Stories I Can Tell

Emerging From The Darkness

2011-10-19T10:22:00.000-07:00

Reaching For The Moon Retablo available in my Etsy Store

The line art above is reminiscent of my childhood... the darkness and nightmares forever closing in... love seemingly out of reach... yet, I continued to yearn, continued to dream that someday I would hold it in my hands... that I could indeed reach even the moon if I tried hard enough...

This retablo is the hope that everyone will reach the moon, that no one should be haunted like the verses below -

In the hollow of my soul
lies a child forever haunted

Just beyond her reach,
the peace she always wanted

The glimmer of its hope
fading like the moon

The sweetness of its harmony
a mere echo of a tune

That swelled when angels left her
to harden into clay

Then faded into nothing
to let the Devil have his way

Will that song resume once more
now that youth has gone astray?

Her eyes forever waiting
for the night to end the day...

-me

The Spinner of Tales

2011-09-06T10:57:00.000-07:00

Along Came A Spider Retablo in my Etsy Shop

The spider is the original "spinner", and for me he has always represented THE Spinner of Tales. Here he has spun an entire world anew, created by imagination and shaped by the spider's craft. It is no small thing to take on Nothing, whether it is a blank canvas or empty space - to bring to life words and images, to bring forth what hides in the universe of the heart and share it with the world.

This piece might seem as if I've stepped away from "my style" of artwork... in truth it is much closer to the "me" that has found solace in writing the story of those who cannot be seen, those lost in this world with no way back until their tale has been told.

This retablo represents the creative forces locked within and yearning to burst forth to leave their mark upon the world.

Original illustration measures 9x12

Mediums used: watercolor, ink, pencil, and coffee

Practice What I Preach

2011-08-01T20:57:00.000-07:00

Heart Home Nicho in my Etsy Shop

This is the second time (in recent bloggy time) that I've written up a post and decided not to go with it. It was, again, because of the resounding juvenile resentment of every word for where I find myself. The little Heart Home Nicho I just created reads, "why would you ever air dirty laundry", and I know I'm guilty of blog smog in past posts, therefore, I decided to practice what I preach and refrain from doing so now.

However, this leaves me a bit a mute... negative feelings, desperate feelings, can't be altered simply because I know I should keep them to myself. I feel a break is in order, I have a longing to remove myself from my life and run so fast, so far I will eventually blur and fade... becoming an echo and nothing more. More than ever I want to sink into my stories and fight real demons that can bleed and die, rather than emotional monsters that elude my grasp yet bury their own bony talons into my heart.

Y aqui finalmente, and finally here there may be some respite. The new book I'm working on had gone still, but a breathe has emerged. A whisper has begun to call my name, and a familiar face has resurfaced in my nightly walks, trailing along when I first leave the lake, and catching up as I proceed up the hill. I will, of course, do everything possible to proceed in my own life, tirelessly looking for work (I did manage to secure a temporary gig), but I long to lose myself in the midst of my friend's world.

The Letter I Should've Written...

2011-07-28T17:30:00.000-07:00

For aspiring authors, do not be shy to love your work; do not be modest when pitching it to a publisher. Here's the letter I should have written to the publisher who turned me down:

Dear Editor,

I will cut to the chase and tell you right now that this is the best fucking book you will read, at the very least, this year. What you have in your hands is not a manuscript, it is a door. Open it and you will venture into a world that will both scare the shit out of you, and place a firm grip on your heart as you follow along with this trio of warriors. Daunting, yes? Still, this is what you signed up for, it is for you to bring this story to as many adventurers as possible.

Do not fail. Do not take the easy route and sneer at a misplaced comma. Do not be faint of heart and give this door a half-assed twist of the knob, dive in head first and I guarantee that there will be no where else to go but straight to print. Your name will be hailed as the editor who had the balls to run with an unknown writer, and take a risk that ultimately led to millions stepping foot into an amazing universe and iconic tale. The choice is yours - literary hero or ignorant dick.

Sincerely,
Me

Seeing as I have published this book myself, I guess we know where his place in history stands.

;-)

Oh, and the first 2 chapters are available to preview on my Facebook Page.

Artwork for my novel, Evolving.

Mountaintop...

2011-07-26T18:17:00.000-07:00

Musical Retablo, The Balloon available in my Shop

I always wanted to live somewhere remote, somewhere way up high and far away. I dreamt of writing and painting all day, earning my living with my words and art, and never having to descend from my little mountaintop unless I absolutely wanted to do so. I function best, I believe, when I'm alone. I'm free to let the characters in my head tell me their stories at their own pace; free to capture the images that float to me like visions whether it is day, night, lunch or dinner.

This dream has eluded me so far, but I've not given up on it. I should probably cringe at the passing of time, I should probably feel that as the years roll by the dream is less tangible or possible. Pero no, But no. I welcome time's footsteps. Anything that takes me further from where I began in this life is a blessed friend. I might be getting older, but that dream is just as vivid. And should I pass from this world without ever having sat on the mountaintop I dreamed of in my childhood, tengo fe, I have faith that it I never saw it here because it was always there... just waiting for me.

Dear Ollie

2011-07-19T16:26:00.000-07:00

My online life has consisted of micro-burst via facebook lately, and I have to admit I've become very comfortable with it. In part, I'm sure, because I know I've exposed my personal life quite a bit when I blog, and I sometimes wonder how wise that has been. I've never been one to be open, I've always been mute about my past and my pain until I wandered into this online forum. In facebook I'm automatically limited in what I can say.

However, a recent facebook page has had me wondering, for a while, whether I should expose another secret. Un secreto que toda via, One that can still give me nightmares, and one that I'm glad lies as but a memory. One that I hope never repeats itself, especially considering that I have been unable to find employment, and the economy continues to stall.

Well, here goes...

