songs of light

a handful of blossom

Spring has sprung in earnest in my neck of the woods. The kereru (wood pigeon) are busy eating the flowers off the blossom trees and the paddocks are full of lambs.

There are very few animals more joyful than a lamb. I always see them jumping into the air with their friends at dusk. So cute!

This little lamb had just been born. He still had a bit of blood on him, bless his heart.

On my walk to visit the lambs I met a little flock of hens. This one was very curious as to what I was up to.

This is my baby. He (she?) decided to take up residence under my deck when he was so small I could hold him in one hand - not that he'd let me, sadly. Every morning he comes out onto the lawn at dawn and hops and leaps with pure joy. My favourite thing is when he washes his face. It just completely slays me to see him washing his little face with his paws.

Don't you love his little cotton tail? Sometimes in the evenings he sits and watches Dean and I watch TV for ages. Maybe for him the roles are reversed. Maybe he thinks I am a strange animal who is curious to watch and who does funny things. He would be right.

P.S. A tragedy has befallen my camera. My trusty lens has decided to give up on life. This means I have only one working lens which is a large zoom lens, good only for well  . . . zooming really. Not sure how long till this situation is sorted, but I'm guessing pretty long given the price of these things. So forgive me if from now on you only see landscapes and close ups of birds and bunnies. (Mind you, come to think of it, that's the sort of nonsense I usually bore you with so you might not notice any difference!)

 

 

 

the glorious Sarah . . .

 

the lesson

I told her that words

have poems in their bones

and she understood

and then went off to make poems

with nothing but light

wordless and thoughtless and

exquisitely precise

she is a poet

she is a wise woman child

she is a magnificent daughter of god

When I think of the great New Zealand writers I think of Katherine Mansfield, Janet Frame and Sarah Elwell. High praise I know, but no other writer weaves words into such tangible magic the way Sarah does. I feel so blessed to know her. There have been a few things I always wondered about, and Sarah was kind enough to give me a glimpse into her beautiful world.

1. How does a story arrive into your life? Do you hear the characters begin to talk in your mind, or does something you see or remember inspire you to begin? Have you ever felt  you were born with a particular story inside you?

I believe everything is story. Breezes, smiles, raindrops, molecules ... I don't mean that things have their own story, but that they are story in themselves. And for some reason, I perceive those stories. I guess it's just the way my brain operates. This is why I can be emotionally overwhelmed by the smallest thing, like light against a lemonwood hedge. The weight of its story transfixes me. 

Sometimes certain stories will be particularly compelling, for all kinds of reasons, and these are what end up on my page. But never as actual narrative. Rather, it's a feeling or an image which inspires a broader telling. Plot and character, sentences and other tedious matters of structure, are then hammered into the story until it takes a more conventional appearance - a poem, a short tale, a novel. 

So you can see that I wasn't born with a particular story in me - rather, I was born with a brain which perceives all the stories. This is probably why people find me inconsistent, why I have trouble creating a personal brand, and why my works are quite different from each other. It's also why I've found it so hard over the years to focus on any one particular project: so many stories to tell! I am getting more disciplined with age. 

2. I am riveted by the idea of synaesthesia. I probably love this concept of letters having colours because I think of every letter in the alphabet as being beautiful shape wise on their own. I used to sometimes hold books up to my eye so I could fall into the beauty of their outlines, like a secret work of art. Do you think your synaesthesia helps you to form deeper, more unusual sentences, or is it more of a frustration? How old were you when you realised you saw letters, indeed the world, differently?

I've always had a lovely time playing with my synaesthesia, but it wasn't until I was about thirty that I encountered the actual term. I assumed everyone perceived letters, numbers, concrete items, in the same way. It's almost inconceivable to me that people actually don't. My daughter has synaesthesia also (it tends to be hereditary) so for us it is just a fancy word for ordinary. 

Sometimes the synaesthesia helps when I'm writing down a poem, especially if the story wanting to be told has an inherent colour. For example, I will try to use brown words for a brown story. This can lead to unusual word choices which hopefully work. But it causes me problems with novel writing because a longer work comprises several different stories, images, moods, and I don't like the mash of colour. I also have to fight my synaesthetic sensibilities when it comes to editing. Colour and shape seldom care about proper grammar! I also tend to use "and" too much because it is a sweet and trustworthy word which creates a river of colour and sound in my head, whereas commas are bitter and have teeth. 

I know what you mean about the art of text. Some fonts make my bones ache with their beauty and dignity and indeed their story; others make me feel literally sick. Comic Sans, for example, upsets my stomach. 

3. The land often seems to be a character in your stories, more a participator in the narrative than a backdrop to events. How does the landscape inform your work? Do you think living at the bottom of the world, amongst wild places, makes people more likely to tap into their creativity?

