From Fantasy to Reality

 A Tropical Escape is a bit of a fantasy

If you see the wonder of a fairy tale, you can take the future, even if you fail - Abba

Springtime in South Florida is a bit like A FAIRY TALE, 

a temporary yet complete immersion in color. 

Green of course, yellow, orange, purple,

and more than a little pink. 

From Palm Trees to Orchids, 

and from Hibiscus to Bouganvilla, 

it's impossible to resist the magic spell 

these plants cast.

The orchids are quite happy 

just hanging out in the trees, so effortless!

If you hunger for color, it will fill you up.

Fragrance is everywhere, floating in the air.

Look up, look down, look all around.

I can't resist the temptation to capture the mood 

with my paints, who could?

Inspiration goes beyond the flowers and appears everywhere you look. 

. . .  the buildings, the interiors, the clothes.

A favorite example, Inside and Out, is this place, 

we call it The Pink Palace.

The perfect spot for a girls' getaway and lunch by the pool.

But the time does come to pick up your feet, spread your wings, and return to reality, and for me, reality is a Midwest Spring. The one that I have waited for, anticipated, the Spring that means mud, chilly days, tiny green buds, birdsong, and so much promise. The Spring that resides deep in my heart. 

That first golden daffodil is waiting for me there.

Snowdrops and Hope

I brought you an acorn today,

and some snowdrop bulbs.

I carried them from the place where I live 

to this place, a place I've never been before.

Just for you.

. . . from "Pieces of Us"

Snowdrop 

Galanthus

I have always thought the snowdrop was named for its ability to push through the snowy earth in early spring with its pure white "drop" of a blossom. It makes perfect sense, right? Not so!

I have also believed there was one variety of snowdrop, and I now know there are many. 

The word "Snowdrop" may be derived from the German Schneetropfen (snow-drop), the teardrop-shaped pearl earrings popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

ON BECOMING A GALANTHOPHILE

There is a place in the woods of Germany where a plane crashed many years ago. I've been told snowdrops bloom there in March, and I have to wonder who would have planted them in such a remote spot. So when I visited in the autumn three years ago, I took a handful of snowdrop bulbs and planted them under the carpet of leaf mold there. I have not been back, but I wonder every spring since if they grew?

When I returned from that trip, I wanted to commemorate it somehow, in a way that was meaningful to me alone. I decided to have a very small snowdrop tattooed on my wrist. 

Something about this tiny flower has always held a special fascination for me, and when I discovered the connection with my father's story, a WWII Pilot who was shot down over Germany, the symbolism and magic only heightened. I knew I had to paint snowdrops as one of the illustrations for my book.  

Full disclosure . . . 

I have succumbed to the

temptation of Faux snowdrops, 

just to tide me over until the real thing appears in the garden. No apologies for that!

The arrival of a single, first-edition bloom in early February was an event of epic proportions for me last week. With a bit of maternal protective instinct springing to life, something every gardener will understand, I rushed to find a small cloche for protection, offering this one its very own personal conservatory.

I might also be an Anglophile, thanks to my obsession with English gardens. I will forever dream of strolling through a carpet of snowdrops covering a woodland floor, and of traveling to the gardens and nurseries there in February to shop from all the many varieties for my garden. They even have "Open Garden Days" devoted solely to the arrival of snowdrops! Can you just imagine being there and driving from garden to garden, stopping for tea in between and along the way?  But these are only the dreams of a Midwest gardener who doesn't live in England. So I must be satisfied and grateful for the timing and the offerings of my own garden.

Speaking of Magic, I can have any flower, 

even snowdrops, whenever I want with paper and paint.

That's the kind of magic anyone can conjure. Try it!

In the language of flowers, snowdrops have several meanings and are said to symbolize hope, consolation, and new beginnings. They are among the first flowers to bloom in the spring following a long, cold winter. Their ability to push through the snow and bloom despite the harsh conditions is seen as a symbol of resilience and perseverance.

Snowdrops and Hope seem meant for each other.

Brushing Away The Cobwebs

Can a Blog develop cobwebs? No, but if this one could, it surely would have by now. 

It's been a while, a long while, but it's January and there's no better time to start than at the beginning.

I was browsing around the art store this weekend and stopped in front of the pencil display, wondering what colors I might need to add to my collection. I returned home and checked out my store of pencils, and I realized they had been ignored for quite a while. They were in sad disrepair, broken, stubby. 

I decided to sharpen them all and there's nothing better for that job than the old pencil sharpener mounted on the wall in my barn. I wasn't surprised to see the device had cobwebs on it. That was easy to fix.