I will introduce you to the Dear Ollie page, started by a beautiful blogger who could not stand by while Dearest Ollie faces eviction at the end of the month unless enough money can be raised to grant her another 30 days reprieve. Ollie is 66 years old with no family... I'm sorry, I mean with no loving family to assist her. Imagine being 66 yrs old and facing eviction?

When I was 17 years old I was homeless for two days and two nights, my homelessness beginning on an evening. Two days I lived on the street with nothing to eat and two nights I sat in a doorway trying not to close my eyes, which eventually could not be helped. Have I ever been more frightened? Unfortunately, yes. Yet of all the things that haunt, of things that cannot be pushed to the back of one's mind and soul, is the terror of not knowing. Not knowing what the night held for me with no walls for protection, even though I knew quite well walls can often be a prison.

I could not imagine facing such terror again. Especially at 66.

These are not easy times for many of us, admittedly my own donation was but a pittance with my art & book sales down. Still, I ask for Ollie's sake, can you can please "like" the Dear Ollie Page so that it begins to get some notice? And if you have $1. or $2. or $5. to donate to her Fund, it would be much appreciated.

La Tempestad (The Storm) Retablo

love,

Everything In Its Own Time...

2011-07-11T08:31:00.000-07:00

Nest Retablo available in my Etsy shop.

Todo a su tiempo, Everything in its own time... I tell myself this when I become impatient. I've been telling myself this a lot lately, coincidentally at the same time I keep seeing little nests everywhere. All empty, little homes, but at one time filled with promise and hope--when the time was right that promise broke through and sang a glorious song to the day. I must be patient. I can feel my own song wanting to burst through, diligently pecking at its shell. Y a su tiempo, and in its own time, it will burst through.

Stark

2011-07-05T21:38:00.000-07:00

I had another post written under this title. I wrote it just before I started this one, but the title is still apt, for this post is in stark contrast to what that one had to say. I whined in that one, I vented, and I was ready to scream. Life has been a bit harsh here, and I wanted nothing more than to kick my feet and pound my fists. I did so in that post, and therefore it is unnecessary to actually publish it.

I vented. Y sabes que?, And you know what? It changed nothing.

No, wait. Untrue. It changed the need for me to vent so publicly. It changed the need for me to beat at my chest as life is unfair to me alone. As if I stand on the corner of misfortune and mishaps with nothing but the sound of crickets to keep me company. The rest of the world is reaping rewards justified and UNjustified alike, while poor, little me must bare such a burden as never before seen upon this world.

Yes, I tell you, it was a sad, self-pitying little post, that brought me to tears because I felt at that moment that I could not take. it. any. more. Yet, here I am, yes? So, apparently, I can take it. And, apparently, I will take it. I am not the first person to lose a good paying job, then lose the next not-so-good paying job. I'm certain I'm not even the first person who is now cleaning the office they use to work in. My resume goes out, a bit tarnished with two years out of an office setting, but it will continue to go out, and I will work at whatever it takes to pay my bills, and see my daughter through college.

Her car, that was stolen and stripped down, will have to be replaced, but even if I have to give her mine, and take the bus wherever I have to, I will. My husband works hard and is still gainfully employed, so I will do my part no matter if it is cleaning hasta que ni me puedo quedar parada, until I can no longer stand.

There is no doubt, that on paper I am worth more to my family in life insurance than working whatever jobs I can get. But that is on paper, which cannot begin to put a price on seeing my daughter accomplish what I could not. There is no price on seeing her smile, and sitting down to dinner with my family. Or having my dog curl on my lap, and nudge me when he sees despair trying to steal my breath.

There is no need for a self-pitying post, when I have in this moment more than I ever thought I would.

(((hugs))) to anyone who might be reading this. We've made it through another day, yes?

:-)

Saving Grace

2011-06-22T16:15:00.000-07:00

Musical Retablo - La Guitarra

Music has the ability to pluck at our heart strings in a way beyond the sense of touch, and very often above any of the other senses, yes? Music, like reading, like the other world I often speak of, was a saving grace. When our house was crowded with my mother's angry yells, and I was facing the punishment of my bedroom isolation, I allowed music to rise above the din clearing my teary insides with the brightness of sweet pastures.

I would sing softly to myself, eyes closed, and the music filled me with a calm that belied the storm of my mother's rages. Sometimes, without realizing it, my voice would begin to grow, and if I was lucky I would catch it in time before she heard and took offense (since she saw it as my way of dismissing her). When I caught myself, I would slip into the closet, another of my favorite hiding spots when the outdoors and the trees were denied me, and my song would reverberate, cocoonning me until nothing else mattered.

Probably needless to note, my song choices were often a mark of ridicule amongst my brother and sister and their friends. While they all listened to "Brick House" or anything by Earth, Wind & Fire, my song choices ranged from musicals, to Doris Day, Perry Como, Disco, Rock, and Folk music. I had a record of children's songs, Sing Along With Breezy, and a 45 of scary poems with tellings of The Velvet Ribbon, The Cats of Kilkenny, and Dust; but I could listen to country, as well, then easily slide into traditional Mexican Mariachi or Ranchera music. And I was fascinated by celtic music, making up dance steps and stories as I blared the albums on our old beat up record player with a penny taped to the arm to keep the needle from skipping.

Many of these old albums were my dad's, a collection of better times. He continued to buy albums sporadically, whenever he could spare a few dollars, from thrift stores and yard sales when he saw the wide range of my interests.

One precious Christmas I could not believe a present awaited me--my brother, sister, and I squealed to find one for each of us--and I held in my hands a Christmas Album with a variety of singers and old-time favorites. Nat King Cole sang Ms. Santa Claus, Dean Martin sang Buon Natalie, and Wayne Newton, in that hauntingly waif-ish voice sang The Little Drummer Boy.

