I love to behold beauty in all its forms, especially what the world offers freely… Rose-tinged sunrises, a dragonfly resting on my hand, cats’ eyes at dusk, stones made smooth enough to skip.
But there is something nearly sacred in making: entering that quiet realm where the hands know what the mind cannot utter.
Nothing compares to the birthing of my children, those ultimate acts of making.
Still I take comfort in smaller labors: strands of embroidery floss, skeins of wool, tubes and palettes of paint.
And the ability to shape them into something that lasts– sometimes admired, worn or passed on, carrying the warmth of the hands that made it.
In verdant glades where pine woods dense did rise, Beneath a canopy of emerald hue, There dwelt the pheasants, nye with watchful eyes, Their clucking whispers soft as morning dew.
Among the shadows, hidden from my gaze, Their presence marked by crimson, fleeting bright, Elusive specters in the sun’s faint blaze, They danced like phantoms in the fading light.
A childhood spent in backyard’s wistful play, I lingered near the forest’s secret veil, With heart that yearned for just a special day, When pheasants bold would cross my playful trail.
Though glimpsed but rarely, they forever stay, In dreams and echoes of my long-gone youth, Those pheasants, shy, in twilight’s soft array, A symbol of a time of joy and truth.
Whenever I see an image of a pheasant, I can’t help but smile! It takes me back to the landscape of my youth where I was so happy playing in the woodlands near my home.
In days of yore, in times Victorian fair, By the pond’s edge, with crisp, clear air, We children gathered, hearts aglow, To feed the mallards crumbs in tow.
Their emerald heads, with sheen so bright, Glistened like jewels in morning light. Majestic creatures, in green adorned, A sight to cherish, a scene to mourn.
In summer’s warmth, they swam with grace, Dancing on water, a joyous embrace. Their quacks, a chorus, a playful cheer, Echoed sweetly, ringing near.
But winter came with chilly nights, A frozen pond, no duck took flight. The waters stilled, the mallards caught. In nature’s grasp, their freedom sought.
We’d rush to save them, break the ice, With tender hands, a sacrifice. To free their wings to let them fly, Underneath the frigid sky.
Those emerald heads, with memories tied, To days of laughter, when time would bide. Still call to mind a youth so grand, With mallard ducks, and crumb-filled hand.
I remember a kindly police officer who helped us children free the mallard ducks stuck in the frozen water of the neighborhood pond. It was amazing that the ducks survived!
There, in the twilight’s gentle hold, A vision rare, a sight untold, A jaguar sprang from leafy shade, Its presence fierce, my steps delayed.
With eyes of blue, like summer skies, It met my gaze with wild surprise, A flash of light in twilight’s gloom, A piercing fire, a sapphire bloom.
Upon its coat, the rosettes danced, With markings clear, my heart entranced, Not leopard’s spots, but nature’s art, The jaguar’s strength and mystic heart.
It moved with grace, a specter bright, Through verdant halls of fading light, In silent awe, I stood alone, To witness what the wild had shown.
When I was very young, my knowledge of animals: mammals, birds, fish, reptiles, and amphibians, was limited to identifying them in picture books – mostly associating the name of the creature with the first letter of its name, e.g. “J for Jaguar.” Although I studied them in biology class and watched a number of National Geographic and Nature documentaries over the years, my keen interest in animals came to me only recently. I am completely besotted with them now!
I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
I have become fascinated with birds of prey in the last few months – the variations of hooked beaks and talons are particularly interesting. I will share my paintings once the raptor series is complete.
As a friend to the children commend me the Yak. You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string.
The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Tibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich He will buy you the creature—of else he will not. (I cannot be positive which.)
After Church when I was a child, my father would often take me and my siblings to visit the outdoor zoo in a park near where he grew up. The yaks‘ enclosure was a curiosity – I could never understand the game they played wherein the bigger yak climbed on top of the smaller one, and the smaller one never got a turn to do the same.
In a tapestry of threads once left astray, Lies the beauty of a wreath in shades arrayed. With remnants of wool, a canvas they adorn, A masterpiece born from what others scorned.
Each stitch a story of resilience and grace, From discarded strands, a new life takes place. In every cross and turn, a tale is spun, Of transformation from what was undone.
What once lay idle, now blooms with delight, A wreath of colors, a symphony of light. So, the joy of creating from what’s been cast away, Turning leftovers into art, day by day.
I wanted to stitch a needlepoint project using leftover tapestry wool from past efforts. This wreath was worked using a combination of Appleton, Paternayan (two strands only), and Elizabeth Bradley yarns. I did not have all the color matches for the pattern so I had to create my own colorway. I plan to sew it into a pillow with rose velvet ribbon piping and a black velvet backing.
I really like creating something beautiful from scraps, be it a needlepoint canvas or a quilt. These end up being my favorite pieces!
All big things come from small beginnings. The seed of every habit is a single, tiny decision. But as that decision is repeated, a habit sprouts and grows stronger. Roots entrench themselves and branches grow. The task of breaking a bad habit is like uprooting a powerful oak within us. And the task of building a good habit is like cultivating a delicate flower one day at a time. by James Clear, Atomic Habits
I am happy to report that I have finally finished my last needlepoint project. It took me an entire year to stitch twelve canvases (and that included sewing them into pillows). I had intended to try another self-imposed creative challenge in another medium such as painting versus textiles, but the habit of picking up a needlepoint canvas is so ingrained in me, that I cannot and now do not want to give it up! Thank you, James Clear, for starting me on this creative challenge journey.
