Dabbler's Delight

Life Online

2020-04-16T07:58:00.000-05:00

April 16, 2020

These faces, zoom, zoom,
These voices, hum hum,
Only imaginings through the illusion of cyberspace.
We are making our lives on screen.
We were brought up on tv and now end there.
Will the time come for face to face?
Not until we realize our own fates.
We are always alone.
We are never alone.
Hello in there.

2020-04-05T14:14:00.001-05:00

Art Here and Now: Coronavirus 2

A step forward.

In the depths of late afternoon, March 19, 2020.

On the inner waves of emotion,

Contemplating the outward view.

Art in the Time of Coronavirus #1

2020-04-04T21:03:00.000-05:00

Art in the Time of Coronavirus

This first one was done on Feb. 2, 2020. At that time I was only noticing the pandemic in the periphery. Here the world is starting to rearrange it self, to orient itself around certain political/cultural centers. Them/Us. Lots of American arrogance and suspicion as usual.

But the Universe had something else in mind. Not the same old/same old. It's been saying "wake up", "please wake up" for awhile now. The storm arises all around all of us.

COMMITTING SUICIDE ON PAPER

2014-04-25T15:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes there's no where else to go--

when you are alone, afraid, angry, embarrassed, humiliated--

Your bubble of pride has been burst.

The floors you thought sturdy fall through--

And there you are, croaking, crying, sniffling, sobbing and

WANTING IT ALL TO JUST S-T-O-P!.

You've tried prayer, you've tried retribution, you've tried snide remarks

and, heaven-help-you judgmental poetry,

Nothing works.

Nothing turns back the hands of time.

The deed is done--irrevocable.

(It's TRUE.)

Your only solace is to end it all.

MY only solace is to end it all.

The relief--the glee of thinking that perhaps this barb would pierce his heart.

BUT, I was too responsible--being the oldest daughter.

That virtue so ingrained as to never wash out.

I could not leave my daughter.

So, next best thing: ACT IT OUT!

Throw the red tempera blood on paper and feel the ooze through my fingers--

drip, drip, drip on the paper.

Splattered, gushed, sprayed--die to that life,

own the death and be glad.

See this pain?? It is MINE!

Losing the Balloon

2014-03-01T13:57:00.002-06:00

I wasn't in control.

I had held the balloon string--but I didn't have control.

When they let it go-I couldn't hold on and it slipped away beyond my grasp.

I cried and cried watching what I thought was mine fly far away.

I knew I'd never have it again. NEVER.

I wasn't in control.

I couldn't call it back.

I couldn't make that person hold it for me.

They didn't care if the balloon flew away.

They just didn't care how much it meant to me.

So where do I get my own balloon?

Is it enough to hold the balloon myself--or does it always have to have someone else involved?

Can I stand alone in the world with my balloon?

Can I let it go myself and know that I'm okay?

Can I find the place where all the balloons come from and see how they are made?

If I am the girl with no balloon--will I fit in?

And if there are no balloons left--what will I do?

I walk to the top of a hill and there is a tree with a thousand balloons in its limbs.

It's enough to stand and see them all there.

I don't have to have a balloon.

I don't have to be in control.

I can cry all I want to because I know there is a tree holding the lost balloons and I don't have to hold on to the strings anymore.

I don't want strings or balloons or hurt.

I will be true to myself.

This I once Believed

2013-09-28T13:45:00.000-05:00

THIS I ONCE BELIEVED

I once believed that I could do anything—not break the “rules” of course, but achieve whatever I set my mind to. If I thought I wanted to do something, make something, I did.

I made a quilt, I started a tea company with my mother, I canned vegetables, made jelly. I did a solo ballet in a regional talent contest. I learned to twirl a baton. I expected to be a pilot; I planned to become a doctor. Little by little, however, my experiences and the messages I received from the world changed me. Anxiety became a daily friend.

Your voice is too loud. Girls can’t preach. Pull your dress down. Stand up straight. Don’t stand out.

I once believed in myself, then I found out I was girl and so had no entrance fee to some grandeurs. My voice was loud and strong, but I was told I couldn’t speak from a pulpit—though I had things I knew should be said. I was told to hush—too many people looking. On a high school field trip, I asked a lot of questions and impressed our guide, who said “Wow, maybe you can be a secretary here someday!” I was told be quiet in some college classes because the class had become too dependent on my answers.

