FREEING THE CAGED HEART:
THE POETS AND THE DOLL MAKER
I participated in an on-line poetry appreciation course,
facilitated by Roger Housden and Spirituality and Practice.
Every evening I received a poem, a reflection and a task in my inbox.
I wanted to participate fully in this course,
so I decided to create an intuitive doll each day
to create a movement from my head to my heart and my soul.
I started with a template, an old white cotton sheet and my sewing machine.
I wanted to reduce the decision making and allow my intuition to be the driving force.
I would limit time spent on each doll to the 24 hours after I received a poem.
facilitated by Roger Housden and Spirituality and Practice.
Every evening I received a poem, a reflection and a task in my inbox.
I wanted to participate fully in this course,
so I decided to create an intuitive doll each day
to create a movement from my head to my heart and my soul.
I started with a template, an old white cotton sheet and my sewing machine.
I wanted to reduce the decision making and allow my intuition to be the driving force.
I would limit time spent on each doll to the 24 hours after I received a poem.
Participants were invited to share an intention for this 31 day course.
My intention was to "free my caged heart".
The bars surrounding my heart represent
depression, grief, inertia,
expectations, fear, self-criticism,
poverty of spirit, lack of self-confidence.
I wanted to engage with each of the 'bars',
dialogue with it, and transform it in my life.
invisible bars
exercise
a vice like grip
on my heart
and hopes
I want to hear
a key
rattle in the lock
calling
my true name
inviting me
to live
My intention was to "free my caged heart".
The bars surrounding my heart represent
depression, grief, inertia,
expectations, fear, self-criticism,
poverty of spirit, lack of self-confidence.
I wanted to engage with each of the 'bars',
dialogue with it, and transform it in my life.
invisible bars
exercise
a vice like grip
on my heart
and hopes
I want to hear
a key
rattle in the lock
calling
my true name
inviting me
to live
"What To Remember When Waking"
by David Whyte
Clarissa Pinkoles Estes wrote,
"In my uttermost bones I knew something, as you do.
It is that there can be no despair when you remember
why you came to Earth,
who you serve,
who sent you here."
I reflected on infinite possibility;
on absence and presence;
on courage and vulnerability;
on revelation and inheritance;
on my true self.
"In my uttermost bones I knew something, as you do.
It is that there can be no despair when you remember
why you came to Earth,
who you serve,
who sent you here."
I reflected on infinite possibility;
on absence and presence;
on courage and vulnerability;
on revelation and inheritance;
on my true self.
I extended my original template to give it a longer body,
made 2 long skinny arms
and cut out a heart, which is hand-stitched with a running stitch and loose threads.
The hair is made from torn and knotted fabric scraps.
The crinoline is crafted from scraps of cane.
The horizontal is a spiral toward the womb, the heart, the soul.
The knotted fabric at each intersection
are signposts on my journey.
David Whyte wrote in this poem,
"To be human is to become visible,
while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others."
I reflected,
Do I live like the English rose
in the same house
in the same street
for more than seventy years?
Stability. Purpose. Joy.
Do I live like the prodigal son
who ran away to be
scarred by the ravages of a war
that was never his to fight,
to live in pain and poverty
and abandoned dreams?
Courage. Intention. Fortitude.
Do I live like the Irish colleen
subservient to a fierce deity and
obedient to celibate men she had never met,
a visible sign of invisible grace?
Sacrament. Witness. Blessing.
Do I live the life I can imagine for myself
with no more
and no less than what I need
to be creative, attentive, mindful,
to nurture and to nourish this vulnerable 'I',
to befriend my self-critic
and companion my true self,
and bear to full term the gift within?
Silence. Intention. Miracle.
made 2 long skinny arms
and cut out a heart, which is hand-stitched with a running stitch and loose threads.
The hair is made from torn and knotted fabric scraps.
The crinoline is crafted from scraps of cane.
The horizontal is a spiral toward the womb, the heart, the soul.
The knotted fabric at each intersection
are signposts on my journey.
David Whyte wrote in this poem,
"To be human is to become visible,
while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others."
I reflected,
Do I live like the English rose
in the same house
in the same street
for more than seventy years?
Stability. Purpose. Joy.
Do I live like the prodigal son
who ran away to be
scarred by the ravages of a war
that was never his to fight,
to live in pain and poverty
and abandoned dreams?
Courage. Intention. Fortitude.
Do I live like the Irish colleen
subservient to a fierce deity and
obedient to celibate men she had never met,
a visible sign of invisible grace?
Sacrament. Witness. Blessing.
Do I live the life I can imagine for myself
with no more
and no less than what I need
to be creative, attentive, mindful,
to nurture and to nourish this vulnerable 'I',
to befriend my self-critic
and companion my true self,
and bear to full term the gift within?
Silence. Intention. Miracle.
"Don't Expect Applause"
by Ellen Bass
Leonard Cohen crooned,
"There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets through."
Everywhere there are
cracks, glimmers, hints
of my true and wonderful self.
They are not wounds or mutations.
But windows to the soul.
"There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets through."
Everywhere there are
cracks, glimmers, hints
of my true and wonderful self.
They are not wounds or mutations.
But windows to the soul.
I used the extended torso template
and added long legs, stuffed below the knee.
I created a stuffed heart with sheeting and a scrap of gold ribbon.
After stuffing the body with fibre-fill (dacron),
I cut a slit from front to back,
put a slither of gold curling ribbon behind
and stitched it together with gold thread and beads.
and added long legs, stuffed below the knee.
I created a stuffed heart with sheeting and a scrap of gold ribbon.
After stuffing the body with fibre-fill (dacron),
I cut a slit from front to back,
put a slither of gold curling ribbon behind
and stitched it together with gold thread and beads.
"Just Now"
by W.S. Merwin
W.S. Merwin invites me to immerse myself
in the ordinary minutiae of my world -
natural and man-made.
He asks me to dwell in the quiet unnamed spaces.
The fruit of my attentiveness is that -
now and again -
the veil lifts and
I encounter the Divine.
I spent a lot of time reflecting on Anthony de Mello's Temple Bells.
The temple was built on an island and it held a thousand bells.
Bells big and small, fashioned by the the finest craftsmen in the world.
When the wind blew of a storm raged,
all the bells would peal out in a symphony that would send the heart of the hearer into raptures.
But over the centuries the island sank into the sea and, with it, the temple bells.
An ancient legend said that the bells continued to peal out, ceaselessly,
and could be heard by anyone who would listen.
Inspired by this legend, a young man traveled thousands of miles, determined to hear those bells.
He sat for days on the shore, facing the vanished island, and listened with all his might.
But all he could hear was the sound of the sea.
He made every effort to block it out.
But to no avail; the sound of the sea seemed to flood the world.
He kept at his task for weeks. Each time he got disheartened he would listen to the village pundits,
who spoke with unction of the mysterious legend.
Then his heart would be aflame…
only to become discouraged again when weeks of further effort yielded no results.
Finally he decided to give up the attempt.
Perhaps he was not destined to hear the bells.
Perhaps the legend was not true.
It was his final day,
and he went to the short to say goodbye to the sea and the sky and the wind and the coconut trees.
He lay on the sand, and for the first time, listened to the sound of the sea.
Soon he was so lost in the sound that he was barely conscious of himself,
so deep was the silence that the sound produced.
In the depth of that silence, he heard it!
The tinkle of the tiny bell followed by another, and another, and another.. and soon
every one of the thousand temple bells was pealing out in harmony,
and his heart was rapt in joyous ecstasy.
Do you wish to hear the temple bells?
Listen to the sound of the sea.
Do you wish to catch a glimpse of God?
Look intently at creation.
in the ordinary minutiae of my world -
natural and man-made.
He asks me to dwell in the quiet unnamed spaces.
The fruit of my attentiveness is that -
now and again -
the veil lifts and
I encounter the Divine.