Entonces vino el dia, Then came the day I was introduced to Mozart. With those first notes of Serenade for Winds I knew how the angels sounded. I knew that if I was a good girl, paid attention at Mass instead of tracing the stained glass window with an imaginary finger, if, if, IF, I could hold my tongue when my mother's got away from her, the angels would sing just like this and guide me to heaven.

The albums are long gone, but the music has never died. Another of my father's many gifts that carried me from one day to the next, from despair to hope. A gift I will cherish always, and that I have passed on to my daughter.

A Favorite Melody

2011-06-20T21:25:00.000-07:00

Music In The Air Retablo - El Piano (The Piano)

I see it's been a while since I stopped by here... didn't realize at first how quickly this year has been going by, so I sometimes lose track of time. Yes, some of it is the fact that I'm getting older, after all, if 42 isn't over the hill it is certainly at the tippy-tippy-top, yes? Some of it is filling my time with painting, looking for a way to promote my shop, looking for better opportunities for me and my family... and some of it is... getting lost. There's no denying that this is what I do to keep "sane".

The irony of that is not lost on me.

If I do not lose myself in writing, in escaping, in running and jumping over the fence that separates this world from the other I feel strangled. I feel... almost... frightened.

It's familiarity, certainly. I know that world better. I am comfortable in it, and I am not always comfortable in this one. This world makes me smile, makes me wonder, makes me feel magic, but long ago the magic was always borrowed from that world. When the days were long, miserable, and cold, when every smile had been smudged with a quick flash of the back of someone's hand, I pinched magic from that world, like pinching snuff out of battered yet brilliant tin box. One deep whiff and my eyes watered at the brilliance of what that world could offer. It seemed brighter, my childhood home always grey... it seemed more real... my "real" home forever shadowed.

However, I remind myself that magic can be found here now, also. There is no better place to look than my daughter's eyes. That is magic. A swirl of paint upon wood. Magic. My husband and I reconnecting. Magic. Teeny, doggie snores. Magic. Yes, where once solamente agarrada de manos con mi papa, only holding my father's hand conjured magic, this world now holds more avenues for enchantment than I would have ever imagined. And how can that not bring a smile to my face, yes? How can that not be a melody that entices me to dance with joy?

Yet I will not forget where the magic first began...

Sharing An Old Love...

2011-06-09T14:20:00.000-07:00

Get me started on art, painting, drawing, and I can go on (and I have!) about my first canvases of rocks and old papers reused to allow me expressions in pencils... but I know I have neglected crochet. I wasn't certain why at first... after all, I've crocheted since I was a little girl. I have made scarves, rebozos, and head wraps; I've made purses and blankets, as well, and have gifted them for birthdays and Christmas.

Rebozo Head Wrap

The more that I've thought about this, I realize I have a reluctance to express the pattern making, or lack thereof. One of the first questions people ask is whether I follow a pattern, which I never do. Si, yo lo se, Yes, I know there is nothing embarrassing about that in itself, after all I'm a self-taught artist, also, as many people are, However, that question always sets off a response that I swallow quietly, that I keep hidden. It is the fact that I cannot follow a pattern. The abbreviations and repeated numbers become confusing and can bring on a migraine. Most directions, whether it is setting up a sewing machine (I almost broke mine trying to thread the bobbin without use of the manual) or anything else, become confusing, I often have to repeat them aloud to make any headway, and the frustration takes me back to sitting in class, in particular math class, where nothing ever made since, and I would take my place at the back of the room, praying never to be called upon.

One teacher did take it upon herself to tell me I had dyslexia, but the more I read on that subject, I was not convinced. I can read perfectly fine, and understand what I'm reading. True, every now and then I intermingle words in the wrong order, and can see nothing wrong with a sentence or paragraph until a few days later, then I wonder what the hell I was thinking. But I never see the letters themselves as backward. No, none of the glaring symptoms were present. What was wrong was following directions in certain steps, and if there are too many numbers I have to repeat them aloud many times to ensure I don't get them in the wrong order. I am often convinced my left is my right, my right is my left, not just for a minute of confusion, someone can point out that I've got it wrong, and I still can't recognize the error. It can be maddening, and for those long-ago school days it left most everyone convinced I was a very stupid child. Which didn't help since I was already the very strange child.

Not until I was much older, my early thirties actually, was I diagnosed with dyscalculia, dyslexia's sister of sorts. Knowing this helped alleviate some of my anguish (if not my frustration) with my struggle, yet I remain hesitant to ever divulge or discuss it. There is also a reason it is so closely related to crocheting:

Rebozo Flower Pin

Growing up, the women on their way to church wore candy-colored rebozos that I absolutely adored. My mother herself had a bright pink rebozo that had such a loose weave it looked a bit like crochet. I would wrap myself in her rebozo and feel bright and beautiful. I soon began playing with the crocheted doilies on the end tables, until I realized one of them was quite frayed and falling apart. At first I was afraid to point this out least I be suspected of having ruined it, but my temptation was too great, and I asked my mother if I could take it apart to reuse the thread. I wanted her to teach me to crochet. To my surprise and delight she agreed. Pulling a medium-size woven basket from the closet, she found her hook, carefully snipped at the doilie to recover as much thread as possible and began the task.

She showed me a few basic stitches, and once she was sure I knew what a chain, single and double crochet stitch were, she wrote out the design on a piece of paper. She left me to it for about an hour, returned and asked to see how far I had gotten. I hadn't followed the pattern, the repeats and numbers confused me, so I had freehanded my own. She was not happy. My mother was rarely happy. She unravelled my work, and set me to follow the pattern again. When she returned, saw that I hadn't followed the pattern, she unravelled my work once more, and put the thread and hook back in the closet. I was no longer allowed to touch either.