At some point, I stopped believing and just went for the ride that life took me on. Clickety clack. The scenery was often beautiful, but it was all being pushed by someone else. I served tea and typed papers. I joined wives clubs and wrote ladies’ newsletters. I raised children and went grocery shopping.

And now, what can a 60 year old woman achieve, and is achievement even necessary? What I wanted back then was glory, but the atmosphere of can’t, don’t, shouldn’t, won’t tired me out. Now, I’ll settle for peace.

Tiny Chances

2013-05-09T12:29:00.002-05:00

My life is filled with tiny chances for joy.

Bits of chocolate, the sun streaming through high windows in the afternoon, seeing a blimp in the sky, or, wow, a hot air balloon. One day I saw a space shuttle being transported on the back of a plane.

That little curl on the tail of a drake gives me shivers.

The tiny chances keep me alive. Lists and lists of them:

--My kitten bounces to me as I get up in the morning and lounges against my back as I contemplate the day. She stretches long and sticks out her tongue, yawning. Oh joy, to touch her fur.

--Stirring my coffee; the clink clink of the spoon against the side of the cup; a lovely rhythm.

--The spray of warm water over my head and across my face; breathing and feeling moisture and warmth.

--Kissing my husband; the warm and somehow sweet softness, the pressure, the vibration of his heart.

--Clouds! Oh the clouds, most everyday—to look at them while driving, through my window at work, from my deck at home. How full and curly and puffy and sleek and silver and gray, purple, pink—white, white, WHITE! I want to be right there—just there. It takes me to a place of rightness, if that’s the word. A place of YES, a place that just fits.

--Eating an avocado. Cutting the skin; viewing the amazing green yellow of its flesh; spooning the softness into my mouth, its texture like nothing else—ripeness.

--Threading a needle and quilting curls and lines through fabric; pricking my finger and pulling. Such a comfort, but with that lurking sorrow of the needle coming unthreaded before I make my knots.

And there’s the rub. Some joys have their shadows like the thorns of the rose. I want to have bushels of them, more, more, more, however---the joy is in the one; the one tiny budding rose in a small blue vase.

Tiny sparks of joy everywhere. Perhaps that’s why I am distracted so easily, or why one idea jumps to another and I want to have it all, but often just stand, amazed.

Art from an App

2013-04-26T12:57:00.002-05:00

My DH gave me an HD Kindle Fire for Christmas last year. I was not happy. At first. I thought it was too much money to spend on someone who has a good desktop PC at home and is in front of a desktop PC all day during the week.

I was wrong. Okay, there I said it. Wrong, wrong, wrong! We've both gotten so much use out of it that I sometimes wonder why we don't have two!

But that's not the story I want to tell. As this blog started out, I was going to publish some of my paintings and talk about them. It has evolved into more as I hope I have. Now, I have to tell you about the little app I'm using on the Fire--it's called The Drawing App (here's more info: http://www.amazon.com/Darren-Murtha-Design-Drawing-Pad/dp/B004WGGQPQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1366998448&sr=1-2&keywords=The+Drawing+App )

I love it. It is not as overpowering as a PC program like Paint Shop Pro, or other programs, but this little thing is so much fun. There are ranges of colors in two paint brush styles, colored pencils, crayons and markers. There are a few colors of stamps with stars, curves, and dots. There are lots of stickers too, though I haven't used those much. There are a number of selections for paper too. Two wishes I would have for it--more paint brush colors and a blending tool.

I've had a blast playing with this app and posting some of my drawings on my Facebook page. Here are a few examples:

My Voice

2013-03-21T13:27:00.000-05:00

I’ve come to know some of my true self and when I show it to you I am vulnerable.

Hear my voice, cracked though it is.

Hear my heart, broken and healed and healing.

Hear my longing for connection, for acceptance, for the Yes.

My words, my voice is not to negate your words, your voice.

I give you your space and my reverent attention when you speak.

I ask for my own space to say what I know to be true and ask for your attention.

My listening to you has often sparked things in me that otherwise would not have arisen to my vision.

Perhaps through my voice, you’ll be inspired as well.

Beyond Boundaries

2013-01-10T18:57:00.000-06:00

Who are you? Who?