I spent a lot of time reflecting on Anthony de Mello's Temple Bells.
The temple was built on an island and it held a thousand bells.
Bells big and small, fashioned by the the finest craftsmen in the world.
When the wind blew of a storm raged,
all the bells would peal out in a symphony that would send the heart of the hearer into raptures.
But over the centuries the island sank into the sea and, with it, the temple bells.
An ancient legend said that the bells continued to peal out, ceaselessly,
and could be heard by anyone who would listen.
Inspired by this legend, a young man traveled thousands of miles, determined to hear those bells.
He sat for days on the shore, facing the vanished island, and listened with all his might.
But all he could hear was the sound of the sea.
He made every effort to block it out.
But to no avail; the sound of the sea seemed to flood the world.
He kept at his task for weeks. Each time he got disheartened he would listen to the village pundits,
who spoke with unction of the mysterious legend.
Then his heart would be aflame…
only to become discouraged again when weeks of further effort yielded no results.
Finally he decided to give up the attempt.
Perhaps he was not destined to hear the bells.
Perhaps the legend was not true.
It was his final day,
and he went to the short to say goodbye to the sea and the sky and the wind and the coconut trees.
He lay on the sand, and for the first time, listened to the sound of the sea.
Soon he was so lost in the sound that he was barely conscious of himself,
so deep was the silence that the sound produced.
In the depth of that silence, he heard it!
The tinkle of the tiny bell followed by another, and another, and another.. and soon
every one of the thousand temple bells was pealing out in harmony,
and his heart was rapt in joyous ecstasy.
Do you wish to hear the temple bells?
Listen to the sound of the sea.
Do you wish to catch a glimpse of God?
Look intently at creation.
I used the extended torso and legs again.
This time I fully stuffed the legs and arms.
I cut out a simple shift from blue acrylic felt,
and set about cutting out these words:
"Look into life with quiet eyes.
Yield into the mystery of it
and dwell there in the quiet
unnamed spaces."
This time I fully stuffed the legs and arms.
I cut out a simple shift from blue acrylic felt,
and set about cutting out these words:
"Look into life with quiet eyes.
Yield into the mystery of it
and dwell there in the quiet
unnamed spaces."
"At Blackwater Pond"
by Mary Oliver
The merging of myself into the natural world.
The immersing myself in a sensual world.
The grateful acknowledgement of the beauty and wonder of my world.
Mary Oliver offers me a wonderful mantra for daily living ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the piwakawaka (fantail) dips and dives around me as I peg out the washing,
inviting me to join the dance ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the strangers walking their dog across the road wave to me
walking my dog in the opposite direction,
celebrating our shared interest ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
And when my adult son says "Thanks Mum that was delicious"
for a simple meal of sausages and potatoes,
flooding my being with the warmth of his gratitude ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
A mantra which grounds me
and draws me into appreciation of the simple delights of daily life ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
The immersing myself in a sensual world.
The grateful acknowledgement of the beauty and wonder of my world.
Mary Oliver offers me a wonderful mantra for daily living ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the piwakawaka (fantail) dips and dives around me as I peg out the washing,
inviting me to join the dance ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
When the strangers walking their dog across the road wave to me
walking my dog in the opposite direction,
celebrating our shared interest ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
And when my adult son says "Thanks Mum that was delicious"
for a simple meal of sausages and potatoes,
flooding my being with the warmth of his gratitude ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
A mantra which grounds me
and draws me into appreciation of the simple delights of daily life ...
oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
I used the extended torso template and one arm.
I created the second arm and skirt
from twigs collected on my regular walk.
The lichen was found abandoned by a nest builder,
laying on the hot asphalt path.
Spend time in nature.
Feel that you belong here just as a ponga or a tui does.
I created the second arm and skirt
from twigs collected on my regular walk.
The lichen was found abandoned by a nest builder,
laying on the hot asphalt path.
Spend time in nature.
Feel that you belong here just as a ponga or a tui does.
"The Way It Is"
by William Stafford
This theme of thread fascinated me,
as it has fascinated many throughout time.
Klotho, the Greek fate, is purported to spin the thread of human life.
Lao Tzu wrote that life and death are one thread,
the same line viewed from different sides.
Jung said,
"when it's time for souls to meet,
there's nothing on earth that can prevent them from meeting,
no matter where each may be located."
A Chinese myth tells of
a red thread which is tied around those
who are destined to meet one another in certain situations
or to help each other in certain ways.
On reflection,
I am sure I have been connected to others by this red thread -
the coincidences and serendipitous events are just too strong.
From the Rig Veda
"There is an endless net of threads throughout the universe.
The Horizontal threads are in space.
The Vertical threads are in time.
At every crossing of the threads,
there is an individual,
and every individual is a crystal bead.
And every crystal bead reflects not only the light
from every other crystal in the net,
But also every other reflection throughout the entire Universe."
as it has fascinated many throughout time.
Klotho, the Greek fate, is purported to spin the thread of human life.
Lao Tzu wrote that life and death are one thread,
the same line viewed from different sides.
Jung said,
"when it's time for souls to meet,
there's nothing on earth that can prevent them from meeting,
no matter where each may be located."
A Chinese myth tells of
a red thread which is tied around those
who are destined to meet one another in certain situations
or to help each other in certain ways.
On reflection,
I am sure I have been connected to others by this red thread -
the coincidences and serendipitous events are just too strong.
From the Rig Veda
"There is an endless net of threads throughout the universe.
The Horizontal threads are in space.
The Vertical threads are in time.
At every crossing of the threads,
there is an individual,
and every individual is a crystal bead.
And every crystal bead reflects not only the light
from every other crystal in the net,
But also every other reflection throughout the entire Universe."
So I focused on the red thread of grace.
I used the extended torso template again,
with stuffed legs and un-stuffed arms.
I took some unbleached cotton cord
to represent my life line - labyrinthine, unicursal, dynamic.
I used red thread to represent moments of grace and connection.
I used a couching stitch with its repetitive violence -
stabbing the cloth,
drawing the thread through,
reconnecting.
The red beads reflect light.
I used the extended torso template again,
with stuffed legs and un-stuffed arms.
I took some unbleached cotton cord
to represent my life line - labyrinthine, unicursal, dynamic.
I used red thread to represent moments of grace and connection.
I used a couching stitch with its repetitive violence -
stabbing the cloth,
drawing the thread through,
reconnecting.
The red beads reflect light.
"Mindful"
by Mary Oliver
Oliver once wrote
"Attention without feeling,
I began to learn,
is only a report.
An openness --
an empathy --
was necessary if the attention was to matter."
Perhaps the ordinary becomes extraordinary when infused with my attention.
There is always something to delight in.
"Attention without feeling,
I began to learn,
is only a report.
An openness --
an empathy --
was necessary if the attention was to matter."
Perhaps the ordinary becomes extraordinary when infused with my attention.
There is always something to delight in.
Once again I utilized the extended torso template
with lightly stuffed arms and legs.
A red running stitch attaches the red heart which
"instructs myself /over and over /in joy/ and acclamation."
The scraps from the lips were knotted into hair.
I found some recycled lips which I stitched together in pairs and stuffed.
Cavorting in smiles!!!
with lightly stuffed arms and legs.
A red running stitch attaches the red heart which
"instructs myself /over and over /in joy/ and acclamation."
The scraps from the lips were knotted into hair.
I found some recycled lips which I stitched together in pairs and stuffed.
Cavorting in smiles!!!
"Untitled"
by Dawna Markova
This poem left me feeling deflated.
I felt I was being bullied,
and chided for living a quiet life.
I am much more encouraged by Anais Nin's gentle words,
"And the day came
when the risk to remain tight in a bud
became more painful
than the risk it took to blossom."
For me, the same sentiments are expressed
but without the motivational rhetoric.
