Small world

 Café dog

I finished Staring at Lakes recently, and it was a strange experience reading a book that mentions so many places I have been to, like Jampa Ling, the Buddhist retreat, and Galway restaurants. People I have met and people I know are in this book (including a reference to a street performer who is my friend and colleague).

Coming from a country with a population of over 80 million it still sometimes startles me how small Ireland is. Everything and everyone is connected and interwoven.

I was reminded of this when Nelson Mandela died and someone sent me this video of him dancing with the former president of the University I work at (who always chats to me when I bump into him, as he does with everyone) when Mandela received his honorary degree.

The man who is now President of Ireland opened a couple of group exhibitions I was in years ago and said nice things about my drawings. As Matt would say (putting on an indignant German accent), "This would never happen in Germany".

There are times this small-community feeling can feel a bit too constrictive and I crave the anonymity of a big city. Matt, who has spent most of his life in cities, always makes sure he never gets to know his neighbours, and there have been occasions I wished the people in my vicinity didn't know all my business. But two of my neighbours are also friends, and it makes me feel more at home.

I am guilty of ducking into shops or avoiding an aisle in the supermarket when I cannot be bothered to engage in small talk with someone I only know superficially (the Irish 'gift of the gab' eludes me - I am too much of an introvert and awkward and never know how to end a conversation smoothly, leading to overwhelm at the checkout as I am acutely aware of the person queueing behind me while I try to to respond to the witty banter of the checkout guy - and fail miserably).

But then there are so many positives. Recently at one of our events there were several of my favourite people in one room along with acquaintances whom I might not know intimately but whose company I enjoy (and in a parallel life we would all be one big family!). Walking down the street you get swept into impromptu tea-drinking because there will always be a familiar face somewhere. I like that spontaneity and leisurely pace; it is evocative of an era before mobile phones (though I do prefer when people announce their visit rather than just turn up at my door...).

Visiting the kitten, poetry and a beautiful memoir

Juxtaposing completely unrelated things, as I am wont to do here on occasion: 

|  Branwell is growing so fast, or at least it seems like that to me, as I only see him every two weeks or so. He is at the stage where the shape of his head is trying to keep up with the growth of his features, and he has the cutest long nose. He is more like a dog in character, following you around in outbursts of enthusiasm, not afraid of water and generally a loyal, attention-seeking companion.

|  The third Skylight 47 issue is out, and I am delighted to have one of my paintings in it. If you like poetry (I certainly do), you will love Skylight 47.

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I am also reading Staring at Lakes by the Irish Times columnist Michael Harding, which ended up being kindly lent to me via serendipitous circumstances. This is a memoir filled with beautifully rendered insights into depression and anxiety, middle age, love, Ireland and the human spirit, told with warmth and often self-deprecating humour. I am neither male nor middle-aged, but it feels so right to be reading this at the moment (and it is another example of Gretchen Rubin's observation that we often learn more from "one person's highly idiosyncratic experiences" than from more general, universally applicable offerings, even if we have little in common on the outside.)

My Laughing Buddha

I got the idea to have a Laughing Buddha in my house from a book by the late Susan Jeffers (I only found out recently that she died in 2012...) - I love her work. She had such a positive outlook, and her writing is so humane and warm and joyous.

While I was aware that Buddha figurines come with different facial expressions, I had never stopped to consider the meaning of the Laughing Buddha. I light the tealight in my serenely-smiling-Buddha-tealight-holder on a daily basis and love the sense of peace. Now there is a second, tiny, fat Buddha on my desk (moved to the windowsill occasionally), and he is laughing so hard that more than half is face is mouth. [I bought him from a soft-spoken man in a Christmas jumper in an angel shop that Matt the scientist bravely entered with me but had to leave after a few minutes of New Age Overwhelm.]

Jeffers had several Laughing Buddhas in her home and garden, and they acted as reminders to "Enjoy the feast", as she calls it (embrace the blessings of this world), to not worry about the future, to not take life so seriously. 

We were in a garden centre at the weekend, and I was tempted to get one of these guys for outside (or possibly inside - I may have temporarily overestimated the size of my rooms):

Jeffers said her outdoor Buddha never ceased to amaze her, laughing in the rain, in the baking sun - even if a tree fell on him, he would be laughing. "He represents the part of us that is in tune with the Grand Design. He doesn't try to control the chaos.[...] He stays open to a constant flow of 'joyous survival' versus 'turbulent survival'" (p. 194, Embracing Uncertainty, Hodder Mobius, London 2003). I had to think of that when my Buddha sat on the windowsill looking out at the craziness of the storm outside... and laughing.

It is such a small thing (literally, with my Buddha), but it makes a huge difference. There are written reminders and mantras all over my house, and words are powerful, but so are visuals, and the big laughing mouth instantly activates the part of me that may need reminding to lighten up.

Matt got me a maneki-neko with a solar-powered beckoning arm which fulfills a similar purpose - it certainly makes me smile every time I see it!