Rebozo Head Wraps

For days afterwards I would find time to sneak in her closet leaving the door opened just a crack, allowing enough light to see what I was doing. I worked and reworked the thread, figuring out her intricately patterned doilie by studying its companion. There were many re-dos but I finally I managed to get it almost right. My stitches were loose, and I had dropped a few, but it was close enough that she would believe I had followed the pattern. I placed it on the end table waiting to see if she would notice it. That day could have gone horribly wrong, as many other days had. She could have stormed and punished for having touched what was off limits... pero se sonrio, instead she smiled. She believed that for once I had curbed my stubborn nature. I will always remember that she remarked, "Isn't it easier when you just follow direction?"

;-)

Possibilities...

2011-06-03T08:43:00.000-07:00

Reminding myself that this day holds so many possibilities... if they are wasted they become the haunting "if"s of a life half lived...

So... who wants to play?

2011-05-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

Peg Solitaire Board Game - The Jaguar

Ok, I will admit it... I am a sore loser. Yes, really. I won't play board games with my husband (he cheats, he denies it, but I'm sticking to that story), or when I do, I play reluctantly. So what's better for a sore loser than solitaire :-)

Now, I know in my excitement I often don't catch a misplaced word (or other grammatical snafus), but I kept reminding myself - do not write anything like "play by yourself", most likely you'll accidentally write "play with yourself" and won't catch it until a day later! ;-)

Peg Solitaire Board Game - The Deer

Aqui Estoy, Here...

2011-05-23T08:51:00.000-07:00

...I am... :-)

Life swept me away from this blog, not all for good, not all for bad, same rhythm as life always seems to have, yes? Asi va, That's how it goes, and this year has been no different, so I try to take it with a grain of salt - the fact that the grain of salt now costs more than I make is a bit unsettling, but hey! I've been here before many (many) years ago, and hopefully we'll (my family) see ourselves out.

Works in Progress

My little shop had an upsurge due to great exposure in an Etsy mailing... just in time to find out I will once again be laid off, sigh. Is that unseemly? Talking about finances? Well, it's what is running around in my head at the moment, and it means I must hustle, hustle, hustle to find something else. I have found comfort in the paint on my hands and arms, my palette when working on artwork, and there is satisfaction in gaining some momentum in this realm.

My writing has been coming along, edits, rewrites, and, for the upcoming book of verses, photographs need tweaking.

With all this looming overhead and in progress, it was easier being reduced to micro-posts on facebook. But fb can't handle a good ramble, a long overdue ramble, with a few heavy-hearted sighs, wistful smiles, and a bellyful of determination. What else is there, yes? It's either that or giving up, a rather selfish act considering I have a family.

At 42, I didn't really think I'd be here again... you know, where first you give up little conveniences and it is no big deal - don't need baker's sugar at three times the cost, regular sugar I grind myself will do; less beef, too much isn't great for you anyway, right? Dying my hair has really been overrated, and I've promised myself that I would soon go grey, why not now? Then, of course, things become a bit tighter, and other sacrifices are made.

However, this is where the salt comes in - I'm not ALL THE WAY back to the beginning, and that is something to cheer and be grateful. We still have wonderful, home cooked meals, I'm use to the creativity of working with less, and it's still a lot more than ever saw as a child, it's not as if we are going hungry. Electricity, water, the roof over our heads, yes, still have that. Two working cars (though God forbid anything should happen to them - it would be devastating to have to purchase another), actually, three since my daughter has her own. My childhood torment of "nothing" is not here, and so I revel in what that little girl would still have considered luxuries undreamed of.

And so here I am.

En la noche, At night when the darkness allows me to clearly hear the fears in my heart, I am shaken at the fact that I've closed out my last savings, that come June I'm beginning from scratch again in terms of income... but I didn't survive everything that I have to let that fear win out. It almost did once, I admit it came close to covering me like a shroud, and I let it weaken me to a point where I didn't believe I would ever move, but that was a time in my life when it was just me--no child, no husband, my father had just passed away, and hunger, poverty and violence were still my guardians.

Peaceful Neighborhood, Tranquil available in my Etsy

I will not let fear of "what could happen" gain such a foothold. Es de trabajando, I just need to work hard so that these setbacks gain no more ground. No matter what that work might entail, yes? There is no shame in earning an honest living, and no matter what the next "job" might be, it will not define me. And it will not keep me from "creatively" making yummy meals, reveling in my daughter's accomplishments whose college and career are looking so bright, taking comfort in my husband's support, and enjoying splashes of paint and a string of beautiful words.

(((hugs))),
love,
me

The Window

2011-05-06T08:28:00.000-07:00

Climb out the window,

The world beckons

in an unending

Melody

A vibrant pitch of golden ribbon

Weaving between the branches

A haunting vibrato of grey

In a drizzle of melancholy

Una Cancion,

A Song

composed for those who will

Venture

Those who will

Risk

Those who will

Live

*This is a sneak peak of my upcoming book of verses... :-)
Have a beautiful weekend,
love,
me

The Little Grrrs

2011-05-02T08:47:00.000-07:00

Meet the little grrrs:

"Surely, you've seen them? They love to nap on shoulders. They love to sleep in the back of your thoughts, and in the quiet of your heart. They do not like to be woken for they are such sleepyheads!"

So, what happens if you wake a little grrr? hmmm...

My children's book is now available in my Etsy store.

When my daughter would become a bit obstinate, when I could see her getting ready to plant her feet in a stubborn little manner, I could almost hear a little growl! I would remind her not to be so "grrr", and would often refer to her as my little grrr. She will be twenty this year, and yes, she still has her little-grrr moments... ;-)

So much going on, but I will be visiting here soon with a regular post.
(((hugs)))

A Wonderful Surprise

2011-04-14T08:54:00.000-07:00

No surprise, I'm sure, that I'm sitting in my house as I type this entry. No surprise, I'm sure, that I'm snug and secure, the roof overhead sturdy and true, the walls hugging me close. If you'd asked me 30 years ago if this was possible I would have been surprised. I would have put on a brave face, but my eyes would have said it all. Yet, here I sit: my husband in a meeting in his upstairs office, my daughter sleeping in for she does not have class today, my dog has made a little nest in my nap, while our cat has padded away to find the patch of sunlight that works it way through the upstairs window.