I felt I was being bullied,
and chided for living a quiet life.
I am much more encouraged by Anais Nin's gentle words,
"And the day came
when the risk to remain tight in a bud
became more painful
than the risk it took to blossom."
For me, the same sentiments are expressed
but without the motivational rhetoric.
The task we were set today was to write for 10 minutes, without editing, using the prompt
"The fruit my life will pass on is ..."
I chose to write with a fabric pen on the whitish sheet I had.
I then used this as the fabric for my intuitive doll.
I cut the fabric into random sized pieces and then reassembled it.
I chose again to use the extended torso with stuffed arms and legs.
I created a circular skirt on which I had written the fruits I feel my life has borne.
But as so often happens when creating intuitively,
this doll refused to wear it!
Such impudence!!
The fruits I wrote on the skirt are:
compassion, recovery,
witness, soul friend, teacher,
empower-er, encourag-er, enabler,
storyteller, empath, listener,
creativity, perseverance, companion,
lateral thinker, fidelity.
Marcus Aurelius gently encourages me,
"At dawn,
when you have trouble getting out of bed,
tell yourself, 'I have to go to work - as a human being.
What do I have to complain of,
if I'm doing the things I was brought into the world to do?'
'Don't you see the plants, the birds,
the ants and spiders and bees
going about their individual tasks,
putting the world in order as best they can?
And you're not willing to do your job as a human being?
Why aren't you running to do what your nature demands?"
I will sow seeds, blossom and bear fruit.
I will stitch and write and companion.
I will run to do what my nature demands.
"The fruit my life will pass on is ..."
I chose to write with a fabric pen on the whitish sheet I had.
I then used this as the fabric for my intuitive doll.
I cut the fabric into random sized pieces and then reassembled it.
I chose again to use the extended torso with stuffed arms and legs.
I created a circular skirt on which I had written the fruits I feel my life has borne.
But as so often happens when creating intuitively,
this doll refused to wear it!
Such impudence!!
The fruits I wrote on the skirt are:
compassion, recovery,
witness, soul friend, teacher,
empower-er, encourag-er, enabler,
storyteller, empath, listener,
creativity, perseverance, companion,
lateral thinker, fidelity.
Marcus Aurelius gently encourages me,
"At dawn,
when you have trouble getting out of bed,
tell yourself, 'I have to go to work - as a human being.
What do I have to complain of,
if I'm doing the things I was brought into the world to do?'
'Don't you see the plants, the birds,
the ants and spiders and bees
going about their individual tasks,
putting the world in order as best they can?
And you're not willing to do your job as a human being?
Why aren't you running to do what your nature demands?"
I will sow seeds, blossom and bear fruit.
I will stitch and write and companion.
I will run to do what my nature demands.
"Everything Is Waiting For You"
by David Whyte
Usually I like to ponder upon the poetry of David Whyte.
But this one wearied me.
I felt the pressure of "Everything is waiting for you."
I just wanted to go for a long long walk
with my senses shut down.
I needed to meditate in silence.
Often I am overwhelmed by the world around me.
Even with the ordinary things that usually escape our attention - like a soap dish.
I become mindful of its origins -
all those who have been involved in its creation -
the artistry of the designers,
the quarry workers who dig the clay,
the truck drivers who deliver the finished product to the store,
the creators of the packaging -
and my heart overflows with a sense of belonging,
with a sense of connected-ness,
with gratitude.
Meditation in silence is a balm for me
when I my senses are over-stimulated or
sense of self is over-whelmed.
But this one wearied me.
I felt the pressure of "Everything is waiting for you."
I just wanted to go for a long long walk
with my senses shut down.
I needed to meditate in silence.
Often I am overwhelmed by the world around me.
Even with the ordinary things that usually escape our attention - like a soap dish.
I become mindful of its origins -
all those who have been involved in its creation -
the artistry of the designers,
the quarry workers who dig the clay,
the truck drivers who deliver the finished product to the store,
the creators of the packaging -
and my heart overflows with a sense of belonging,
with a sense of connected-ness,
with gratitude.
Meditation in silence is a balm for me
when I my senses are over-stimulated or
sense of self is over-whelmed.
Here is an angel to pass on blessings,
with wings large enough to enfold, en-wrap, comfort,
to protect me and bless me when I feel overwhelmed.
She extends blessings to all.
I extended the torso template a smidgen,
and drafted some wings.
I stitched around the wings until I could stitch no longer.
with wings large enough to enfold, en-wrap, comfort,
to protect me and bless me when I feel overwhelmed.
She extends blessings to all.
I extended the torso template a smidgen,
and drafted some wings.
I stitched around the wings until I could stitch no longer.
"For A New Beginning"
by John O'Donohue
I am not a person to take risks.
I am reluctant to leave behind what I have outgrown.
I allow setbacks to overwhelm and stall me.
I see the long picture
and forget that my destination is only ever the next step.
Perhaps this caution prevents me
from becoming all that I was created to be.
"This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house of its furniture,
still treat each guest honourably.
It maybe clearing out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."
Rumi
I am reluctant to leave behind what I have outgrown.
I allow setbacks to overwhelm and stall me.
I see the long picture
and forget that my destination is only ever the next step.
Perhaps this caution prevents me
from becoming all that I was created to be.
"This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house of its furniture,
still treat each guest honourably.
It maybe clearing out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."
Rumi
It was the phrase 'gray promises' that inspired this doll.
I extended the torso template even further
and drafted a pair of legs with feet.
This provided an empty canvas on which to stitch -
slowly, meditatively,
without judgement or correction.
I used grey thread to stitch rows of gray promises,
often ending in an 'X' - a road block.
Then I started again.
The rose bud I picked up on a walk around the block.
It seemed to fit in her heart.
I extended the torso template even further
and drafted a pair of legs with feet.
This provided an empty canvas on which to stitch -
slowly, meditatively,
without judgement or correction.
I used grey thread to stitch rows of gray promises,
often ending in an 'X' - a road block.
Then I started again.
The rose bud I picked up on a walk around the block.
It seemed to fit in her heart.
"Don't Go Back To Sleep"
by Jelaluddin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
I realise as I grow older
how easily I blindly accepted ideas,
how slavishly I held to dogmas and doctrines,
how desperate I was to belong.
I didn't ask the questions that mattered.
I didn't challenge the obvious inequality and discrimination.
I didn't fit, and yet I didn't move on.
I was always restless, yearning, seeking.
I wish I had then what Rumi alludes to -
a spirit of wakefulness -
or what Yeats hints at when he wrote -
"the voyage of discovery lies not in seeking new vistas,
but in having new eyes."
I have experienced the two worlds touching -
it is ecstasy.
My heart pounds.
My spirit soars.
Loving kindness envelops me.
how easily I blindly accepted ideas,
how slavishly I held to dogmas and doctrines,
how desperate I was to belong.
I didn't ask the questions that mattered.
I didn't challenge the obvious inequality and discrimination.
I didn't fit, and yet I didn't move on.
I was always restless, yearning, seeking.
I wish I had then what Rumi alludes to -
a spirit of wakefulness -
or what Yeats hints at when he wrote -
"the voyage of discovery lies not in seeking new vistas,
but in having new eyes."
I have experienced the two worlds touching -
it is ecstasy.
My heart pounds.
My spirit soars.
Loving kindness envelops me.
Using the elongated torso template,
I cut a slit in the chest and inserted gold netting,
reminiscent of a sun burst/heart burst.
A heart is held at the ends of the arms.
There are wisps of gold thread in her hair.
I cut a slit in the chest and inserted gold netting,
reminiscent of a sun burst/heart burst.
A heart is held at the ends of the arms.
There are wisps of gold thread in her hair.
"A Suspended Blue Ocean"
by Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinski
I am not a spontaneous person.
Too much the introvert.
Too much controlled by the self-critic.
Too worried about what others will think.
