The stream meandered through woods and fields, came to a place with gently sloping hills and lush growing greens. Life was abundant there, and was drawn to the place. Animals played, had their young, and birds nested in the tree limbs and hollows.
Storms brought flooding brown waters and dropped their silt on the bottom as the ages passed; the silt layers deepened and became shale layered with the many colors of the storms.
People came and found the place good; food was plentiful and the hills rose above the waters when they rose in flood, fish idled in them when they gently flowed. Transient camps with quickly erected shelters were perched on the hillside, fires glowed at night. Children and hunters, women gathering food crossed the place on the rocks above the waters.
The place by the stream took in the life, the energy, the light of the sun and the rage of the rain, and slowly became imbued with power.
Years passed and war came to the people who had settled there and to a nearby village where hats were made and sold to provide a living for the villagers. A huge conflict between two nations had risen in the affairs of man, and soldiers marched by with their weapons, camped by the stream to rest at night and on their way to battles. The village was the unhappy host of a grand conflict, and lives were lost, perhaps the stream took their blood into its flow.
The war ended, the victors had their own rule and time passed on. New families came and built homes by the stream. A small house was completed atop the hill, and others joined it. The people of the small community sought the place to build a bridge to join the sides together so that they could pass over the waters on their daily pursuits.
They found the place where the stream gave a rare charge; the energy of the years had concentrated there and it felt special. The bridge was built, fine and sturdy and many passed over it in its time.
When the rain times came and the waters rose, they gathered on the bridge, umbrellas in hand, to see the rise of the waters, feel the energy of the floods charge through. Laughter and excitement from witnessing the drama of nature rang through the roar of the waters. Those who built too near the stream found the waters inside their home; the bridge was strong though and withstood the flood times.
Time passed, new families came, some houses were taken down and bigger ones on divided land were built. And the bridge was taken down. The new people did not know of the energy, the special history of the place, nor did they cross the waters on their daily paths. The waters were now crossed by car on the service bridge of the road.
But the bridge has its memories, its own power that it has gathered, and it stays by the stream and dreams in sun, shadow and falling rain.
I am a wheel; I like to make things turn.I spin ideas. I love to affect change and movement. Set ideas and actions into motion, spin life forward and dream backward through time.
I can be the horse who pulls the cart; I will work hard and persist with all my strength to move the cart forward. If needed I will bear the weight of many and much upon my back. This is the way that I am built, the way that I am.
I am the cart. I will load up the carrying place, help you load up your things you need to journey with, and ask for help to load up mine. But I will carry my needs and yours whether you help on not. And I must move them all forward to be right for myself.
I am the harness- but may be an uncomfortable one at that! I tug hard, can bind too tightly, and sometimes , most unfortunately, jab those I try to hold together. But I am a tenacious one; will hold on, as hard as I can, to unite together what I am able to unite. To to move the whole rig forward, horse, wheels and all toward better places.To the places where I see dreams coming to fruition, and adventures waiting, dreams to be realized.
I am a wheel. I keep turning and turning.
My cool, bohemian fashion forward sister was wearing it, on a long chain around her neck. A silver orb, a bell that chimed so softly , sang with a ringing tone yet muffled; as though from behind a veil to another world.
I was enchanted.
And touched when she gifted me with my own necklace bell a few weeks later. It was Christmas time, and I wore it every day, holding it to my ear and hearing the magic bells chime, feeling the fairies dancing. That was over twenty years ago and I still bring it out every December. To those who don’t know of its magic, it looks like a festive holiday necklace. But it holds the key to my imagination.
Orbs and spheres are magical shapes. They go round and round, the beginning and the end, containing worlds within them. Circles of life, symbols of eternity. To enter into one is to enter another realm where anything is possible.
I often use spheres in my artwork. I figure a little magik can’t hurt. I paint round entrances into the other side of the veil, portals opening in the distance,
small glowing orbs in the air
and on people’s brows,
beautiful spheres, mysterious ones and perhaps dangerous ones too.
An Other Place
All that we wonder about, all the mystery that floats on the world’s winds, legend and myth can be painted about. Adding magical circles can lead me on a fine imaginary adventure in my artwork. Maybe you too?
Kiss on the Cheek
Today I don my fairy bell necklace, listen and smile as it chimes, gently hold it near the ear of my baby grandchild and share its magic song with her. Perhaps it will add some magic to my day; and it will surely remind me of my sister’s loving gift to me.
Have a very fine day, all.
She is a guardian. She is a fairy. She has blue hair and flies around my head.
No, I can’t see her, but two of my friends who are more “in touch” with their psychic side have told me of their thoughts on the matter. And that she is my guardian.
But she certainly makes herself known.
Over the years I have worked and taught in my home studio, I have had many, many artists and students create art in the room with me. Hundreds of people have worked there, and so many times I have heard, “I do my very best work here, in this room. When I go home, it just isn’t as good”.
And “Where did the time go? I just got here!”
When the muse is there she creates an amazing thing- inspired silence. Energy flows through the room, crackles the atmosphere. Everyone in the room is bent over their work, art flowing through their hands. If I inquire if anyone wants help I am met by silence.
And that session’s work is wonderful.
When the muse is absent, it is apparent to all; tortured doubts, inertia, much sighing and many requests for guidance are heard. All progress made is fought for like climbing a steep hillside. Nothing about the art feels perfect that day.
But the muse- when she is there is so capricious! She craftily steals hours away from me, and I don’t even mind. She gives a glow, a magic to my work, flows her energy through my insides and outward to my hands. A dab here, a splash of color there, it is just perfect. All artwork is fought for, but when the muse is there the battle is stacked in my favor.
She is a trickster, this muse. She has dropped a little piece of paper from the ceiling onto a student’s work. Splashed drops of water onto several people’s faces and necks on days when only pencils were being used. Stolen paint brushes, visuals, artwork, only to replace them later in unlikely places. Or not at all.
I make jokes about the “brownie” of the studio.
Imagination is a tool, a gift, a force of nature. My imagination is fed through reading, seeing, fantasizing, playing, people, animals, music… It makes me very curious about most everything. I am rarely bored in my life with it for company.
I hope for all you artists of all artistic disciplines that you too know the joy of a muse in your studio~