Warm glow among the greys

 Crows and pale pink light

 Horses in blankets

Artwork for festival brochure/poster on the theme of  Laugh | Nourish | Love

Since returning after Christmas I have only managed one walk in my neighbourhood. I have barely been at home, as it is the lead-up to the annual arts festival we organise. I was delighted to be asked to provide the artwork again this year. (In the photo the colours didn't come out properly, and for the posters and brochures our talented graphic designer gave it all an even warmer glow.)

The theme is a nice antidote to the grey skies and raging storms and short days. But it was exhilarating to go walking in the unpredictable weather, passing horses in blankets and startling a murder of crows, with the sky a thick sheet of clouds that occasionally tore open to reveal the light behind.

This morning I finally tackled the one plant trough that had no drainage holes, where the bulbs had been sitting waterlogged. Between a corkscrew and a pair of scissors (do not attempt this at home - I had no other tools) I managed to bore two holes. Now I can step outside my house without a nagging reminder of things left undone greeting me.

There is a new soap in the shower, the laundry is done, and a semblance of order emerging (let's not go into the corridors of my brain). I am looking forward to a weekend of calm and nourishment - papers,  brunches, cleansing salt scrubs (thank you, Elly!) and good company.

Jasmine and mint

Sunny morning, condensation on the window, mint and cologne

Someone very dear to me whom I have known most of my life gave me money with instructions to buy 'something luxurious', so I got the cologne pictured - because I love jasmine and it is an antidepressant and I want to smell it all the time. I used the essential oil on my wrists before, but the scent doesn't last very long.

This fragrance, together with this eye cream I have in my fridge, is my - material - motivator for the start of the year. I know a new scent and better moisture levels around my eyes won't make me a new person, but an outward change does help to get me out of a rut. And both involve rituals that are part of my morning routine, which sets the tone for the rest of the day (I am with Gretchen Rubin on the impact of making your bed).

As always I have returned from Christmas at home with a head full of ideas and renewed enthusiasm (travelling and being away rewires my brain), and as always I see it all disintegrate or take a back seat now that I am settling back in again. But I know it's there and I can access it. And the jasmine-mint cloud I spray on and the ice-cold eye cream remind me.

Quiet dark days with bursts of sunlight and colour

It seems to have become a recurring theme here for me to announce that I am sick again and that it must be my body telling me to slow down, that I need to deal with certain issues instead of waiting for their manifestation in illness. Thankfully it has never been anything serious - the worst would have been kidney infections.

So here I am transitioning into the new year with a bad dose of sinusitis. My running gear has been sitting in the wardrobe waiting for the day I am able to hit the beautiful country roads and forest paths here. I was going to add 'patiently' to 'waiting', but Stephen King has succeeded in making me think twice before I go near an adverb. This is always among the top ten writing tips, but I tend to forget. I am reading books I gave to family members a few years ago and liked the sound of, one of them King's On Writing. Maria Popova from Brain Pickings did a post on his thoughts on 'creative sleep'.

The new issue of Happinez magazine is out (it's a Dutch magazine, but there is a German version, too) and inspiring as always. I love watching Eckhart Tolle on youtube, and his column in Happinez often serves as a timely reminder of something I might have let slip: accepting what is, for example. I will do my best in 2014.

The brevity of daylight gets to me some days, but candles help (including real candles on our tree as per tradition), and there is something nice and restful about the darkness. We have been going out for short walks in the evening, not knowing what we are stepping on and into.

Instead of bemoaning the lack of exercise and my throbbing head and aching jaw, I can see this time for the bed of roses it is: Reading for hours, being surrounded by family and cats and cosy with a fire lit, well-fed, painting, playing Tori Amos piano music... And today I received a heartwarming e-mail from a relatively new friend who feels like an old friend - one of those friendships where a closeness and connection seems to precede the first actual meeting.

~Happy New Year to everyone reading! May 2014 be filled with light and beauty!~

P.S.

 Made things (the gorgeous crochet hook made from sustainably harvested birch was a gift from my sister)

 "What would she draw tomorrow? A loaf. Roses. More fruit." 

(Madden, Deirdre, Nothing is Black, faber and faber, London 2013, p.151)

There was more about things and in particular artworks-as-things at the end of the book (I loved the ending), and some beautiful paragraphs about life in general, which I won't give away here.

On painting:

"'There are days when what I like most about painting is that you're making something solid at the end of it, and there are other days when I hate it, for that very reason.' [...] 'You work and you work and then you're left with all these things and you don't know what to do with them. It must be great to be a musician creating nothing more tangible than sound.'"

"'But what I love about [painting] too is just that: the energy of things [She goes on to talk about a Vermeer painting and its meaning "beyond words, beyond time"] To take things and make something charged with that sort of knowledge and energy. It's worth devoting your life to that.'" (ibid., pp. 139f.)

"'Painting's a bit like life [...] There's no point in just sitting there thinking about it. You have to get the paint on to the canvas. You may not like what you end up with; it may fall short of what you had thought or hoped it would be - in fact, it usually does. But at least there's something there; at least it's real.'" (pp.141f.)

I brought my paints with me to my mum's house (there are some here, too, but I need certain colours I might not be able to get here) and will start work on two commissions while I am here, with these words, especially the last few lines above, in my head.

~ Happy Christmas to everyone reading this, and thank you for visiting despite my haphazard posting schedule in the past year! ~