Long weekend plans

In an ideal scenario I will be diligent and finish a series of illustrations today and then have the rest of this six-day Easter weekend free for the following:

|  Reading. I started reading Authenticity at physio yesterday while my knees were getting the Sonopuls treatment, and it is so good. I hope Deirdre Madden keeps writing and there will be many more books by her. I remember feeling utterly bereft when I finished my last of Jean Rhys's books, knowing there would be no more, so at least with an author who is still alive there is always hope.
I also got my third Marion Milner book, An Experiment in Leisure, more or less a sequel to A Life of One's Own (I will post part 2 about the latter soon) - she is dead, unfortunately, but there is still a lot by her out there I haven't read yet; she made it to the grand old age of 98.

|  Baking. My mum and sisters are probably making lambs and rabbits (in cake form) as per family tradition. Since the only cake tins I have are rectangluar, whatever I end up making won't look as pretty, but at least I will do something remotely Easter-y. Although instead of egg-heavy creations, I would like to make this Earl Grey chocolate cake again. I am definitely in a tea and chocolate phase.

|  Spring clean. This includes giving my house plants some TLC, particularly dealing with the explosion of aloe vera. I was delighted to see that the peace lily I have in the bathroom is blooming again after three years, and I wonder whether spraying it with misty water from a spray bottle has something to do with it. And the rose I got a few months ago is still going strong.

|  Make it to a beach, perhaps one I haven't been to in a while or a completely new (-to-me) one. I know this would be an antidote to the lethargy I have struggled with all month. With temperatures around two degrees and violent winds, it is not very tempting right now, but I could dress for the weather for a change and brave the elements. And pick sea beet, a new green food discovery, thanks to Hugh.

The small stuff

 

So many times my low mood, whatever its cause, improves drastically when I tackle things I have been transferring from week to week in my diary for so long that re-writing them has become almost automatic. I finally took the first step (no pun intended) to get my knee sorted. This has triggered more to worry about - how am I going to pay for it, and just how wrong has my body been holding itself, unbeknownst to me? -, but at least I have taken action. And of course it could be far worse. The appointment was followed by a well-deserved café break to take refuge from the rain. 

The problem with not running is that my brain manufactures this twisted logic that since I cannot run, I won't endeavour to be healthy and fit in other ways, as there is just no point, which explains all the bready things I have been eating. I think the only reason I am still skinny is that I have so much nervous energy. On Saturday I drove past at least twenty joggers within five minutes, all sent by the universe to mock me, of course. I let this mixed with other worries get me down, until the ridiculousness of it all hit me and I resolved to get back on track with exercise. There is a lot you can do, even with patellofemoral pain syndrome.

Posting a letter always makes me feel accomplished. It sounds pathetic, but I feel so much more together once the letter has slipped through the letterbox. These days I make seals for the envelopes with bits of patterned paper - wallpaper ads in magazines often have little squares like the one above, or I cut them out from other sources. I collect them in a Moleskine pocket memo portfolio, and the collecting and cutting out and matching colours has become a relaxing way to spend a few minutes; I love patterns.

Anything to do with gardening tends to take forever in my world, as if the garden centre were hundreds of miles away instead of ten minutes. Right now I am hoping the extreme rain from last week that made the crocuses sit in a pool of water won't be repeated for a while, so I can figure out a drainage system (I didn't drill holes before putting in the soil).

I have resigned myself to the fact that I am one of those people who easily get overwhelmed by life, including trivial stuff. It's a HSP trait. But the cure to feeling frazzled often lies in doing all the small tasks that make me feel like a functioning human being again. And now I am going to drop off a painting that has been sitting in my car for weeks now...

Surprises

In a week (a month?) full of surprises, two tangible ones: a surprise care package with petals, delivered in person by a surprise visitor, and going to a new page in the gorgeous personalised diary another friend made me to find St. Patrick's Day decorated with pressed shamrocks - somehow I had missed that page when I looked through the book to admire all the quirky illustrations.