It does the job far better than the sleek little battery-operated piece on my desk in the house. And it sings a pleasant chewing song as the handle turns, so satisfying. It never runs out of batteries.

I was transported back to my days in primary school, with the big blackboards, the chalk erasers, and the smell of pencil lead. Then I thought of my blog, long neglected like my pencils. Funny how one thing can lead you right down a crooked path to another completely unrelated thing! 

Looking up some illustrated journals from my past, I noticed I had recorded one year of my garden using colored pencils, and some of my trips to Maine as well. Hmm . . . maybe I should try those pencils again.

I lined all the pencils up, looking sharp and ready for duty, and I made some notes on possible additions to the cast of colors. Any excuse to go back to the art supply store. If someone asks me my favorite colors or the colors I use the most, I only need to look at the length of my pencils. The evidence is there.

When the big things start to get you down, turn around and look for the little things. Like colors, sharp pencils, and maybe cobwebs. Then marvel at the way one thing can lead to another, in a good way.

Time 

 . . . . slipping through my fingers, under my feet, and above my head.

 February is here, how can that be? What happened to January?

2022 arrived with the usual promise of a new year, and then it slid away, smoothly, quietly, like the sleds going down the hill and the snowflakes blanketing my garden. I hardly noticed its passing. 

The landscape is still white and sparkling, the surface of the snow sprinkled here and there with animal tracks; rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, and dogs. Winter is ever-present, but it's never long enough or slow enough for me.  When my garden rests, I rest, snug inside with my paints and my books. I pull out forgotten papers, search through boxes of embroidery floss, ribbon scraps, old photographs, and books waiting to be read.

I looked for changes to make in my inside decor, and I noticed the pictures hanging on my walls. I moved some around, took some down, and put new ones up. A particular pair that hangs in my sunroom gave me pause for some serious thought this month, two watercolor paintings that I created three years ago after returning from a trip. It was a trip to another country, you could even say to another realm of consciousness for me. On that trip, I stood in the midst of a small woodland on the very spot where my father died over seventy years ago. I took many photographs of the place, the trees, the sky, the ground. When I returned home I knew I wanted to capture that memory with paint and paper

 I had experienced time folding in on itself that bright autumn day. The unreality of the day my father's plane had soared above those very trees, and the reality of the present-day as I stood with my feet on the ground merged into one. I was standing on earth that still harbored fragments of his airplane.

After many failed attempts to re-create the scene in my usual way, I decided to try something different.  I stopped trying to illustrate the clouds, the leaves, and the branches exactly as they had looked. I began to put paint on paper to express my feelings and the mood of that day, seeing it not with my eyes but with my heart.  

The result was two abstract paintings, the first with the colors of a cold gray day in March, the second with the colors of a warm sunny day in October. I added delicate etchings of silver leaf over the colors of the sky in one painting, and over the colors of the earth in the other. The streaks of silver floated across both paintings like  ghosts of the silver airplanes.

I thought of the two paintings as then and now, and I hung them on my wall in that order. The image of the past above the image of the present. The planes in the sky above, and the planes on the ground below.

And here is the interesting part. Three years later, I looked at those two paintings and thought maybe they could be reversed. I saw something different in that scene I had tried so hard to honor, to put into form with art. The silver on the ground seemed to represent the day I stood in that place, physically connected to the hallowed evidence that was buried below me. The silver in the sky was now my solemn salute, spiritually connected to the memory of the man that will always soar above me.  

Maybe that's a touch of what "abstract" is, and maybe time is abstract. Some things can't be experienced, can't be captured unless we let our minds take us where we've never been before.

Read more of my story 

of loss and discovery in my memoir 

"Pieces of Us."

Available through me, the author, at stonewellgardens@gmail.com, 

and from stonewellgardensart.etsy.com

More Than Flowers

 

I have lived my life in the arms of a garden, near and far, past and present. 

It's a beautiful way to live,  and I'm sharing it in this personal memoir . . . .

A garden is many things, but primarily 

it's a place, a place that is so much 

More Than Flowers

Take a trip with me through the history of

 my house & garden, and meet some of the 

gardens and gardeners who have

 influenced and embellished my life.  

Here are a few snippets from my newest book,  

some reflections and sketches 

from a gardening life.

Your morning glories made me cry . . . .

All those years ago, that one straight, sturdy arm reached out from the oak tree and called to me, "Here I can hold a swing....."

The story goes that over a hundred years ago, several members of the original family living in this house contacted typhoid fever from the well......