Thank you, I am so glad you said this. I have a deep attachment to nature (although more in the way of spirit than actual gardening or walking in dirty, mosquito-plagued places) and its inevitable that this infuses my writing. It is especially important in my current novel, and perhaps even more so in the next after that.  

I don't know about other creative people in New Zealand, I can only speak for myself when I say that growing up in a forest which was once beneath the ocean absolutely did something to me. I remember it happening, like a beautiful infection which came upon me and changed the way I saw the world. 

Perhaps we must thank the Maori for nurturing the close relationship between land and people, from which we have all benefited. But I'm sure people in Alaska or Scotland or the mountains of Pakistan have the same degree of relationship with their landscape. I guess when it comes to drawing inspiration from the wild places, it's partly a matter of cultural acceptance. Here in New Zealand, we have a culture of being on the land, of going bush to find ourselves, and of playing outdoors. So we love our poetry of bone and sea and stone, because it means something real to us - it speaks of what we have in our hands and under our feet all the time. 

But having said that, there really is something special about this land's rawness and self-possession. Laying my hand on the dark, damp earth here, I can feel its pulse. And at the same time, looking out my window, I can hear the pain of this valley which was raped of its forest, scalped, and stabbed with concrete houses. New Zealand has not yet surrendered quietly to humans. 

4. Most artists feel a little like outsiders. When did you first know you were different, meaning you saw things differently, felt things deeper than most people around you? Is this when you realised you were a writer/artist? Did you always know?

I was an adult before I realised just how differently I saw things from other people. Perhaps this is because, when growing up, I read so much, and the authors I loved were all strange like I was! I felt like an outsider for other reasons. As for realising I was a writer, that also was an adult thing. I read and lived and dreamed stories, so writing them seemed a natural part of that relationship, rather than me being "a writer".  

5. As well as being a writer and poet, you take wonderful photos. What does photography bring you that perhaps your other disciplines don't, or at least don't in the same way?

You are too kind, thank you. I feel photography is the same as writing. It's about translating the stories into a form other people can see. 

Isn't she beautiful? You can visit her lovely blog here.

Thank you so much Sarah for sharing all this beauty with us.

P.S (For some silly reason typepad is not allowing me to put spaces in between lines. It's all perfectly separated in the first format, but as soon as I hit publish it jumbles it all together. Marvelous.)

 

things to remember

"If you hear a voice within you saying, 'You are not a painter,' then by all means paint...and that voice will be silenced." 

— Vincent Van Gogh

 

"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the aproximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all... The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours."

-Ayn Rand

 

"I don't have to be perfect. All I have to do is show up and enjoy the messy, imperfect, and beautiful journey of my life."

- Kerry Washington

 

"If you live the questions, life will move you into the answers."

-Deepak Chopra

 

"Freedom is not given to us by anyone; we have to cultivate it ourselves. It is a daily practice... No one can prevent you from being aware of each step you take or each breath in and breath out." 

- Thich Nhat Hanh

* Journal found here.

This afternoon while watering I came across this beautiful girl, lying still and lifeless on the pavers. I picked her up and walked into the sun, hoping there was a faint heart beat, the possibility of life.

She's a little yellow hammer, so tiny and soft. For years I wondered what it would be like to hold one, what their feathers felt like. This is not how I wanted to find out, but it was lovely to hold her, to look at her beautiful feathers, eyelids and wings.

Right now she's lying in state in a little box in my art room. It will be cold over night and I couldn't leave her out in the frost.

Tomorrow I will have to dig a little hole, and think of a few words to say, that equal her beauty.

P.S Sorry to have been away so long. My mummy had an aneurysm in her brain that needed surgery, so I've been spending all my time with her.

 

this hour, this day

On a bad day the quote by Mary McCarthy on the tag in this photo bothers me. "We are the hero of our own story." Today, I am ashamed to say, I don't want that to be true because I am not reliably heroic. No I am often feeble, shy, procrastinating, stale and uninspired. Shouldn't someone be sent to save you on days like this? Must you rely upon yourself always? That seems unwise.

I spend so much of my time alone now, that I cannot count on anyone to cheer me up in person. But what I do have is the written word. What I do have is Mary Oliver. And where there is Mary, there is always hope that the tide will turn, that you will suddenly fall out of apathy and into life again.

        Some Questions You Might Ask

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Who has it, and who doesn’t?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly.
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why should I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Why should I have it, and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about the grass?

So you see, everything will be alright.

P.S Afternoon, and the rain has started again. Just now, sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, lyrics from a Regina Spektor song popped into my head. "I'm the hero of this story, I don't need to be saved." And then my feeling of oppression rose above me like mist. Isn't it odd how one tiny moment can help you transcend yourself? My whole life words have saved me.