But I do get immense pleasure from enabling others
to have fun:-)
Too much the introvert.
Too much controlled by the self-critic.
Too worried about what others will think.
But I do get immense pleasure from enabling others
to have fun:-)
I had fun, my dears, I had fun:-)
I found some scraps of strip pieced fabric,
and lay the pattern pieces on them,
stitched, turned and stuffed!
The extra scraps I tore and knotted for hair.
This doll is holding a teddy,
given to me by my friend, Kay.
I found some scraps of strip pieced fabric,
and lay the pattern pieces on them,
stitched, turned and stuffed!
The extra scraps I tore and knotted for hair.
This doll is holding a teddy,
given to me by my friend, Kay.
"The Wild Geese"
by Wendell Berry
Abandon to the process
I am a textile artist,
exploring my life through figurative sculpture (which I call doll making).
When I am surrounded by textiles and tools,
immersed in patterns and ideas,
I lose all sense of my individuality and accept their invitation to create intuitively.
I seek the promise they hold.
I abandon myself to the process.
For me, this is the 'abandoning' akin to love and sleep.
Each figure reflects a part of me
and becomes a part of my story as I become a part of theirs.
I submit wholeheartedly to this process;
trust its outcomes and revelations;
encounter wisdom and LOVE.
These are not fine works of art.
They are the heartfelt work of a soul.
My soul.
I am a textile artist,
exploring my life through figurative sculpture (which I call doll making).
When I am surrounded by textiles and tools,
immersed in patterns and ideas,
I lose all sense of my individuality and accept their invitation to create intuitively.
I seek the promise they hold.
I abandon myself to the process.
For me, this is the 'abandoning' akin to love and sleep.
Each figure reflects a part of me
and becomes a part of my story as I become a part of theirs.
I submit wholeheartedly to this process;
trust its outcomes and revelations;
encounter wisdom and LOVE.
These are not fine works of art.
They are the heartfelt work of a soul.
My soul.
I created two figures.
One I stuffed, the other is flat.
The stuffed figure is stitching the flat figure.
There is a single thread going from the stuffed doll's heart
to the heart of the flat figure:
one doll is tending to the heartfelt work of another.
One I stuffed, the other is flat.
The stuffed figure is stitching the flat figure.
There is a single thread going from the stuffed doll's heart
to the heart of the flat figure:
one doll is tending to the heartfelt work of another.
"Wake Up, Day Calls You"
by Pedro Salinas
I will carry my life high
I have been reflecting on what it means to "carry your life high".
When do I raise someone or something high?
I considered:
raising a trophy or elevating a team member when there has been success
we carry our life high when we celebrate
raising someone up so they can climb a tree
or putting someone on our shoulders so they can see better
we carry our life high when we enable others
lifting my arms to peg out the washing
or lifting a pack above my head while fording a river
we carry our life high when we are good stewards
supporting others in a team building exercise
or crowd surfing in a mosh pit
we carry our life high when we trust and are trustworthy
highlighting a cause or an issue through protest
or petition or dedication to change
we carry our life high when we are selfless
when we raise a flag or a banner or an icon
we carry our life high when
we invite participation and engender a sense of belonging.
So how will I "carry my life high" today?
I will be a steward of my one and precious life.
I will celebrate the people and places around me.
I will trust others who enable me, and I will continue to enable and empower others.
I will try to live authentically.
I have been reflecting on what it means to "carry your life high".
When do I raise someone or something high?
I considered:
raising a trophy or elevating a team member when there has been success
we carry our life high when we celebrate
raising someone up so they can climb a tree
or putting someone on our shoulders so they can see better
we carry our life high when we enable others
lifting my arms to peg out the washing
or lifting a pack above my head while fording a river
we carry our life high when we are good stewards
supporting others in a team building exercise
or crowd surfing in a mosh pit
we carry our life high when we trust and are trustworthy
highlighting a cause or an issue through protest
or petition or dedication to change
we carry our life high when we are selfless
when we raise a flag or a banner or an icon
we carry our life high when
we invite participation and engender a sense of belonging.
So how will I "carry my life high" today?
I will be a steward of my one and precious life.
I will celebrate the people and places around me.
I will trust others who enable me, and I will continue to enable and empower others.
I will try to live authentically.
I wanted to fly a kite today.
So I created a doll to fly one for me.
Long arms. Long legs.
A kite made with a bamboo frame
and a wire to hold the bows.
The tail bows are
enabling
celebrating
trusting
stewardship
So I created a doll to fly one for me.
Long arms. Long legs.
A kite made with a bamboo frame
and a wire to hold the bows.
The tail bows are
enabling
celebrating
trusting
stewardship
"Not Dawdling"
by James Broughton
Another way to bump into wonder
I only ever dawdle or amble or linger or pause.
And in this counter-cultural slowness,
I bump into wonder:
the pansy growing in a crack in the footpath;
the old man walking his dog who simply wants a chat.
I am rarely sure or certain.
I dwell in the grey.
And in my doubt,
I bump into wonder:
the compassion that comes from putting myself in another's shoes;
the awe I feel when I look through different eyes.
I am not intrepid or brave or courageous.
And in my timidity,
I bump into wonder:
when the siren sounds and men and women set aside their lives to aid another,
a deep gratitude envelops me;
when a dying friend empowers and strengthens those around her.
I do not have discriminating wisdom as I am too attached to all that I have and know.
But in that attachment
I bump into wonder:
that I have just the right book for the right person when they most need it;
that I can share my collection of teapots and cups at a friend's birthday picnic.
I have stood at many crossroads
- I stand at one now -
and in my dawdling and doubt and timidity and clutter,
holding the truths that I know for sure (that I am known and I am loved),
I am prepared to bump into wonder.
And I do.
I only ever dawdle or amble or linger or pause.
And in this counter-cultural slowness,
I bump into wonder:
the pansy growing in a crack in the footpath;
the old man walking his dog who simply wants a chat.
I am rarely sure or certain.
I dwell in the grey.
And in my doubt,
I bump into wonder:
the compassion that comes from putting myself in another's shoes;
the awe I feel when I look through different eyes.
I am not intrepid or brave or courageous.
And in my timidity,
I bump into wonder:
when the siren sounds and men and women set aside their lives to aid another,
a deep gratitude envelops me;
when a dying friend empowers and strengthens those around her.
I do not have discriminating wisdom as I am too attached to all that I have and know.
But in that attachment
I bump into wonder:
that I have just the right book for the right person when they most need it;
that I can share my collection of teapots and cups at a friend's birthday picnic.
I have stood at many crossroads
- I stand at one now -
and in my dawdling and doubt and timidity and clutter,
holding the truths that I know for sure (that I am known and I am loved),
I am prepared to bump into wonder.
And I do.
Life seems to be full of crossroads!
Choices throughout every day -
some important, most trivial or mundane.
I chose the elongated torso with short feet.
I tore strips of fabric for the hair,
and to stitch at random onto the body
with a red running stitch.
The stitch runs off the strips
and intersects with other lines of stitching.
At each and every intersection,
I bump into wonder!
Choices throughout every day -
some important, most trivial or mundane.
I chose the elongated torso with short feet.
I tore strips of fabric for the hair,
and to stitch at random onto the body
with a red running stitch.
The stitch runs off the strips
and intersects with other lines of stitching.
At each and every intersection,
I bump into wonder!
"Instructions For Painters And Poets" (excerpts)
by Lawrence Ferlighetti
The carrier of my true colours
There is a colour that is created when young children mix all the acrylic paints available.
Sludge brown.
That is the colour I paint myself.
Mongrel it appears with specks and streaks and revelation at the edges.
But it is a colour steeped with history and memory and promise.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
firebrand red
challenging injustice
evergreen
rebirth, regrowth, regeneration
infinity blue
the realm of dreams and visions and possibility
a hint of white
a reflection of all that is divine
There is a colour I paint myself.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
There is a colour that is created when young children mix all the acrylic paints available.