Silhouette Retablo available in my Etsy Shop

There have been arguments under this little roof, there have been tears, there has been hesitation about where we stood in marriage, in life... and when the tears dried this is where we found ourselves. Because here there has, also, been laughter, and hugs, and love. Together, accepting that none of us are perfect, that family is work, and we've both had moments where we've not towed the line; where we've turned off, closed up, runaway emotionally. Then we've returned, y hemos encontrado, and found that when all is said and done, when the past showed me the odds were against it, we've truly made a home.

Silhouette Retablo available in my Etsy Shop

:-)

Unseen

2011-04-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

Last night was incredibly mild, and I took a much longer walk than usual. This was at the request of my new friend... from the next book I'm writing. Asi es como los conosco, That's how I get to know them, we go for walks, and they let me into their world. Oh, it also happens over tea, or doing laundry, but going for an evening walk is preferable. Of course, once I'm actually writing their world is incredibly visible. What they show me is astounding, and from there all I'm really doing is narrating as it were.

It's always been like this when I write, and when their tale is told I miss them terribly and feel quite alone. Well, at least until the next "friend" stops by with wonders to unfold. And quite a few have already knocked at my door, and taken to sitting on my doorstep wondering when I'll be available. I'm anxious to meet them, but can't give anyone a hurried goodbye simply to move on. I must be patient, even when I'm exasperated at their hesitation. It's not easy for them to trust, a part of them wants to remain anonymous for this world frightens them, and here is where we often find common ground.

If you meet me, you might easily forget me... force of habit often keeps me very still, as if I'm hoping to camouflage myself. If I don't know a group well, I feel it rude to participate too much in a conversation and distract any friendships, after all friendships are valuable. After a lifetime of needing to be invisible so that no harsh words or fists find me, it becomes almost impossible to be seen.

And that may be why I see them. After all, un corazon quebrado, a broken heart beats to a different rhythm, a hidden level. Oh, we are stronger than we appear with the ability to break through worlds, and yet it is that siren song of pain that drops us together in the darkness. Here I give them a voice that might turn their mournful song into a healing melody that may carry them wherever they wish to go. I'll miss them, but this darkness is crowded. I hope to give them all a way out.

No Matter...

2011-04-06T10:33:00.000-07:00

No matter how extreme the circumstances, never stop looking for a way out. You might need to climb over, crawl under, or slip through, but that patch of sunlight on the other side will be worth it...

Reflections

2011-03-31T22:00:00.000-07:00

There will be moments of doubt and despair,

there will be times when it feels as if the world has closed in

Trapped

As incapable of running as water in a barrel...

pero incluso esta agua,

but even this water can reflect the top of the trees

the openness of the sky

this water can even hold the sun

and when the downpour hits all the harder

the water will not drown

but

overflow

and

finally

run free

Mexican Diamonds

2011-03-30T07:52:00.000-07:00

Birdhouse Retablo available in my Etsy Store

Most little girls dream of sparkly things, and I was no exception; although the lure of "jewels" was more for storing in a little treasure box and burying it in the backyard, than for wearing. But since jewels weren't to be had I settled for rocks that I would color with crayons, or the rocks that I managed to dip in my neighbor's house paint, the incriminating drops leading right back to my doorstep.

However, there was the time I found a true treasure. A blouse from who knew where, left lying in the middle of the street. Quizas, Perhaps it had fallen out of the bed of a truck; perhaps someone threw it out the car window; or perhaps, what I always thought most likely, a faerie had spread her wings, and her faerie dust had flown up to the heavens to be captured by a bird. The bird would have snatched them up with a blouse he'd found, but mid-flight the dust had solidified into jewels, far too heavy for the bird, and he'd dropped his swag right on my street.

The jewels, were sequins sewn into a pattern, like the dresses of the folklorico dancers (Mexican folk art dancers). I diligently cut every bit of thread that held the sequins captive, and filled my little box with an explosion of shimmery color. I had what I believed were Mexican diamonds.

When I made this little birdhouse (yes, one word, it is a birdhouse), I couldn't help but add a few sequins tucked up near his heart. This way he'll never lose his treasure. And they will shimmer and light his path, so that he'll never lose his way either.

:-)

There Was

2011-03-28T17:00:00.000-07:00

Habia una nina,
There was a little girl who had a
secret
Hidden under oversized
bruises
and dirty shirts,
Her heart was
broken
but no one could
see

Habia una joven,
There was a young girl with many
secrets
By now her heart was a million
pieces
and she carried them like
change
rattling in her pockets
but no one could
hear

Habia una mujer,
There was a woman who had a
wish
that people would
see
beyond her plainness
that people would
hear
that she had a song

that someday her heart would

mend

Habia una viejita,

There was an old woman who

died

all

alone

The Fire Breather

2011-03-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

El Respira Fuego, The Fire Eater Print

I remember reading about the poor in the heart of Mexico City. Some, with nothing to sell to the tourist, began a most deadly venture--swallowing gasoline, carried in plastic jugs, and breathing fire. The burst of flames resulted in applause and a few pesos. And, after a while, mouth sores. Then death. Many of these Fire Breathers were men trying to feed their families.

This is my little retablo, needing no words, that however bad times may get, no matter where you find yourself, that God watches you. That you know are still blessed and loved.

(((hugs)))

Sleepyheads

2011-03-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

I tiptoed across the sunset this morning,

and found my dreams still sleeping...

despiertanse dormilones,

wake up sleepyheads...

time to see the world,

and have the world see you.

Color...