 

knitting the wind

The loveliest thing has happened. Sarah, whose writing makes me gasp daily, has interviewed me over at her beautiful blog knitting the wind. Even if you are tired of listening to me waffling on about art and life (and fair enough too) do yourself a favour and read some of Sarah's beautiful posts. Her writing is luminous. Thank you Sarah x x 

enchanted

Yesterday Dean and I went for a long walk along the coast. We started out walking by the sea, but on the way home we took the enchanted forest path.

The light fell thickly through the dense foliage, highlighting one 'ordinary' thing after another. I was struck by how beautiful even decay and brokenness can be.

There were so many magical spots full of deep spongy mosses. I could feel the fairies close by.

All of this light and wonder made me feel like Sarah's words do - "As if a falling leaf is not a letter from heaven, written just for you. And clouds don't actually make shapes just so you can see them and know you are loved, watched, kissed, adored. And fairies don't really live on the verge of shadows. As if breathing is not ecstasy."

And then I came upon a blossom tree. . .

How it blooms amongst the dark I do not know. 

How we bloom amongst the dark I do not know.

But we do.

inspiration

"This morning, I awoke to clear skies and grass still wet with rain.  I found myself longing for a bit of communion with nature so I flopped down on the ground, pressed my back into the green and stretched out my arms, palms up, with the sky full in my face and my wet, rumpled hair draped around me like a halo that needed drying in the sunshine.  I shut my eyes and took in the world, sense by sense, I felt myself lifting and sinking to the feelings, sounds and scents around me.  I lay there like that, hearing the bird song, the wind in the tree fingers and feeling the heat of the sun pushing though my eyelids.  I was a part of everything.  When I opened my eyes and propped myself up on my elbows the hill behind the pasture was wriggling with the tawny gold of deer, a young buck in velvet was thinking about pillaging my garden and two hummingbirds were doing battle with each other above the flower garden.  Everything kept on, as it was, as though I was a wild thing too.  And I suppose I am."

This quote is from the blog the noisy plume. Jillian writes in a way that makes me remember that life is a glorious, deep, tactile experience if I will just open my heart up wide every morning. Her words give me that feeling of joy you had as a child when you woke up and looked out the window into the new day and knew anything was possible. Such a priceless feeling.

P.S There's a new T-shirt in the poetry + cloth shop.

 

light

"Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."

~Leonard Cohen

the others

I have always had an affinity with hermits. When I was a little girl I envied old ladies because the day was their own. If they so wished they could stay home and talk to no one. There wasn't a soul in the world who could tell them what to do. That was my idea of heaven; a continuous option to not leave the house. I found the world to be quite terrifying and people overwhelmed me constantly. Recently my sister pointed me in the direction of a blog called Momastery just so I would read this one paragraph -

"Some of us are born with an otherness that we feel right away . . . awareness of our otherness is often our first memory. We have this feeling that maybe we were dropped off in the wrong place, because nothing seems familiar. The people in this strange and harsh and confusing world require us to play role after exhausting role. We are afraid of things that don’t seem to scare other people. Friendship, love, commitment . . . these things seem so big, so important, so murky and confusing and dangerous…how could we dare enter into them? We decide it would be safer not to. We see that other people seem comfortable taking these risks, but we feel different. We feel more aware, and less capable. We rationalize that maybe others take all of these risks because they don’t foresee the pitfalls that we see. We decide, subconsciously or not, that we are different. And we are so full of this knowledge of our difference that we must find a way to relieve our fullness. We are like volcanoes with no exit for our hot lava."

The othernessI understand. I used to call it skinlessness, because it seemed that everything touched me. I had no barriers against the world. In some ways as I get older this gets worse. I can hardly watch the news. So many things make me cry. But suddenly after a life of hermitish feelings, I realised something odd. I love people. What? I KNOW! Being at home for the last four months has taught me this. I loved being alone for maybe two months. Oh yes, that was pure bliss. But now? Now I find myself looking for my people.

What I always dream of is this. A creative community. And I don't know why but when I imagine them they are always women. Many of them are older, and they are always laughing. Some of them wear eccentric outfits which is great because that gives you permission to turn up wearing your tie dyed petticoat and bird leggings. They seem to garden a lot and talk about life deeply, but not seriously, because they have learned very few things in life are truly serious. I do not know where to find these people and that troubles me. I want to be an artist forever, I want to create forever, but suddenly and surprisingly I no longer feel I can do it alone.

"Admit it. You aren’t like them. You’re not even close. You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the ‘normal people’ as they go about their automatic existences. For every time you say club passwords like ‘Have a nice day’ and ‘Weather’s awful today, eh?’ you yearn inside to say forbidden things like ‘Tell me something that makes you cry’ or ‘What do you think deja vu is for?’ Face it, you even want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking the same thing? Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on conversation with a stranger? Everybody carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected. Find the others.” - Timothy Leary

So, if you have a creative community, please do tell me where you found them. I am most anxious to find the others.

P.S If you managed to read to the end of this post congratualtions and apologies! I think it's the longest one I've ever written!