing a mask is not quite the adventure I had in mind.

Yet somehow, in writing about Marisol, I found that I too love spinning yarns of peace, whether stories or actual wool. I too am content to scatter joy at home, sip tea and knit at night. I am in many ways loving the freedom to do just that. If I am able to stay in the present moment and not worry about future possibilities, then I am truly content and grateful, along with Marisol, for this home under the myrtle tree. (Which we do, by the way, have growing tall right at our front door.:)

So you see friends, in the making of a wee little thing, seemingly inconsequential in the whole scheme of this tops-turvy world, there can be moments of realization, of gathering joy to scatter around. Truly we wait in eagerness with our capes ready to dash out the door the minute “they” say GO! In the meantime I pray you are finding joy under your myrtle trees, with Marisol and Me. : D

If I Could Be A Tree

If I could be a tree

I would a willow be

To wave at all I see

And shelter those with me.

***

Or perhaps I’d be an oak

To dangle tire and rope.

In kid-laughter I’d soak

And wear an autumn cloak.

***

But oh a birch to be

In ruffled finery

Graceful limbs so free

A merry dance of three.

-jpe

*********

We personify trees all the time. At least I do…seeing them as beautiful people with personality and history. But couldn’t we tree-ify ourselves? Is that a word? If not, let’s make it one! I like imagining which type of tree I’d like to be and why.

The problem is that I’m hard pressed to land on any one type of tree for long. A month ago I wanted to be an evergreen, tall and enduring through winter’s blast. Last week I wanted to be a cherry tree with explosive fireworks of blossom and color. Yesterday an oak, today a fanciful birch.

These birch trees are fascinating to me. I’m fairly certain that we have River Birches growing in our neighborhood. It puzzled me this week to notice that all of them, with only one exception, had three trunks growing out of one. The exception had two trunks. With a bit of research, I discovered that this is how they are planted…three risomes together in order to keep the height of the tree down a bit. Apparently, left to grow individually, they grow way too tall. Clumping them together, or allowing two other suckers to grow along with the main trunk, helps keep their height under control. But I digress…

Whatever the reason, they look to me like three sisters, or three friends dressed for a party, dancing or laughing together. Their happy coexistence reminds me of the Trinity, of strength in a cord of three strands, of a perfect prime, and the number of children I have.

And how about you? What tree would YOU like to be if you could be a tree? And why is that? I’d love to hear from you and what your tree-ification might be? Well, for today at least!😉💕

P.S. I seem to draw imaginary trees a good bit…like the Yarn Trees and this Steam Tree. It happened as I gazed at my morning coffee and could see the steam rising and curling out of the mug…which got me to thinkin’ that it surely must grow from the bottom, where it is “watered”, or “coffee-ed” and…well, anyway…it’s fun to think about.😃

Spinning My Wheels

I sit at a wheel

running hither and yon over miles

of asphalt ribbon

Some so worn and shredded with potholes my car can scarcely

bear the beating.

***

Mile after mile, driving me from word

to endless words..

I can hardly think, let alone tap into any source

of light, joy, meaning.

I sit at another wheel

wool running through my hands

and meaning begins to soothe my potholed heart.

Fibers – cleaned, combed, carded, and dyed, form

into a ribbon of color and softness

that makes more sense to me

than the asphalt.

Couldn’t I remain here?

Couldn’t I have whole days of fiber, wool, spinning ,

and weaving it into the landscape of my life?

I try. I grow weary in the trying.

That other wheel shreds all sense of sanity and rootedness. Will I ever be free of it?

***

If only I could sit at that wheel

and see a golden thread being spun of all the miles,

the stopping and starting, the car’s cutting me off, the backed-up traffic.

Would that I could spin color and blessing

rather than frustration and cursing

at the wheel of our Mazda.

Would that I could live all of my life knowing

that He who is at the wheel has it firmly in hand

and is spinning something of beauty

with the asphalt and frustration.

***

Can I lean into this thought as I’m spinning my wheels today?

*****

Wishing you a day of beauty no matter what sort of wheels you spin. I’m inspired by this fiber artist – Stacey Budge-Kamison, also known as the UrbanGypZ.  You will want to watch her videos on spinning and weaving, and there are so many others to indulge your fiber love.

I’m also continuing the #100DayProject and loving every minute! I’m actually a bit surprised that my typical flighty creative self hasn’t wanted to jump ship and set sail in a different direction. Of course, I am always doing multiple creative things so it all stays fresh and joyful!

Had I My Sketchbook

 

 

Had I My Sketchbook

Had I my sketchbook on that day
facing the tomb
where recent horrors laid Him
and  a rock sealed the room…

Had I thoughts other than
to sit and weep and clasp my book,
I’d open the pages
of sketches and look…

Him laughing at table
Him weeping for a friend
His amazing miracles
the events near the end…

That last day he lived
if living it be called
I could not’ve drawn it
eyes swollen as I bawled.

But I was there
His agony my own.
And I am here now
gazing at a stone.