2011-03-21T08:50:00.000-07:00

I needed some color over the wet, wet weekend... :-)

La Cocinera Retablo

Here is La Cocinera, The Cook, titled so with sincere affection and respect. She is working her magic, and wishes you and your family many a bountiful meal.

Leap of Faith Retablo

And here is my Leap of Faith Retablo. It is my greatest hope that you all follow your heart... and take a leap of faith. I've no doubt you will land well.

Love,
me

No, No First Name

2011-03-14T18:07:00.000-07:00

Happy Endings Retablo

Bologna. So many people are astounded when they realize how much I love bologna. It is my favorite all-time snack, especially warmed up and rolled into a just-made corn tortilla. Sometimes I add diced tomatoes, jalapenos, and/or queso fresco (Mexican fresh cheese), but not always. It makes my tummy laugh just thinking about it. Bologna is one of the few childhood memories that makes me smile.

Acuerdate, Keep in mind my dad was 58yrs old when I was born. He retired, I believe, by the time I was in first grade, and we lived off his pension, then social security. Any savings was long gone after the care of his first wife who died of cancer. I remember the excitement we felt at the beginning of the month, knowing that we'd be picking up groceries, that, just like every other house, our house would have food. It was probably one of the few family events when everyone's spirits were lifted.

We'd hit the bank first, and that in itself felt grand. My dad would hold my hand while I ran the length of the raised sidewalk, around the corner holding on to the faded bricks of the building, and between the double-doors. No one shooed us away, no one looked twice, even when I recited poetry aloud or made up stories to entertain my dad while waiting in line. However, I kept very quiet when my dad made it to the window--other than obnoxiously (though I didn't realize it was obnoxious at the time) correcting the tellers when they mispronounced our last name--for this was a solemn moment. A sacred ritual that I wouldn't risk interrupting for fear the bad omen would linger and affect any future transactions. I remember in the quiet, seeing my dad's fist filled with money, and foolishly believing that this time it would not run out. We were set.

After the bank, the ritual complete and God smiling, it was off to Alpha Beta Supermarket, and I would always squeal with delight when my dad let me get the cart. That's right! We would be filling a cart with milk! cereal! carne molida, ground beef! eeeeee! Y mira! And look, my mom picking out a pork butt could only mean one thing--chile verde! I could, also, see at the bottom of our cart the 25lb bag of flour for tortillas, a breakfast staple at our house. At the beginning of the month, we had egg or chorizo burritos; by mid-month, it was butter and tortillas for breakfast; and by the end of the month, we all longed to see a new bag of flour sitting on the floor next to the counter where the wooden flour bowl and rolling pin sat clean and mocking.

Pero alli esta, But there it is... the last isle before the checkout stand... the deli isle. We steered clear of the over-priced bologna ostentatiously, pretentiously, wearing a first and last name, and found the huge, red and white checked packs. Putting on no airs, as friendly and humble as could be, it introduced itself as nothing more than what it was:

Bologna.

Food.

Salvation.

My knight in shining armor.

The longest lasting meat in our household. When every other meat, all the dairy, and certainly the bread had cease to exist, the bologna survived. When even the barest dust of flour had blown away in our drafty, little house, a pack would surface, a slice to be rolled in on itself eagerly anticipated.

It probably wouldn't surprise you to know that I still get that hopeful feeling when I pick up a pack of bologna; that I can't help but mentally calculate how long that packet will last; that it is not only one of my favorite snacks, but if I'm home alone for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, four bologna tacos still feels like a feast. This is my life-long friend, and, other than my imagination, probably the oldest friend I've ever had. You see? As noted in my previous post - I'm very loyal, indeed.

:-)

Oh, oh...

2011-03-13T09:30:00.000-07:00

Available for your Kindle on Amazon

There's some serious self-horn-tooting going on - my book is now available for Kindle (and/or Kindle apps)! And its had a bit of a makeover, yes? The cover I use for the hand-bound hard copy (still available through my Etsy shop), came off looking like a big, red blob (or little, red blob on the thumbnail), so some fancy footwork was needed. I already had two illustrations that accompany the book, therefore, I converted one for the cover.

Toot!

Si, hay mas, Yes, there's more - I have to say, I love the cover. It gives me a retro vibe, and takes me back to sitting in the school library going through old stacks of cheesy, third-rate science fiction or mystery novels; second-hand donations that served more as filler on the shelves since the library was almost always virtually empty. I'd make a kind of fortress with them, protecting myself from my peers whom I could never seem to connect with. These stacks often kept me from having to face a daily fight, the gangs were rampant and unforgiving, and it is the paradoxical world of thugs that without them there is no protection. But the library was often anathema to them, and so without initially realizing it, my pull towards that empty room sometimes kept me safe.

And I'll now confess to a crime... on more than one occasion I slipped a book into my bag, never to return it. The librarian was a middle-aged, disgruntled lady, who hid her jailhouse tats with the most god-awful, shiny long-sleeved blouses, who would "outdate" the books and toss them. She couldn't give them away, there was "procedure" the school had to follow, and the books would disappear. I had the feeling she resented my intrusion into her room, sometimes she would even close early and shuffle me out, though I wouldn't see her leave. These old books (I believe I ended up with about three or four) with threadbare, half-baked stories whose covers I loved, and whose covers I would remove and place my own folded over paper stories inside, would sit next to my bed until there was nothing left of them.

Yo se, yo se, I know, I know... I have screamed high and low about this book. And I probably always will. I have solidified that faraway place that gave me somewhere to be other than my life, that gave me people I could understand and kept me company, that never looked at me sideways because I was a little dirtier, a little uglier, and a lot more silent than most. If nothing else, consider me very loyal to my childhood comforts. My next post will be about bologna, and you'll see just how loyal I am...