Sludge brown.
That is the colour I paint myself.
Mongrel it appears with specks and streaks and revelation at the edges.
But it is a colour steeped with history and memory and promise.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
firebrand red
challenging injustice
evergreen
rebirth, regrowth, regeneration
infinity blue
the realm of dreams and visions and possibility
a hint of white
a reflection of all that is divine
There is a colour I paint myself.
It is the carrier of my true colours.
How to create 'sludge brown'?
I cut out a small piece of white fabric and soaked it for several hours in some instant coffee. Sludgy enough! I found a treasure trove of embroidery threads and chose some to stitch slowly and randomly onto the body. I used cross stitch and running stitch. The green running stitch around the base of the torso catches the arm of the figure. (perhaps it is holding back from revealing my true colours) The ends of thread I pulled from the needle and attached it to the hair line, together with torn scraps of coffee stained fabric. The white heart is reflective. |
"Lines For Winter"
by Mark Strand
An immediate response to this poem was to ask,
"What is my song?"
I have a children's book by Denis and Sheila Linn titled "What is my song?"
and it relates an African fable ...
“There is a tribe in east Africa in which the art of true intimacy is fostered even before birth.
In this tribe, the birth date of a child is not counted from the day of its physical birth nor even the day of conception as in other village cultures.
For this tribe the birth date comes the first time the child is a thought in its mother’s mind.
Aware of her intention to conceive a child with a particular father,
the mother then goes off to sit alone under a tree.
There she sits and listens until she can hear the song of the child that she hopes to conceive.
Once she has heard it, she returns to her village and teaches it to the father so that they can sing it together as they make love, inviting the child to join them.
After the child is conceived, she sings it to the baby in her womb.
Then she teaches it to the old women and midwives of the village,
so that throughout the labor and at the miraculous moment of birth itself,
the child is greeted with its song.
After the birth all the villagers learn the song of their new member
and sing it to the child when it falls or hurts itself.
It is sung in times of triumph, or in rituals and initiations.
This song becomes a part of the marriage ceremony when the child is grown, and at the end of life,
his or her loved ones will gather around the deathbed and sing this song for the last time.”
A Path with Heart (Bantam Books, 1993), p. 334. Jack Kornfield
I often ask myself, "What is my song?"
What remains constant in me throughout all life's changes?
"What is my song?"
I have a children's book by Denis and Sheila Linn titled "What is my song?"
and it relates an African fable ...
“There is a tribe in east Africa in which the art of true intimacy is fostered even before birth.
In this tribe, the birth date of a child is not counted from the day of its physical birth nor even the day of conception as in other village cultures.
For this tribe the birth date comes the first time the child is a thought in its mother’s mind.
Aware of her intention to conceive a child with a particular father,
the mother then goes off to sit alone under a tree.
There she sits and listens until she can hear the song of the child that she hopes to conceive.
Once she has heard it, she returns to her village and teaches it to the father so that they can sing it together as they make love, inviting the child to join them.
After the child is conceived, she sings it to the baby in her womb.
Then she teaches it to the old women and midwives of the village,
so that throughout the labor and at the miraculous moment of birth itself,
the child is greeted with its song.
After the birth all the villagers learn the song of their new member
and sing it to the child when it falls or hurts itself.
It is sung in times of triumph, or in rituals and initiations.
This song becomes a part of the marriage ceremony when the child is grown, and at the end of life,
his or her loved ones will gather around the deathbed and sing this song for the last time.”
A Path with Heart (Bantam Books, 1993), p. 334. Jack Kornfield
I often ask myself, "What is my song?"
What remains constant in me throughout all life's changes?
I went back to my original pattern - head and base.
I sewed very long arms which encircle the body.
There are two strands in my life -
self-knowledge and discovering my true self, and
responding to that growing awareness in my daily life.
I sewed very long arms which encircle the body.
There are two strands in my life -
self-knowledge and discovering my true self, and
responding to that growing awareness in my daily life.
"The Fountain"
by Denise Levertov
What is the fountain I turn to in times of dryness?
Where do I go when that fountain is dry?
Who do I choose to guide me to my healing fountain?
Are there any signposts to show me the way?
Where do I go when that fountain is dry?
Who do I choose to guide me to my healing fountain?
Are there any signposts to show me the way?
I used the elongated body form and legs with feet.
The torn heart is attached with a running stitch, threads hanging loose.
I created a chain of four paper dolls -
connected, arms outstretched to each other and to me -
to represent the four ways I heal myself:
silence, solitude, the arts, creativity.
The torn heart is attached with a running stitch, threads hanging loose.
I created a chain of four paper dolls -
connected, arms outstretched to each other and to me -
to represent the four ways I heal myself:
silence, solitude, the arts, creativity.
"Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front" (second half)
by Wendell Berry
Several lines of Wendell Berry's poem spoke to me -
"Ask the questions that have no answers"
"Go with your love to the fields"
and
"... hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come."
They spoke of mystery and attentiveness;
patience and promise;
life, death and rebirth;
and an invitation to live my one and precious life fully.
"Ask the questions that have no answers"
"Go with your love to the fields"
and
"... hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come."
They spoke of mystery and attentiveness;
patience and promise;
life, death and rebirth;
and an invitation to live my one and precious life fully.
Onto an elongated body
I stitched two large circles to represent breasts
and a small circle within a large circle to represent a womb.
(I hear the faint chattering of songs that are to come)
I used a running stitch.
The entire figure is wrapped in spiraling ivy.
Ivy has many meanings.
It adheres to trees but is not a parasite.
It grows in the shape of a spiral -
which indicates consciousness, development,
expansion, rebirth.
(Ask the questions that have no answers)
Ivy is a symbol of vibrancy -
renewal, connection,
opportunity and friendship.
(Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade.
Rest your head in her lap)
Ivy has the ability to grow in harsh environments -
it is a determined survivor.
(Practice resurrection)
I stitched two large circles to represent breasts
and a small circle within a large circle to represent a womb.
(I hear the faint chattering of songs that are to come)
I used a running stitch.
The entire figure is wrapped in spiraling ivy.
Ivy has many meanings.
It adheres to trees but is not a parasite.
It grows in the shape of a spiral -
which indicates consciousness, development,
expansion, rebirth.
(Ask the questions that have no answers)
Ivy is a symbol of vibrancy -
renewal, connection,
opportunity and friendship.
(Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade.
Rest your head in her lap)
Ivy has the ability to grow in harsh environments -
it is a determined survivor.
(Practice resurrection)
"Primary Wonder"
by Denise Levertov
What are the 'courtiers', the distractions,
that deflect me from 'the quiet mystery'?
This question doesn't just nudge and probe -it hurts.
I have avoided it -
perhaps for most of my life.
The roller-coaster ride of every day life.
Cataclysmic global events.
The search for a place of belonging.
My attachment to things,
and the things of others.
The peregrinations of my heart.
The shattering of illusion and hope.
The volatility of hormones and emotions.
The search for my true calling.
I find - now and then -
that by naming the problems,
dialoguing with them,
offering them companionship,
sharing their yoke,
placing them on the altar of my heart,
that they become less a distraction
and more another door through which I enter into 'the quiet mystery'.
that deflect me from 'the quiet mystery'?
This question doesn't just nudge and probe -it hurts.
I have avoided it -
perhaps for most of my life.
The roller-coaster ride of every day life.
Cataclysmic global events.
The search for a place of belonging.
My attachment to things,
and the things of others.
The peregrinations of my heart.
The shattering of illusion and hope.
The volatility of hormones and emotions.
The search for my true calling.
I find - now and then -
that by naming the problems,
dialoguing with them,
offering them companionship,
sharing their yoke,
placing them on the altar of my heart,
that they become less a distraction
and more another door through which I enter into 'the quiet mystery'.