The finality of it all
I s’pose that’s what I should draw.
A last sketch of my Friend
to end this book of all I saw.

I’d begin the arc of that boulder
the crevices of the rock
Lines upon lines
sealing up my broken heart.

Hours must’ve passed
as I filled up the page
with line after line
of my Friend’s stony cage.

The sun was coming up
as a Voice gently asked-
What have you there, Little One?
At these words, I gasped.

Sitting down by me
He pointed to what I’d drawn-
An angel, an opening,
grave cloths, a song.

I checked to be sure
what I drew had not been dream.
There it was in front of me
the whole of my scene.

And He sitting beside
glowing in smile.
We spoke of nothing and so much
for a very short while.

Then he rose to visit others
to show them Death was done.
I asked what shall I do now
for this joy…it must run!

He said keep drawing where you see Me
in all your live-long days…
And paint the song you’ve heard this morn
throughout the years and always.

-jpe

April 7, 2012

Reposted today, April 1, 2018. Because it is still true. <3

 

 

Morning Chatter

I step out the door into a lively conversation already underway.

The woodpecker is holding forth, rapping his message,

the morning dove coos, the cardinal trills

and a congregation adds their own embellished agreements

or rebellious agitation.

Even the geese, returning from a winter’s sojourn, join in the boisterous banter.

I stand in awe for a moment just to take in this morning cacophony.

I walk up the hill, down the lane, past the cows and on by the alpacas and horses. Leaning into Emmaus Road my pace quickens and so does the chatter. Are they cheering me on? Providing company for the path? Or indifferent to my presence, absorbed in their own worlds?

I spot a lone bird atop a bale of hay lifting her throat to the throng.

On the return, crossing Hastily, down Silver Dapple once again and back towards home,

it is quieter now.

Only a few remain in the concert hall of my thoughts,

chirping their ideas, tweeting their rebuttal.

They are settling in for the day ahead yet nothing has been settled upon,

except that we all must begin.

Closing the door, I take up my pen to record the findings,

drawcument the sights,

chronicle the listenings,

make sense of the chaos,

find a tune in the midst of it all.

-jpe

 

Whoa and Wow

2018. Wow.

Am I just now realizing the magnitude of this? Nearly two and a half months into it, this number, a big one, it tells where I am, how far along I’ve come since 1965. This year, this 2018, I will be 53 and will celebrate 30 years married and will see my children turn 24, 21, and 16. Lord willing. Wow.

That’s all I can say…wow.

Couldn’t I just spend my days marveling at where I am? Could I not just take a moment, a year, a rest-of-a-life to say whoa.  Stop right here. Let’s pause and gather it all in and look deeply into one another’s faces?

For it shall not stay like this. I feel it already, the pull of years to come. Like Marty in the Future photograph, beginning to fade. Or like the moment’s before Scotty beams us up, pixels waving farewell. Can we not stop the world and get off for a moment to hold one another’s faces cupped in our hands and look, really look and say I love you and always shall?

Please do not forget.

Today, let me do just that with my pen and brush. Let me caress these faces I love, the landscape of Backyard, the hay bales of Silver Dapple. Let me hold them even if for a fleeting line to say I love you and always shall.

To say, if only to myself, please…please do not forget.

This act of loving is feeble and flimsy at best. Pieces of paper in a bound book. But it is how I know to say whoa and wow to 2018. It is my way of cupping my hands around the faces I love, the place that I live, the life that I have. There are miles to go before I sleep, as Frost would say, and there are miles of lines to log in my book through 2018 and beyond.

In this way, drawing and painting my life, I will not forget. And perhaps, when I fade from the photograph and my pixels wave their final farewell, these books will remain,

saying I love you…

and always shall.

-jpe

Dawdle

“Oh I can waste a minute or two or hundreds…

that’s not a problem for me,” she says with ease.

Not a confession.

Just a statement of truth.

I envy her this. For I cannot dawdle.

Nope.

Not for long anyway.

I sit to stare out this window

to dream and gaze and wonder…

and immediately lines are dancing in my head,

words are forming into lines

pearls on a string

making hay with all

the wonder, the dream, the gaze.

***

It is all a poem, a painting.

Every leaf trembles with meaning.

Every tree and bush offers revel and rhyme.

Every brook sings sweetly of a tune from another land.

I hear it everywhere.

Under my chair, in laughter, in tears.

It perches on the feeder and roams in the woods.

It calls my name always to come play,

to paint and draw and make much.

This is why I have such a hard time wasting any minutes.

For even while staring out a window

I’m seeing and hearing …

and trying to decipher what I’m to do with all this beauty.