Connected--only one--but more than one--all. All in one.

Every breath--expanding out, out, out--all directions.

The wave catching light and shadow. Carry on, carry on.

No endings, no borders. Space.

There is only breath--again and again. There is only here. There is only now.

I find the door that opens to all connection. The "me" gets caught without the key, and yet it is always available.

Take a breath, remember where the door is. Open it.

The expanse of time and space is always available. Connection is always available.

Here there is everything—here are all things: Joy, Beauty, Knowledge, Healing, Acceptance, Compassion, Forgiveness, Love.

Find your door. Open it.

Take a breath and walk through.

Mad as I want to be

2012-09-12T21:39:00.000-05:00

When I'm Mad as I want to be, I can scream all the rage I've held for the losses my little self feels so horribly. I can curse and stamp my feet and not be reprimanded. I can look into the dark abyss of my own making and see how it was made. I will be seen and not deterred. It will be an act of self disclosure of righteous rage over those wounds and hurts done to me. All the positive messages, the shush-shushes, the turned heads, will not stop me. My bitterness, my hurt, is worth showing. It is there regardless of the larger wounds of others, regardless of whether I hurt someones feelings, regardless that I am otherwise healing in many ways.

I am hurt. I am wounded. I am afraid. I feel alone. The gratitude lists don't fill the hole. The blessing of others doesn't bless me. My rage and woundedness is so raw that I can't be comforted--I don't want to be comforted.

Yes, this is EGO--but it IS, and all the platitudes, reassurances, and kind remarks just fuel the fire. No matter that this hurts me by holding on to it so fiercely--NO!!!--even that new age quote won't help--I want all the rage, the scraming, the thirst for payback--the boiling oil poured on my rivals.

The bad guy usually loses--the bad guy is the one who hurts others and is punished. Anger and rage come to a bad end.

Now my subconscious speaks--but the ripping of the blouse, the popping of the buttons* felt so good in my dream!

Sometimes I just want to be as mad as I want to be and have that be OK.
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(*I had a dream about tearing off the blouse of a rival)

Love as powerful as breath

2012-05-23T10:56:00.002-05:00

Love as powerful as breath--the in and out, the life giving air--stops me in my meanderings, my confused wonderings, my self-immolation. I can stop and breathe. The moment lengthens and I pratice just being.

Then I can really see--the shape of the tree limbs, their arch and curve. The bird at the feeder, dipping its head.

Then I can really feel--the warmth of a granddaughter's kiss, the arms of a friendly hug.

Just breathe--I am mountain, I am solid; I am a lake, I mirror the stars; I am the universe, I go on forever.

Love begins each breath. Love reaches out and touches all through breath. I take in the world and give it back again.

Breath reminds me that I am here, in this moment--still here, for a reason.

And this reminds me that just being here is my purpose when I am confused.

Mouth open or closed?

2011-03-16T11:02:00.001-05:00

I'm a southern woman. Raised in the south by southern women, on both sides of my genetic heritage for many generations. I suppose being born in the early 50's also has something to do with who I am, too. Not sure being a female in the South is the same these days. (One of you will have to tell me.)

My aunts and grandmothers were strong women. Most were talkers and thinkers. I was in awe of them all. I was fairly outspoken myself in my high school years and was always the biggest talker in most of my college classes. (I once had a professor ask me to only answer one question a class because my other classmates had gotten so used to my doing all the talking.)

In those young years, I had high expectations of myself. Perhaps all young people do. I want them to. But now, in my late 50's, I find that I never came even close to anything that I thought I would be. Along the way, I became satisfied with others doing things, writing things, going places and I would help. I'm a good helper. But did I help myself at all?

There's a lot more to it, of course, but it comes down to where I am in my life now. I have grown inwardly and spritually a great deal in the last 10 years, but I still come to these great holes, or dips or chasms where I am sooo disappointed in myself. I want to have important things to say, but don't think that I do. What I do is notice when someone else has something important to say and pass that along.

I hope it's enough.

Will the walls crumble?

2011-03-15T09:57:00.001-05:00

I let myself paint with blue during my last Long Circle. Blue marks, on bluer marks, then later, darker marks and little square marks. Looking at it later, I see walls I've built, within a mountain valley. Some of the walls are crumbling, some enforced and repaired. Are walls needed in our lives? Boundaries are important for self-protection, aren't they? Or should our hearts always be open and vulnerable? I see the white dots here as that freedom to come and go--to be open or to drop down below the walls and wait until I feel safe.