The chiffon represents the quiet mystery that Denise Levertov mentions-
the mystery that is without and within.
Everything is veiled in mystery.
Live with it.
Embrace it.
Inhale its fragrance.
This figure has a short body with stuffed and hinged legs (sewn across at the knees),
a hand stitched heart,
knotted hair
and thin arms.
the mystery that is without and within.
Everything is veiled in mystery.
Live with it.
Embrace it.
Inhale its fragrance.
This figure has a short body with stuffed and hinged legs (sewn across at the knees),
a hand stitched heart,
knotted hair
and thin arms.
"Love Poems To God II, 22"
by Rainer Maria Rilke
You are the future,
the red sky before sunrise
over the fields of time.
You are the cock's crow when night is done,
you are the dew and the bells of matins,
maiden, stranger, mother, death.
You create yourself in ever-changing shapes
that rise from the stuff of our days --
unsung, unmourned, undescribed,
like a forest we never knew.
You are the deep innerness of all things,
the last word that can never be spoken.
To each of us you reveal yourself differently:
to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.
Rainer Maria Rilke from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God,
translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy
the red sky before sunrise
over the fields of time.
You are the cock's crow when night is done,
you are the dew and the bells of matins,
maiden, stranger, mother, death.
You create yourself in ever-changing shapes
that rise from the stuff of our days --
unsung, unmourned, undescribed,
like a forest we never knew.
You are the deep innerness of all things,
the last word that can never be spoken.
To each of us you reveal yourself differently:
to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.
Rainer Maria Rilke from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God,
translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy
Well, I broke the rules (if there were any to break!!)
"To each of us you reveal yourself differently".
A different doll using a template for a modular doll.
"You create yourself in ever-changing shapes"
Black
"You are the deep innerness of things"
Hair is knotted black lycra
with a bell -
a call to worship, to prayer, to pause,
an invitation to presence, to attentiveness, to gratitude.
"You are the dew and the bells of matins,"
With a beaded spiral -
generative, creative, fecund.
and a Use By tag on the back
to recall the finite nature of our days.
"To each of us you reveal yourself differently".
A different doll using a template for a modular doll.
"You create yourself in ever-changing shapes"
Black
"You are the deep innerness of things"
Hair is knotted black lycra
with a bell -
a call to worship, to prayer, to pause,
an invitation to presence, to attentiveness, to gratitude.
"You are the dew and the bells of matins,"
With a beaded spiral -
generative, creative, fecund.
and a Use By tag on the back
to recall the finite nature of our days.
"Having Come This Far"
by James Broughton
I want to "plash in a poetry puddle"!!!
A line that is joyous and playful
and delights the tongue!
The stepping stones were the idea that spoke to me.
Stepping stones may or may not be steadfast and secure
but they offer an invitation and a hope.
Stepping stones may or may not have a firm foundation
but they bridge a gap.
Stepping stones may or may not be what they appear
bu they encourage and enable a crossing to the other side.
Stepping stones may have a variety of shapes and sizes
which change with perspective and age.
Stepping stones may have a variety of surfaces -
slippery, coarse, slimy, pitted, worn, cracked -
but they may support my footfall for a moment.
Stepping stones may be the 'road less traveled'
but are a signpost for the heart.
I asked myself ...
Have I used people or philosophies or religions and institutions as stepping stones -
consciously or deliberately or unawares?
Have I avoided stepping stones
and trodden a safe path?
Have I looked longingly at stepping stones
but never dared?
Have I enabled others to use stepping stones by providing a hand hold
but never accepted it for myself?
There is always another way -
not better or worse -
just different, unique.
A line that is joyous and playful
and delights the tongue!
The stepping stones were the idea that spoke to me.
Stepping stones may or may not be steadfast and secure
but they offer an invitation and a hope.
Stepping stones may or may not have a firm foundation
but they bridge a gap.
Stepping stones may or may not be what they appear
bu they encourage and enable a crossing to the other side.
Stepping stones may have a variety of shapes and sizes
which change with perspective and age.
Stepping stones may have a variety of surfaces -
slippery, coarse, slimy, pitted, worn, cracked -
but they may support my footfall for a moment.
Stepping stones may be the 'road less traveled'
but are a signpost for the heart.
I asked myself ...
Have I used people or philosophies or religions and institutions as stepping stones -
consciously or deliberately or unawares?
Have I avoided stepping stones
and trodden a safe path?
Have I looked longingly at stepping stones
but never dared?
Have I enabled others to use stepping stones by providing a hand hold
but never accepted it for myself?
There is always another way -
not better or worse -
just different, unique.
Mmmmmmm!!!
I took all the pattern pieces and 'squished them into stepping stones'!
I wrapped each stone with thread,
denoting a different aspect of my life -
spiritual, physical, intellectual, emotional, sexual, social.
I took all the pattern pieces and 'squished them into stepping stones'!
I wrapped each stone with thread,
denoting a different aspect of my life -
spiritual, physical, intellectual, emotional, sexual, social.
"Brotherhood"
by Octavio Paz
I found the concept of 'someone spelling me out' intriguing.
Someone narrating my life.
Someone re-writing my story.
Someone creating my memories.
I thought of the quote from Cornelia Funke
"Stories never really end ...
even if books like to pretend they do.
Stories always go on.
they don't end on the last page
any more than they begin on the first page."
My life existed before my human form
and will exist in some way after this form dies.
"I too am written" says Paz
but by whom?
Someone narrating my life.
Someone re-writing my story.
Someone creating my memories.
I thought of the quote from Cornelia Funke
"Stories never really end ...
even if books like to pretend they do.
Stories always go on.
they don't end on the last page
any more than they begin on the first page."
My life existed before my human form
and will exist in some way after this form dies.
"I too am written" says Paz
but by whom?
I chose a flat elongated template,
sandwiched batting between the back and front,
and randomly quilted horizontal and vertical lines.
I filled each created square with a letter
to spell out ...
someone spells me out
the word is embodied in me
writing my life
narrating my story
an invocation before I was born
an incantation after I die
someone spells me out
perhaps that someone is me
Arms are crossed to obscure the text -
am I not convinced of what I write?
Who do I think I will offend?
sandwiched batting between the back and front,
and randomly quilted horizontal and vertical lines.
I filled each created square with a letter
to spell out ...
someone spells me out
the word is embodied in me
writing my life
narrating my story
an invocation before I was born
an incantation after I die
someone spells me out
perhaps that someone is me
Arms are crossed to obscure the text -
am I not convinced of what I write?
Who do I think I will offend?
"The Art of Blessing the Day"
by Marge Piercy
The most powerful tool.
I found the word "curse" was incongruous in this invitation to "bless whatever you can".
The word 'curse' brings to my mind
venom and vitriol; violence and vendetta; hatred and hurt.
If I "pick up a tool",
I want it to be an attentive heart, a grateful heart,
a humble heart, a courageous heart,
a listening ear, a clear mind,
that quells the indignation and wrath;
the fear and frustration,
and allows me to witness to LOVE.
When I am "ready to make it new",
I hope to be armed with a generosity of spirit;
forbearance and perseverance;
and a desire to engage in mutual charity.
The art of blessing is creative, not accursed.
It is nurturing and enabling and miraculous.
"Bless whatever you can"
including that we want to change.
For me, that is the most powerful tool.
I found the word "curse" was incongruous in this invitation to "bless whatever you can".
The word 'curse' brings to my mind
venom and vitriol; violence and vendetta; hatred and hurt.
If I "pick up a tool",
I want it to be an attentive heart, a grateful heart,
a humble heart, a courageous heart,
a listening ear, a clear mind,
that quells the indignation and wrath;
the fear and frustration,
and allows me to witness to LOVE.