-jpe

*********

I have been making a concerted effort to just sit and stare out a window. Or to sit outside, which is definitely my preference, regardless of the yo-yo weather we are having here in NC. My intention each day is to be aware of where I am, look up, take in the surroundings of what my daily life brings. I’m drawing and sketching more of this in an effort to sink deeply into these moments. Or at least for the time period it takes to draw what I see out the window, or whilst sitting in our living room, or my studio. I’m also coming home from daily walks and sketching something I’ve seen. This is often from memory, but sometimes from a photo. That first drawing was made from a photo I took while walking at Reynolda Gardens last week. Nearly every step was so full of drawable-ness I could scarcely breathe let alone snap a pic with my phone.

All the world alive with loveliness. It is sometimes too much for me. I have to reign it in somehow and just be content with only one drawing, or just a sketch or two. I wish, oh golly how I wish, I could take in all that I see and hear and transpose it into my sketchbook. The doing of these drawings is less about having something to show, and more about grafting into my being all that I see, all that I hear. To somehow tattoo onto my heart and mind these lovely things so that in bleaker times I can remember them. So that when beauty is scarce, my heart is trained to look for, find and record the flowers that are blooming next to the carnage of a dying bush.

Dawdling does not come as easy for me as it does for my dear oldest daughter whose words open the poem. I am drawing inspiration from her and making an effort to dawdle more, to “waste” a few minutes or more (if indeed it is a waste!) by just looking, resting my eyes on what is around me, and holding my hands at bay for a little while before they burst into lines and splattered paint. I know it is not a waste. Not at all. It is the crucial ingredient for an artful life.

I hope you can dawdle a bit today too!

******

For more on dawdling, drawing, seeing our lives, and living with artful eye…

check out…

A practice of drawing your life in a sketchbook.

And…

I Hear It

Wouldn’t you like for me to tell you

the thing your heart has

always wanted to hear?

Wouldn’t you like to hear those words

feel them on your face

rumbling in your belly?

Wouldn’t you want to wake up each morning

to those eternal words

you’re starving to feast upon?

***

Out there we can hear it.

In the raucous birdsong

the breeze of leafing

the earth alive.

***

In here we feel it

under our feet pining and pebbling

where streams gurgle

waterfalls roar.

***

Surrounded by wood and wild flower

breathing the loamy undergrowth

hearing the sound of living…

I hear it.

Don’t you?

***

“I love you”, sing the birds.

“You are loved”, breathe the trees.

“We are loved”, roar the waters.

“All is love”, clap the leaves.

“You are cherished”, whispers everything.

Here.

Now.

Tomorrow.

Forever.

-jpe

Pen & Watercolor sketches made at Reynolda Gardens yesterday.

Faber Castell fineliner pens: Brush Tip, 1.5 , XS .

American Journey watercolors & DaVinci Gouache.

Too Much

If you peeled your eyes away

to give them a break

to rest from so much seeing

to see what might be discovered in reality…

If you pulled your nose back from the glass and stone

from the screen and window

to inhale something new, or just stop breathing the fumes…

If you covered your ears

and stopped listening to tripe, to lies, to bait…

What would you hear?

What would you smell?

What would you see?

Sometimes I feel it – too much seeing.

Sometimes my breathing is labored from so much pressing my nose where it need not be.

Sometimes my ears are tired from so much hearing of what I do not need.

I step back. I close my eyes.

I shut the computer and the phone.

I listen to silence.

Perhaps to song.

And I breathe.

And I create.

And I relax.

********

More and more I’m finding I need periods of respite from online activity. Be it a few hours or even days, this unplugging allows me to rest, to really hear and see what’s going on in my life, to listen to what my pen wants to draw or write. It feels a bit like Spring. Something underneath the surface beginning to stir and waken, yet still waiting to come forth. I’m seeing it on my walks these days…tiny bright green spots coming up from the ground and peeking out the ends of limbs. It’s still very early days here in the South where winter could come roaring back just when the tender blooms think it’s ok to wave at us.

I need to step back, listen to the silence of so much growth. I need to keep watch over the tender shoots…breathing, creating, and relaxing into the change of seasons.

Evergreen

Were my life four seasons of twenties

I would be in late Fall.

Spring and Summer past, so too the brilliance of leaf and coolness.

Only a few bright jewels remain quivering on their branches

knowing full well they await their last flight

of wind before gravity takes hold.

From here I can feel the chill of coming winter.

And I now see, with other limbs bare,

the evergreens standing sure and unmoved by the seasons’ ravages.

They have been there all along playing

a lesser role to oak and maple.

Providing scaffolding for all of nature’s

hoopla to dance and frolic.

Now they have their day…their deep values

fencing the path, marking the way.

I walk on. For I cannot go back.

Stopping to rest beside an evergreen

I admire its solidity, if prickly and severe.

I touch the bark, the needles, and I inhale something rich, resinous, comforting.

Surely in my winter, evergreens will guide with pointy fingers

and lay out a carpet soft for travel-weary feet.

Here in late autumn I can still feel the sun of summer’s day,

the blush of spring’s blooming.

It is all encompassed by memories of brilliant colors against a bright blue sky.

The hint of woodsmoke brings me to now, as I walk forward

into winter’s snowy embrace.

-jpe