Book is available right now in my Etsy shop,

@ stonewellgardensart.etsy.com

                           Dreamy Daffodils

Six months ago I opened a bag of "assorted" bulbs and set about digging holes. I blessed each bulb as I settled it into place, and cursed each squirrel that sat nearby twitching his tail in anticipation of a snack. 

I knew that the dry brown orbs were in disguise, wearing jackets of dull, brown paper. I knew that inside each one a thing of beauty was waiting, ready to emerge from a winter nap with all the glory of the sun itself.  

I didn't know then how many different hues of yellow, gold, pink, and cream were on the horizon, or how many sizes and shapes were in store for me. Best of all, I had no idea how wonderful they would smell.

April has arrived, and the happy trumpets are here.

                   Snowdrop Dreaming

As one year ends and another begins, I search for a symbol, and the tiny snowdrop is my choice.. In some parts of the world, the slim green leaves are already making their way through the soil, searching for the light.  Here in the cold of a January Midwest winter, I can only dream of them, tucked into the soil, a few inches beneath the surface, waiting.      

                                   

A  Reality Check

As I read about others beginning to finding snowdrops, I couldn’t resist a little stroll into places in my own garden that had been unvisited for months.  When I knelt down and gently pulled the tattered leaves away from a spot where I remembered planting bulbs last fall, I found no sweet green shoots. Instead, I discovered tiny dried bulbs scattered on top of the frozen soil and unmistakable evidence of marauding squirrels and chipmunks. Devious little diggers all! With a heavy heart, I replaced the fragile blanket of leafy protection and cheered myself with the thought that surely some of the bulbs must have survived. 

It really is too early for me to find snowdrops I suppose, but some deep urging sent me in search of them anyway. So, I will continue to wait.

Waiting is a word I found myself hearing and using a lot this past year. Waiting is what gardeners learn to do. I know that when I finally walk back into the world waiting outside my door in spring, seeds and garden tools in hand, I will be greeted with something new and wonderful again. 

This is a favorite illustration from Sara Midda's book,

In and Out of The Garden

Just as the poppy became a memorial to the casualties of the First World War, so the snowdrops were seen as a symbol of consolation in the midst of another war, 60 years previous, by the British troops fighting in the Crimea. Following the freezing winter of 1855, the soldiers welcomed the flowers with delight, and The Times correspondent William Russell reported," The soil, wherever a flower has the chance of springing up, pours forth a multitude of snowdrops..."

The persistent power of a humble wildflower, refusing to be interrupted, or even displaced, by the brutal power of war, is a concept rich with the symbolism of good over evil. The healing powers of beauty and nature are always stronger than the human hands of destruction. An idea not to be forgotten.

So many years have gone by, each one with its own cold, dark winter. Yet spring has come to every one of them. It will continue to come, announced delicately and quietly by snowdrops the world over, the ones deep in a German forest, and the ones just outside my kitchen window. 

                                    - from Pieces of Us

From Pen to Paper

Until the missing story of ourselves is told, nothing besides "told" can suffice us.  We shall go on quietly craving it.   - L. Riding

     There are choices to make when writing those stories, and as a writer, I cannot deny the speed and efficiency of working on my laptop. But there are times when I crave the feeling of a pen in my hand, and I have recently re-discovered the delights of writing with my own, almost forgotten, fountain pen. From pen to paper, the flow of the ink, the texture of the paper beneath my hand, this connects me to the words with an intimacy that a keyboard lacks. 

 

     A few favorite quotes and illustrations, clipped from the pages of "Pieces of Us," my recent memoir. . . . I decided to turn some of them into notecards, my words on the outside, the inside left blank for someone else's.

     As I worked on my recent book, a beautiful green fountain pen sat on my desk. Like a silent muse, it was with me as the words flowed onto the paper. The pen belonged to my father, one small piece of the inventory returned to my mother following his death in WW II, 75 years ago. The nib is rusted, and it's no longer able to write, but it retains a tangible power to remind me of the many letters that he wrote with it.  

     The navigator and single survivor on my father's B-24 crew, wrote these words to me in his letter twenty years ago, speaking about my father . . . 

      "When others of his crew went out for a good time, he would smile and decline.  Instead, he would settle in with his pipe and write letters home."

  
       There's a personal relationship that develops between a fountain pen and its user. The pen needs to be fed and pampered, stored in a safe spot when not in use, checked for ink supply, and most importantly, it needs to be used. And as it is used, the nib of the pen adapts to the writer, to the speed, the cadence, and the pressure from the hand. 