Who can hope to be safe? who sufficiently cautious? Guard himself as he may, every moment's an ambush. ~Horace

What's new, pussy cat?

2010-10-20T18:49:00.000-05:00

(Bear with me. I'm trying to write more.)

We have two cats, Silver, age 19 and Marigold, age 14. When my granddaughter Aurora comes over to visit, Marigold hides as fast as she can. If she can get out the door, she will. Today Aurora and I were walking around in the back yard and we saw Marigold running along side a fence. Squealllllll!!! Aurora voiced her excitement in the highest pitched voice you can imagine. You can understand why Marigold runs.

Aurora has no intent to scare or upset Marigold. She just wants to pet her. But from experiences when Aurora was a baby and hit a little too hard AND the fact of the ear piercing screams--the cat has learned to get out of the way.

I've also learned to get out of the way of situations that are difficult or where I want some quiet. Earphones at work are one way. That works for about an hour until my ears start throbbing. At home, I close the door to the bedroom when I'm trying to read. My dear husband does like to open it though, to announce the latest sports scores, or something about what he's watching on the History Channel. He's cute that way.

Back to my musings, though. The older cat, Silver, doesn't run from Aurora. She's deaf--which is part of the reason. The other part though, is just that it's part of her personality and she doesn't want to be bothered with having to move away. She'd just as soon stay quiet and let Aurora pet her. Another way to deal with the situation. Is that more Zen?

Cliche lesson: When confronted with life: we can run or we can sit with it.

Cycling up

2010-10-01T07:56:00.008-05:00

Energy is up today. It's so evident from the way I've been feeling over the past few weeks.

I'm a moderate manic/depressive; never out of control, but can feel the difference when I go high. I chopped an inch off my hair this morning and that was my first clue. And I have words that I want to say--another clue. When I'm cycling down, I can't think of anything to say. At that point, I feel like I'm practicing Mindfulness, but I think it's more a matter of brain chemicals.

I'm not painting--have not been doing any creating at all--just have been in a trough of plainess. Being down is the pits, but I am sometimes there for so long that I don't realize where I am. Now, being up, I can hardly catch my breath and my head feels dizzy with ideas. If I can take a few breaths, I'll be able to function better.

I don't know if I've posted this painting before--not going to take the time to go back through my posts. It feels right for how I'm feeling today, though. My work keeps me in front of a computer all day. I wish I were in the studio, throwing paint around. Goddess keep me in my seat today!

What my heart says...

2010-05-01T20:17:00.004-05:00

Silence. When the air is full of promise—the promise of fulfillment--if only. If only I were more; if only I could sing; could fly; could glow; could heal.

Here I am—standing in the glow of the universe—and silent. The scream lies just below, banging to get out. I let it squeak in fear that it will never be heard.

Silence can be the opening—the door. Open that door. Don’t be afraid. The howl is your friend—it cleans out all the grime of self hate. It speaks to you and lets your true self be at home in this body.

Empty. Empty yourself. Throw open the doors, throw open the windows. Sing out. Cry out. Let the universe have its way with you. This is the way to peace—to fulfillment.

Speak your name into the silence. Wave away the fear. Set it on fire. Be in bliss through the smoke of it. Breathe deep. Close your eyes. Disappear into the voice of all-knowing connectedness.

Forget all the rappings and murmurs of that robot in your chest. She is only made of clay, formed by your fears. Put her on the shelf of memories and light a candle to her in awareness that she brought you to where you are right now. Your true self is the dream image that she held in a box, fearing the explosion—but you are now bigger and can hold her in your own compassionate arms.

2010-02-28T15:37:00.002-06:00

I had stopped by Art & Soul on the afternoon before a book club meeting in January. I had a few hours to kill and didn't know if I'd just sit with tea, take a nap on the couch or make some art. Turns out, I did a little of all of that.

Here's the little oil pastel painting I did that day. It's about 12 x 15 matt board. I picked up a soft lead pencil and just drew around and then colored it with oil pastels, then drew on top of the pastels some.

The figure on the right's costume is really a jewel green--the colors didn't match exactly on the photo.