When I am "ready to make it new",
I hope to be armed with a generosity of spirit;
forbearance and perseverance;
and a desire to engage in mutual charity.
The art of blessing is creative, not accursed.
It is nurturing and enabling and miraculous.
"Bless whatever you can"
including that we want to change.
For me, that is the most powerful tool.
Just the short torso this time.
I sewed across the bottom corners to make a flat surface
so that the doll could stand.
I cut out a heart and used a running stitch to attach it.
This figure is surrounded with blessings -
those she has received and those she gives.
Every moment of every day
our lives are enriched with blessings!
I sewed across the bottom corners to make a flat surface
so that the doll could stand.
I cut out a heart and used a running stitch to attach it.
This figure is surrounded with blessings -
those she has received and those she gives.
Every moment of every day
our lives are enriched with blessings!
"The Layers"
by Stanley Kunitz
The layers of my life
build upon each other:
some are thin - short-lived;
some are over-shadowed;
some are messy, complicated.
Always I was loved
but did I love myself?
Do I love myself?
The third age approaches -
what possibilities?
What will be revealed?
What will I reveal?
How will I be transformed?
Parker J Palmer wrote of the layers,
"Yes, all of this is me,
and all of this has helped make me who I am."
I will honour all that has helped make me who I am.
build upon each other:
some are thin - short-lived;
some are over-shadowed;
some are messy, complicated.
Always I was loved
but did I love myself?
Do I love myself?
The third age approaches -
what possibilities?
What will be revealed?
What will I reveal?
How will I be transformed?
Parker J Palmer wrote of the layers,
"Yes, all of this is me,
and all of this has helped make me who I am."
I will honour all that has helped make me who I am.
I used the elongated figure with feet and thin arms.
I assembled the doll
and then randomly stitched on the layers
using a selection of fabrics, trims and threads.
Parts of the layers have been over-shadowed with black tulle.
I think they represent very traumatic times in my life.
I called this figure Lizzie's Pou
as it represents my life story thus far.
(a pou refers to the carved poles relating the ancestor's stories
found in Te Arawa wharenui (meeting houses).
I assembled the doll
and then randomly stitched on the layers
using a selection of fabrics, trims and threads.
Parts of the layers have been over-shadowed with black tulle.
I think they represent very traumatic times in my life.
I called this figure Lizzie's Pou
as it represents my life story thus far.
(a pou refers to the carved poles relating the ancestor's stories
found in Te Arawa wharenui (meeting houses).
"Winter Solstice"
by Ellen Bass
A night gardener
I used to resent the night:
the struggle and strain to get to sleep,
the struggle and strain to stay asleep
so I could struggle and strain through another day.
I would turn over and over like a rotisserie hen,
bemoan the slightest noise
or crinkle in the sheet.
But now I am a night gardener.
I tend the night nursery.
Blessing seeds are fertilised and mulched.
Thoughts and worries sink into the rich dark beds of the subconscious.
Spindly and unhealthy growth is pruned and culled.
I keep a written record of the labours and fruits of my nightly cultivation
before they flee into my forgettery.
Then,
I let the dog out to chase the neighbourhood cats,
gaze at the night sky,
listen for the haunting call of the morepork,
feel the night air fill my lungs and chill my toes,
take a sip of spring water,
and snuggle beneath the sheet
ready to be transformed once more in my night garden.
I am a night gardener
and the fruit of this nightly toil
is the paradox of
a restful, creative, blessing-filled day.
I used to resent the night:
the struggle and strain to get to sleep,
the struggle and strain to stay asleep
so I could struggle and strain through another day.
I would turn over and over like a rotisserie hen,
bemoan the slightest noise
or crinkle in the sheet.
But now I am a night gardener.
I tend the night nursery.
Blessing seeds are fertilised and mulched.
Thoughts and worries sink into the rich dark beds of the subconscious.
Spindly and unhealthy growth is pruned and culled.
I keep a written record of the labours and fruits of my nightly cultivation
before they flee into my forgettery.
Then,
I let the dog out to chase the neighbourhood cats,
gaze at the night sky,
listen for the haunting call of the morepork,
feel the night air fill my lungs and chill my toes,
take a sip of spring water,
and snuggle beneath the sheet
ready to be transformed once more in my night garden.
I am a night gardener
and the fruit of this nightly toil
is the paradox of
a restful, creative, blessing-filled day.
The template I selected
was the elongated body and stuffed arms. The arms seemed a bit chunky but I figure you have to be muscular to tend the night garden:-) I chose a black velvet with a rose pattern - it said to me "I am a night gardener". I tore strips of the selvedge to create her hair. Her black velvet heart is stitched on with a gold running stitch. Her black stuffed arms hold a gold flower - picked from her night garden! |
"Things To Think"
by Robert Bly
For the past 25 days,
I have been invited to be attentive, mindful, aware;
to bless the ordinary events and people and places of my life;
to grow in appreciation and gratitude.
This was balm for a caged heart.
Now, I am being exhorted to be open to possibility,
which has got me out of sorts.
Robert Bly in 'Things I Think'
demands that I engage with the world,
asks me to shatter glass perceptions,
encourages me to unveil the potential in myself,
suggests that I entertain the notion that nothing is ordinary,
and invites me to hold my burdens and expectations lightly.
But perhaps this is the red thread:
the one that connects through time and place.
The possibility of changing the world through blessing.
The possibility of changing my world through imagination.
The possibility of honouring the human being, not the human doing.
The possibility of creating a heart room, not a war room.
For 25 days I have been tended and nurtured and equipped.
I am grateful.
It has prepared me to walk hand-in-hand with possibility
as an intimate soul-companion.
I have been invited to be attentive, mindful, aware;
to bless the ordinary events and people and places of my life;
to grow in appreciation and gratitude.
This was balm for a caged heart.
Now, I am being exhorted to be open to possibility,
which has got me out of sorts.
Robert Bly in 'Things I Think'
demands that I engage with the world,
asks me to shatter glass perceptions,
encourages me to unveil the potential in myself,
suggests that I entertain the notion that nothing is ordinary,
and invites me to hold my burdens and expectations lightly.
But perhaps this is the red thread:
the one that connects through time and place.
The possibility of changing the world through blessing.
The possibility of changing my world through imagination.
The possibility of honouring the human being, not the human doing.
The possibility of creating a heart room, not a war room.
For 25 days I have been tended and nurtured and equipped.
I am grateful.
It has prepared me to walk hand-in-hand with possibility
as an intimate soul-companion.
I took the longest torso
and sewed it without legs.
I added a disconnected,
discombobulated,
group of pieces.
They seem unrelated to each other,
disparate,
but I don't think they are.
Sometimes the parts are greater than the whole,
and sometimes the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
and sewed it without legs.
I added a disconnected,
discombobulated,
group of pieces.
They seem unrelated to each other,
disparate,
but I don't think they are.
Sometimes the parts are greater than the whole,
and sometimes the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
"The Dancing"
by Gerald Stern
Ecstatic moments and experiences
are rare occurrences.
They are not necessarily extra-ordinary -
simply memorable, relevant, personal.
But they can be pivotal in our lives.
When poverty or abuse or violence or depression
subvert or overwhelm us,
memories of the ecstatic moments lift us up,
hold us, companion us, give us hope.
When you have nothing but people
and memory of traditions, culture, story and shared experiences,
then we use those to transform
the ordinary into the extra-ordinary.
Like dance,
when you rock and roll and whirl in a frenzy
and become one with the movement
and with all those who have danced before
and will never dance again.
And laughter,
when tears roll down your cheeks
and your belly hurts
and you can't speak without bursting into laughter again.
And none of it makes sense to any one else.
But it transforms and transports us
in time and space and soul.
are rare occurrences.
They are not necessarily extra-ordinary -
simply memorable, relevant, personal.
But they can be pivotal in our lives.