     When I visited the home of Emily Dickenson a few years ago, I was struck by the simplicity of the space where she wrote her poetry. Her writing desk was a small wooden table in her bedroom. Emily wrote many of her poems on small scraps of found paper.

     Watching the recent "Little Women"  movie was a revelation and reminder to me of the difficult process of writing and publishing a novel that authors, especially women, endured in the past. I especially loved the sound effect of the scratching noise of Jo's pen on paper, and her ink-stained fingers.  From dipping the nib into the ink well over and over, to spreading pages over her attic floor to organize the chapters, I marveled at the work, the dedication, the frustration! 

      It's good to be reminded by those writers and poets of the past. The tools may have changed, but writing will always include work, dedication and of course frustration.

















     My father's pen remains a personal, tactile connection to him. In that spirit, I like to think of my own fountain pen as a connection to other writers everywhere.

     Write your heart out, and make your mark!

First Steps

"Taking  the first step requires a bit of courage, but staying on the path will surely require a lot of grace."



   I love words. I love them as a book, I love then as a letter or personal note, I love them as poetry, and I especially love them as 
a "Quote."

    Heres one to start me off on the new year, I'm back to this beleaguered and bygone place that I have ignored for over a year, my blog.


    I'm not going to call this a resolution, just a restart, fueled by a new attitude about the space I call my blog. Over the years I have come here to play, to learn, and to share.  I have put too much effort and laid down too many expectations in this space, then sat back and waited for something to happen.

What? Recognition, connection, appreciation? It didn't exactly happen that way, and that is the way of most expectations, isn't it? 


    I'm a bit of an introvert, and like many introverts, putting my thoughts into words on paper is much easier than saying them aloud. Knowing that about myself, that and the new attitude I want to carry with me on this path, I'm off, asking for grace along the way.

     About that sharing, I think that may be the most motivating force for me to start again.  As I exercise my writing and my art, this can be a place for me to put it out there for others. Or.....it might just be the place to record my efforts for myself. On a practical note, this is certainly a way to take on the challenges of social media by a senior citizen.

     If anyone is reading this, thank you for taking the time. I would love to receive comments, followers.  If no one ever sees it, well, that's OK as well. 

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Visit my online Shop - stonewellgardensart.etsy.com

Markets & Merriment

It's that time again, the height of the season, and the" Maker's Markets" are popping up everywhere.


Here's to creative women, then and now.

The terminology has changed, but the heart of the matter is the same. We have "Markets" now, and we call ourselves "Makers." We have social media that spreads information farther and faster than the generation before us could imagine. I was a part of that past generation, and I'm still hanging on, a part of the present and current order.

There was no Pinterest or Instagram, but I always found inspiration. All year long I stacked up copies of McCall's Needlework & Crafts, Family Circle, and even Crafts Magazine, where I worked as an editor for a few years. There were some local "craft stores",  but the fabric stores and the local "Variety" stores were treasure troves of supplies.

We called our events bazaars, craft shows, festivals, and open house. We literally opened our own homes, after moving all of the furniture out of several rooms, and set up our wares on folding tables.



We smocked and we sewed and we quilted, oh the things we could sew and stuff. I especially remember the little, pinched faces of the dolls created with stuffing and pantyhose! We knitted, crocheted and embroidered. We painted, we carved and we cooked. Salt-dough ornaments were all the rage!

 We found the time in the afternoon when the kids were in school and the babies were napping. We found time after the rest of the family was tucked in for the night, when we would retreat to our dining room tables or our basement laundry rooms, and create until we couldn't keep our eyes open.

There was no end to our creativity and no stopping us, and somehow we also managed (most of the time) to love and feed our families, actually sitting down nearly every night together at the dinner table, clean our houses, volunteer at our schools and churches, and have fun.




We didn't have social media, but we had social networks just the same, and the word went out via posters, put up in the neighborhood grocery store, flyers passed out, blurbs in the School and Church newsletters, ads and feature stories in the local and community newspapers.

The once a year bazaar at Calvin Coolidge school was the pinnacle of all local events. After setting up our booths on Friday night in the gym, with the help of grumbling husbands, dads and available children, we proceeded to sell our wares all day Saturday. The PTA sold sloppy joes, chili, and hot dogs on the stage, and our toddlers ran around the school with a freedom they didn't usually have!


At the end of the day, we loaded up what was left and went home to count our money. On Sunday morning we went to church, thankful that we now could pay off our Christmas layaways. When the holidays were over, we started all over again.

I have arrived with a different focus today, and I find that painting and writing are the avenues of creativity I prefer to travel. It's been a wonderful journey all along the way, shared with many friends and fellow creatives. The journey continues . . . .