The obvious theme for this is the coming of Spring. These are some nature goddesses calling on the sun to warm up the earth.

A little poem to go with it:

Come spring! Come Sun!

Care for us in our cold huts.

Seep into our skins and the skin of this land.

Send your warm winds to lighten our hearts.

Let us dance in your smile

Happy in the moments of your grace.

Drawing, Paint Shop Pro and Poetry

2010-01-03T21:22:00.006-06:00

Reaching, always reaching.

The void calls for volume.

Emptiness is not solid.

Solid, not fulfilled.

Stand still and reach.

Dig into the mountain.

Darkness inside--soothing,

Calming emptiness.

Pulse, pulse, pulse.

Listen to your rhythm.

Always present throbbing.

This is what is real.

Body makes you labor.

Breath fills emptiness.

All this earth, illusion.

Cast it to the winds.

Angel 1-3-2010

After having my coffee this morning, I took out my drawing book and did some scribble drawings and then wrote a poem that came from that. Then I scanned the drawing into my computer and used Paint Shop Pro to color the drawings--fun! Enjoy--and try it yourself!

Finding Creativity on the Web

2009-12-15T11:09:00.003-06:00

http://www.piclits.com/viewpoem.aspx?PoemId=10540

I love the PicLits site. It's a fun way to play with words. Each photo (and there are many) offers a selection of words to use, or you can go "Freestyle" and use your own words. I'd like to see a way to do both eventually, but it's a great way to be creative in a fun and interactive way.

Life after Life

2009-09-07T12:42:00.001-05:00

Life after Life
Originally uploaded by onlynow99

In my last Long Circle, I had a difficult time with my emotions. I was feeling very low. Anger and regret rolled around inside of me. So, I went to what felt right in the studio--black paper. The smaller red circles came on the first day--they made a sort of "j" shape that felt balanced and comforting.

The next day the pink edges showed up and then the figure holding the green ball. Then the little green balls showed up all over the paper, following the similar line of the red balls. Then the swirls of red and pink came and then the larger red balls. The light green squiggles came last.

After sitting with it for awhile, it came to me that no matter what is going on with me in this life--I could just hold it, like a ball, and still be balanced and myself. Life after life, experiences come and go, good and bad, neutral or boring--it is what it is.

That helped!

Painting Walls

2009-08-25T21:45:00.008-05:00

Art seeps into my world even when I'm not in the studio. As I wrote last post, we were waiting for Ivonne and Sacnite to get their papers to move to the US. It happened the 8th of July and I went over to Fayetteville to visit for the first time in late July. Here I am painting clouds on the walls of Sacnite's room and her helping! It was a lot of fun and easier than I thought to paint clouds--at least in that setting.

Sacnite is just learning to speak English, so I got to pratice the little Spanish that I have. In this photo, she is painting "un tortuga", a turtle--one of my very favorite animals.

A quilt this time

2009-06-28T01:20:00.003-05:00

I've been remiss in posting to my art blog. Lots of reasons--haven't gotten good photos of a few things I've liked; haven't been in the studio much; and probably the main reason: am spending more time working on my son's quilt and planning my granddaughter Aurora's quilt.

So I'll post a photo of Rory Taylor's quilt. He is now in Mexico where his wife, Ivonne, will soon be getting her Visa to move to the US with her 7 year old daughter, Sacnite. I can hardly wait until they are here. Well, not exactly here, but in Arkansas. At least I'll get to see them!

Anyway, Rory Taylor has done quite a bit of firedancing and the blocks of this quilt are like the many colored fire that flashes and twirls when he moves.

2009-02-21T00:28:00.002-06:00

This is another acrylic on paper piece I did while at the beach in Gulf Shores in September. I hadn't painted outdoors in a long time. It added a whole different dimension to making art. Seeing something and then working with that is not the way I usually work, but I found it very engaging, trying to get the colors right and the shapes where they should be.

2009-02-12T11:25:00.003-06:00

Another oldie--"Girl with Drum". My guess is that it was painted in 1999 or early 2000. I like the feeling of movement here, and somehow feel she's swimming in some sort of mystical wind. Size: about 20 x 30--though I may be off a bit. This painting is rolled up and in my attic somewhere. Can you hear the thumping of the drum?