;-)

Inspiration

2011-03-11T16:06:00.000-08:00

When everything appears to be closing in,

Miro para arriba,

I look up

and see all that

sky

Whether it's crystalline blue,

or frosted with golden clouds,

inspired

to ascend from the ashes

sooted memories;

fairy-tale dreams

caught in the unconquered dragon's

whirling flames;

half-buried heartbreaks

whose ghosts continue to pine

for a life long over...

Miro al cielo,

I see that sky

and know

will ascend,

will conquer,

will lay to rest

the ghosts hindering

path

-me

My First Review!

2011-03-05T18:13:00.000-08:00

I cannot tell you how excited I am to post a review of my book! Whenever my book goes out into the world the tummy-butterflies hit big time, and my obvious hope is that the reader truly enjoys this new world. However, I never expected a poet such as Amy over at Winged Paths to enjoy it so much she would dedicate an entire post to Evolving! Aqui esta, Here it is in full (along with the most adorable picture you will ever see, *smiles). And I do mean IN FULL--yes, including a few bumps in Evolving's literary road...

**Amy Bardwell

For months, I promised myself I would buy a copy of fellow artist and blogger Pixie Dust’s novel. The premise sounded intriguing, and I love to support others in their creative endeavors. Little did I know that once I finally had the book in my hand, I would become so enamored of it that I could not wait to tell not only Pixie herself, but everyone else, exactly what I thought of it. So, without further ado, here is my review:

Evolving by Armani Mondragón is a compelling dark fantasy that tells the story of Kyle, a man trapped in a dangerous world where he does not belong. In order to survive, he must make an alliance with powerful creatures he knows nothing about—only to discover that the fate of not just his world, but of humanity itself, may depend on whether or not he can face the nightmarish darkness of his own past.

Evolving takes place in a fascinating and perilous multiverse filled with unique creations that defy typical fantasy tropes. The fact that Kyle’s role in saving humanity has nothing to do with prophecy or being the ‘chosen one’, for example, was very refreshing. The plot is multifaceted, taking the reader in unexpected directions. Mondragón’s pacing is excellent: her story never drags, nor does it move too fast. At times, there are scenes that could benefit from being lengthened, but this is not an issue that detracts from the book’s excellent qualities. I often found myself admiring how deftly she avoids falling into stereotypes of plot and character that would trap many other writers—even bestselling authors in the traditional publishing world.

I enjoyed all of the characters very much, even the ones that were not so nice or downright evil—they were extremely well-written, and it was easy to get caught up in their lives. All of the three main characters grow during the course of the novel, both as individuals and in their relationships with one another. I really enjoyed watching them develop and loved the way they interacted as a group. This character development was never forced or artificial, and I appreciated the natural way in which things progressed. One character in particular (who will remain nameless to prevent spoilers) came to be my absolute favorite because he was just so deliciously creepy and well-written that it blew me away. Best of all, Mondragón has given each of her characters a distinctive voice of their own, even the minor characters. This is something that many writers struggle with, but she accomplishes it with great skill in both dialogue and narrative.

Her imagery is also fresh and vivid. The opening image of Chapter One was so stark and powerful that I was immediately drawn into the story, and her descriptions continued to deliver unique, effective images that made the world of Evolving difficult to turn away from.

Of course, the novel is not quite perfect, and I feel that it would be dishonest not to mention its flaws. Some readers may find it disorienting to be thrown into a strange fantasy world with no frame of reference and little explanation of the geography and creatures that reside there. Personally, I thought that this was a good device because it forces the reader to view Kyle’s new world the same way Kyle himself sees it. As Kyle learns more about himself, his surroundings, and his companions, so too does the reader.

I hesitate to mention this because I don’t want it to cause anyone to pass this book by, but feel that I must be honest, so let me say it quickly: the book could benefit from additional proofreading as there are some grammar issues. However, I did not find Evolving disappointing because of this. I enjoyed it immensely and stayed up very late on a night when I was already tired to finish reading it, then was so excited by how it all turned out that I couldn’t fall asleep. I found it an immensely satisfying read from beginning to end.

Mondragón has an innate talent for weaving strong, well-crafted stories, and she displays that skill to its fullest in Evolving. From the opening line of the book to its closing sentence, ‘compelling’ was the one word that occurred to me again and again. This is a powerful story, one that lingers hauntingly long after the final page. It is a marvelous thrill ride—the world of Evolving contains things that would make Stephen King or Neil Gaiman proud, nightmares that dwell in the deepest and most secret corner of your heart, the childhood terror that you pretend you are too old to fear but still snatches away your breath in the night.

The bottom line? I would happily buy Evolving again, will reread it with pleasure, and recommend it wholeheartedly to others. I am also eager to read more by this talented writer and will await her next book with much anticipation.

You can pick up a copy of Evolving at Armani’s Etsy shop or visit her lovely blog to learn more about her.

**Amy Bardwell is a photographer, poet, and writer.

PS.
My apologies about the typeface in the review, for some reason cutting and pasting creates quite a "funk" in blogger... at least for the technically un-savvy! Blah...

Heart Is Where The Home Is...

2011-03-03T08:39:00.000-08:00

A natural progression from my Home Is Where The Heart Is collection, yes?

Heart Is Where The Home Is Retablo Dolly on Etsy

Buenos dias, Good morning...

Heart Is Where The Home Is Retablo Dolly on Etsy

Buenas noches, Good night...

Small Surprises

2011-02-28T18:49:00.000-08:00

Smallest Miracles Retablo Print available in my Etsy Store

Every once in a while I do forget that even the smallest surprises are miracles, taking for granted the teeny-tiniest of ladybugs that dots a leaf on my lemon tree, or that my dog's snore rattles in rhythm to my cat's purr and the scratch of my pen. Estas gracias chicas, these little gifts are what fill in the spaces between the jubilant highs and darkest of drops in life, they cushion my fall and are not to be taken lightly.