And a third one, not pictured: a book delivery arrived surprisingly early - I now have my third Deirdre Madden book, Authenticity, a novel about art and love, apparently ideas-driven like Molly Fox's Birthday. I am thinking of saving Authenticity for Easter, but have a suspicion I might start reading it this evening.

Time, time, time

This picture doesn't quite convey how big this painting is in the context of my small house. I hung it above the table and wonder how long it and I will get on for. Faces in paintings hung in your home inevitably stare at you, which can become unnerving. I understand why some people don't want any portraits in their house.

If I had more money I would buy more art by other people (I have some pieces by other artists, but they were mainly gifts). Sometimes I do worry that it might look self-obsessed or pretentious having my own work on the walls, but then again the space beyond my little studio serves as extended storage for my paintings, and a few of them will at any one time be on the walls. And it is part of the whole process to be surrounded by and able to see your own work: it helps me to stay connected with what I am doing, even subconsciously, and I can figure out what needs changing and where I want to go with a theme or a colour combination.

I usually post here twice a week, but currently it seems a week goes by in what feels like a day (currently? "Time is flying by" is one of the phrases I overuse). My weeks are not even that structured apart from the teaching, but there are so many other markers for the rhythm of weeks and months and seasons that bring into focus how scarily fast they are passing by: the weekend papers, a certain radio show, baths with Epsom salts, changing the water filter. And it seems that for the past three years I have always been waiting for Spring so I could repot my aloe vera plants, for example, and then Spring would come and be over yet again before I could fully embrace it (it's a good thing I love all four seasons). And here we are again.

* Post title: when I think of time, Tom Waits's "Time" invariably plays in my head.

In my stride

 My default state of mind currently seems to be bursting with an enthusiasm that is suppressed by a body that refuses to collaborate. At the moment running is out of the question because my knee is still giving me trouble (though it doesn't hurt when actually running or walking; but it does feel worse afterwards, so it cannot be good), and I am battling a chest infection that sees me in bed most of my free time. I would love to make my bed an island on which to read, write and draw, but it is not happening - I manage to read a few pages before falling asleep.*

My mind, however, is very active in my waking hours, planning and sorting and dreaming and anticipating. Somewhat paradoxically, I am also doing my best to be in the moment, but that can be difficult, especially when what I would like to do in the moment is not possible, though of course I realise that being in the moment entails accepting what is.

Despite the need for a hot water bottle and/or flannel sheet in bed, Spring is on its way. I am certain of this because I want to eat raw vegetables on their own, something that seemed wrong until very recently. I have been using jasmine oil on my face (with jojoba as a base oil) and drink at least a litre of jasmine tea every day, and it puts me in a happy mood. I object to jasmine routinely being described as a "corpse" smell, though I get the sweetness link, but I find the thought a bit disturbing.

* [for Spanish speakers]: I am reading the quirkily brilliant book Artistas insólitos by Daniel Monedero, given to me by my friend Pilar, who recommended and subsequently invited Daniel for our festival - he gave a hilarious presentation on some of the books he has published in collaboration with amazing illustrators. Here is a little animation about Artistas insólitos.

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Thank you for your lovely comments and e-mails over the last few days. I am behind on the e-mail (as usual... Funnily enough I have been procrastinating on ordering this book on procrastination - I like to think that as soon as I own a copy - I have read it -, I will be a procrastinator no longer), but I will reply soon!

An extract from Rab's new book (which I illustrated)

And now for some shameless advertising...

Saint Patrick: How Croagh Patrick got its name

Below is an extract from Galway Bay Folk Tales, the new book written by Rab Swannock Fulton and illustrated by Marina Wild. The book retells the dark and strange myths, folklore and urban legends of Galway and the west of Ireland. The following is an account of Saint Patrick’s fight against pagans on Cruachán Aigli, the hill that would be later known as Croagh Patrick.