When poverty or abuse or violence or depression
subvert or overwhelm us,
memories of the ecstatic moments lift us up,
hold us, companion us, give us hope.
When you have nothing but people
and memory of traditions, culture, story and shared experiences,
then we use those to transform
the ordinary into the extra-ordinary.
Like dance,
when you rock and roll and whirl in a frenzy
and become one with the movement
and with all those who have danced before
and will never dance again.
And laughter,
when tears roll down your cheeks
and your belly hurts
and you can't speak without bursting into laughter again.
And none of it makes sense to any one else.
But it transforms and transports us
in time and space and soul.
I made two dolls -
one with a long body and short legs/feet,
and one with a short body and long legs!
They both have wild pink hair
and a heart stitched with pink thread.
They are joined -
united in their dancing and their laughter!
one with a long body and short legs/feet,
and one with a short body and long legs!
They both have wild pink hair
and a heart stitched with pink thread.
They are joined -
united in their dancing and their laughter!
"Shoveling Snow With Buddha"
by Billy Collins
My kind of friend
The Buddha shovels the snow with perfect attention -
and teaches me eloquently about my life's journey.
He demonstrates that the process is the destination -
that with patience and serenity and perseverance
I will overcome any obstacles in my path,
I will reveal what lies within.
He shows me that I must use the right tools -
a 'thin blade' for shoveling snow,
a wise counselor to give comfort in my emotional winter.
He gently encourages me to fully immerse myself in the present -
to get out into world, no matter how unwelcoming,
to participate even when 'the season is wrong'.
He gives me permission to reward myself -
with 'cards' and 'hot chocolate' after shoveling snow,
with thoughts of spring and sun and cherry blossoms,
poetry and art to soothe the grey spirit.
He says that silence is okay -
that within the cacophony there are 'pockets of silence'
which renew and refresh and invigorate.
He reminds me that it is alright to be different -
"me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence',
that it is our difference which fulfills and completes us,
enables and empowers us to become who we are called to be.
I might shovel snow with Buddha again -
he is my kind of friend.
The Buddha shovels the snow with perfect attention -
and teaches me eloquently about my life's journey.
He demonstrates that the process is the destination -
that with patience and serenity and perseverance
I will overcome any obstacles in my path,
I will reveal what lies within.
He shows me that I must use the right tools -
a 'thin blade' for shoveling snow,
a wise counselor to give comfort in my emotional winter.
He gently encourages me to fully immerse myself in the present -
to get out into world, no matter how unwelcoming,
to participate even when 'the season is wrong'.
He gives me permission to reward myself -
with 'cards' and 'hot chocolate' after shoveling snow,
with thoughts of spring and sun and cherry blossoms,
poetry and art to soothe the grey spirit.
He says that silence is okay -
that within the cacophony there are 'pockets of silence'
which renew and refresh and invigorate.
He reminds me that it is alright to be different -
"me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence',
that it is our difference which fulfills and completes us,
enables and empowers us to become who we are called to be.
I might shovel snow with Buddha again -
he is my kind of friend.
I used my original template
and kept it very plain except for the heart with blue stitching.
This torso is inserted into a BIG blue smile
as wide as wide can be:-)
and kept it very plain except for the heart with blue stitching.
This torso is inserted into a BIG blue smile
as wide as wide can be:-)
"The Lake Isle of Innisfree"
by William Butler Yeats
I cried.
It is as if Yeats put a probe into the core of my heart
and wrote these words for what he found there:
a heartfelt desire to "live alone" and "have some peace there".
I cried and cried and cried.
In my deep heart's core,
I know I have been heard.
It is as if Yeats put a probe into the core of my heart
and wrote these words for what he found there:
a heartfelt desire to "live alone" and "have some peace there".
I cried and cried and cried.
In my deep heart's core,
I know I have been heard.
No feet.
No arms.
No hair.
Lightly stuffed.
Just a glimpse into the
deep core of my heart.
A red running stitch outlines my heart.
Discarded red threads burst from
the heart's deep core.
A flap.
Will it slam shut the heart's door
or will it open further
and allow the heart to heal?
No arms.
No hair.
Lightly stuffed.
Just a glimpse into the
deep core of my heart.
A red running stitch outlines my heart.
Discarded red threads burst from
the heart's deep core.
A flap.
Will it slam shut the heart's door
or will it open further
and allow the heart to heal?
"I Come Home Wanting To Touch Everyone"
by Stephen Dunn
I love to touch and to feel
I love to touch my breakfast mug
and feel the warmth of the liquid enliven my spirit.
I love to touch my freshly laundered pillowslip
and feel the night invite me to sleep.
I love to touch the wooden floorboards with my toes
and feel them support me in my home.
I love to touch a fallen rose petal
and feel its silken softness caress my soul.
I love to touch the title page of a new book
and feel the anticipation build up.
I love to touch the worn heirloom pounamu (greenstone)
and feel the love of my mother embrace me.
I love to touch a fine cotton thread
and feel it slide between my fingers on its way to stitch.
I love to touch the sand at Maketu Beach
and feel it drag at my feet as the tide rushes out.
I love to touch the spring pegs in my peg bag
and feel the tension come and go as I hang out the washing.
I love to touch a dandelion seed head
and feel a part of its dispersal.
I love to touch the soft face of a kuia (old woman)
and feel the wisdom of a life lived well.
I love to touch my daughter's head
and feel her eyelashes give me a 'butterfly kiss' on my cheek.
I love to touch and to feel.
I love to touch my breakfast mug
and feel the warmth of the liquid enliven my spirit.
I love to touch my freshly laundered pillowslip
and feel the night invite me to sleep.
I love to touch the wooden floorboards with my toes
and feel them support me in my home.
I love to touch a fallen rose petal
and feel its silken softness caress my soul.
I love to touch the title page of a new book
and feel the anticipation build up.
I love to touch the worn heirloom pounamu (greenstone)
and feel the love of my mother embrace me.
I love to touch a fine cotton thread
and feel it slide between my fingers on its way to stitch.
I love to touch the sand at Maketu Beach
and feel it drag at my feet as the tide rushes out.
I love to touch the spring pegs in my peg bag
and feel the tension come and go as I hang out the washing.
I love to touch a dandelion seed head
and feel a part of its dispersal.
I love to touch the soft face of a kuia (old woman)
and feel the wisdom of a life lived well.
I love to touch my daughter's head
and feel her eyelashes give me a 'butterfly kiss' on my cheek.
I love to touch and to feel.
The short torso again
and I mitered the base so that it would sit flat.
I drew a small hand,
cut out several
and stitched them onto the body with a white running stitch.
There was no need for arms -
the hands are sufficient.
There is a torn heart and torn hair once again.
and I mitered the base so that it would sit flat.
I drew a small hand,
cut out several
and stitched them onto the body with a white running stitch.
There was no need for arms -
the hands are sufficient.
There is a torn heart and torn hair once again.
Excerpt from "Little Gidding" by T.S. Eliot
By now, I had run out of reasonably sized pieces of sheeting.
So I gathered together several bits and strips, and
sewed them together to create fabric large enough to lay out the pattern pieces -
"And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well"
After stitching, I decided not to turn the body.
Instead I washed it vigorously to encourage soft frayed edges,
like a care-worn traveller.
I kept these seams exposed -
a raggedy, bitsy assemblage.
I sewed on a spare hand over the abdomen with a running stitch,
and then created a spiral over this with a red running stitch -
"And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started"
So I gathered together several bits and strips, and
sewed them together to create fabric large enough to lay out the pattern pieces -
"And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well"
After stitching, I decided not to turn the body.
Instead I washed it vigorously to encourage soft frayed edges,
like a care-worn traveller.
I kept these seams exposed -
a raggedy, bitsy assemblage.
I sewed on a spare hand over the abdomen with a running stitch,
and then created a spiral over this with a red running stitch -
"And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started"