           When finally Patrick stepped a foot on the ground before Cruachán Aigli, pagan resistance erupted all around him, before, after, below and above him, with a savage and desperate ferocity. Druids and Immortals cast abominable spells, giants hurled rocks and witches used the subtlest of deceits. Satan and the Sea throw in their lot shrouding the landscape in terrible poisonous vapours. Patrick walked through it all, his love and grief blazing like a fire. 

            In the higher ramparts of Cruachán Aigli pagan scholars and students trembled behind the walls, whilst young guards gripped their weaponry and vowed to fall in the sacred hills defence.  Through fire and mist the figure of Patrick was glimpsed drawing hourly closer.  The terror that assailed him was reflected back a thousand fold on his enemies and spread out north, south, east and west.  

The pagans in the upper reaches now trembled and wept with fear as terrible reports and rumour fell amongst them cold and sharp as winter hail: every assault on the enemy only made him stronger; beyond Galway Bay the beautiful magical horse children of the original defeated Tuatha Dé Danann hurled themselves screaming off the cliffs above the spitting roaring Atlantic; the worlds beyond this were in chaos as Divinities struggled to agree stratagems, some vowing eternal war, others vanishing into dreams, a handful advocated switching sides to Christ, if only to avoid warfare without end. 

Patrick reached the final ramparts, but met no resistance there.  His triumphs had subdued the few pagans that remained behind the stone walls.  Soon Patrick was on the peak of the hill, the connecting point between this world and the realms beyond. Determined to cleanse the site of all traces of foul paganism, he vowed to fast there for forty days.  The enemies of Christ attempted a final assault, but the great black birds that attacked the praying Patrick were pushed back by a glittering host consisting of angels and souls of the Saved. 

Over the days and weeks of his fasting, peace came to Cruachán Aigli and the witnesses who witnessed the old man fasting on the hill top gladly converted to Christ.  The site of the evangelist’s triumph was soon referred to by the new devote name of Croagh Patrick. On the fortieth day Patrick, weak from hunger and thirst, stood up. Leaning on his crook he raised his right arm and began to slowly turn in a circle. His gaze and blessing reached across the entire island and soon nearly all the Irish willing embraced God’s light.

But Patrick’s triumph was not quite complete. As he turned around on the top of Cruachán Aigli he stumbled and so it was that his holy favour did not quite reach all the island’s inhabitants. The unblessed remained resolutely pagan - a malign cancerous presence in the pure Christian body of the Irish.  Was it simply age and battle weariness that caused Patrick to stumble, or had some pagan demon tripped him as a final jest? 

Another possibility is that Patrick himself was to blame. That when he fasted he was not humble enough before God’s power and grace. When the glittery host had saved him from the shrieking birds it was observed that one of the lights had momentarily alighted beside Patrick, placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered. ‘Enough.’ But the triumphant Patrick was determined to finish his fast and in this endeavour become the equal of Moses, Elijah and Christ.   

         The places remaining in the snare of Satan and paganism were said to include Erris in Mayo and Dunquin in Kerry. Of graver consequence was the failure to convert to Christ the three islands separating Galway Bay from the Atlantic.      

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Galway Bay Folk Tales is published by The History Press. 

For details see Galway Bay Folk Tales on Amazon.

For more about Rab, go to his blog. 

with Rab Swannock Fulton

Budding

 

I feel a bit like the elephant in the last picture. I don't know whether my tiredness is the post-counselling kind, a sign that spring is coming or that I cannot tolerate more than one glass of wine in 24 hours.

The weather is telling me I should be at the beach or on a mountain, but my body can only decide between bed and couch. I have been dressing in combinations of winter knits and summer linens (I have had that linen dress for at least twelve years - it is indestructible), and most of my plants are happy and active. Underneath this lethargy I am enthusiastic about new beginnings.