And these small surprises can motivate, and redirect and/or illuminate varying paths. While in conversation (of a sort, it was email) with a blogging beauty, line art was the subject; and though I often do line art I had not made any available for my store. Now two different line art prints are available, and I am already working on another. Y asi trabaja, and that's how inspiration works, yes?

A peek-a-boo surprise delicately observed, cradled and loved can keep a heart from breaking when the world is a little too big and rattles it like a marble trapped in a coffee can. Yes, even the smallest surprises are miracles.

More Treasury Love!

2011-02-26T10:26:00.000-08:00

I've been included in two (other) treasuries recently - yay! The first, Artists Exposed, is interesting in that I was requested to submit a profile picture... and I'm extremely camera shy... however, I did submit my profile pic from my blog, after all, it's mysterious enough to keep me in shadow, and yet shows me as I usually see myself:

Turned away from my own reflection, and concentrating on the world that I hold in my hands instead of the world out there. This inner world burns brightly as it feeds off my energy, and all else around me fades from color, to sepia, to darkness, to nothing... no existe, it does not exist for those moments when I step out of myself.

:-)

And if that didn't freak you out - another yay! ;-)

Here is the treasury Artists Exposed (I'm uncertain how to link the image, so I take a quick "snapshot" of it):

And this treasury is "Besides Flesh this is what I found" (what a title, no!):

Actually, (and I just now made the connection - yes, I'm quick like that!), this treasury consists from shops that were featured in Artists Exposed, so underneath all the profile pics, this art is what was found... ta-da!

:-)

Black & White

2011-02-23T19:13:00.000-08:00

Choosing Words Retablo Print available in my Etsy Store

Line art is very dear and personal to me, so of course making it into a retablo was inevitable, especially after my Big Girl's Fable book, which is illustrated in ink work. Color crayons were a luxury my childhood could not afford except during school hours when using the classroom's crayons, so all my artwork was done in pencil. I distinctly remember drawing a full-page pencil drawing of the Virgen de Guadalupe solamente para que alguien me dijiera, only to be told by someone close to our family that I should leave the drawing to my brother who, also, enjoyed sketching. Though I remained "artistic" in other endeavors my pencil sketches came to a crushed end after the remark, until a couple of years afterwards while staring at a unicorn poster. The more I studied the lines and shading, the more I longed to recreate the magic. I believe I put it off for a few days, too discouraged at my ability to try, until all I could think about was bringing my own unicorn to life. Aside from completely botching the spacing and ending up with only the head, front hooves, and upper torso, I knew I would never put my pencil down again.

I love working in pencil and ink because it defies the notion behind "everything being black and white". I never wanted my life to be black and white, yet that was how it felt growing up. We were poor, therefore, I never had nice clothes or toys. We were poor, therefore, our cupboards were bare and hunger was a constant that sapped my energy when I should be playing, and kept me cold even in the first days of Spring. We were poor, therefore, we were miserable. Black and white. Yet I drew elves and saints and belied the notion that there was nothing beautiful or magical in the "black and white" of life. I defied the constraints of "black and white" and found happiness and it colored my world - yes! COLORED my world. Era como leyendo, It was like reading a book, all black and white type, yet it opened a paradise unknown to me on that dirty, little street where the only color came from the peeling paint on houses, and fading graffiti on every surface.

Pencils and ink drew my first doorways into writing, into art. Apart from my imagination they drew the first doorway into salvation, allowing me an exit from bruises and loneliness. I love pastels, watercolors and acrylics, I will never forget my excitement when I could actually purchase such vibrancy, but I always go back to my forever friends. I will always be as faithful as they were.

Returning Home

2011-02-21T18:04:00.000-08:00

Autumn Sunset Retablo available in my Etsy store

Having spent the weekend in Napa, which I did enjoy immensely, there is nothing like the winding road bringing us back home. Unlike the autumn sunset in my painting above, the cherry blossoms were in bloom and blushing as we rounded the corner. No podia esperar, I could not wait to walk through the door.

The fields in Napa seem endless, the architecture of the wineries is stunning, and there was mist everywhere the first day and second day, and by the third the clouds were golden with the sun peeking from in between them. I do not drink wine, and it didn't matter--I drank in every gorgeous sunrise and sunset, and every bird that flew within my field of vision. It was beautiful... pero ahora, but now I have my dog at my side, my kitchen at the ready, and paints, pastels, and watercolors at my fingertips... magic is ready to happen...

:-)

Simple Beauty

2011-02-14T08:55:00.000-08:00

There is nothing truly complex about beauty,

merely open your eyes...

y allí está,

and there it is...

Simple, yes?

Messages From Afar

2011-02-11T15:46:00.000-08:00

Retablo Postcards - Set 1

By now it will come as no surprise to bloggie friends who’ve a read a few of my posts that I get lost in transit… whether it is getting lost in the magic of everyday wonders: a rustling leav, sunsets, a lone star pulsating from millions of miles away hoping for a glimpse of dreams; or if it is another world beyond paper and pen, imaginings and acquaintances that will become poems or stories. I’ve also mentioned that because of those worlds and other childhood stigmas, I’ve often been rather alone, as well. Por su puesto, Actually, it is the lonely that opened those worlds (a rather chicken and egg question at times), and I always feared one day they would explode, lost in a nova of adulthood and bitterness.

Because of this fear, there came a time I began leaving messages for my “future” self, messages on rocks that I stowed away in old boxes and buried in the backyard. Treasure maps, also, leading my adult-self (drawn out in pencil), through the continued pencil line around the paper, over upside-down “v”s for mountains, into the magical forest where “x” marked the spot to ten-year-old me waiting to regale myself with all the wonders I might have thrown away. Then there were the rubberbanded postcards I found in my dad’s suitcase. Now, this hardbound suitcase held all his old slides, images of a broken family held together better in this translucent state, and this old bundle of postcards he’d collected from various restaurants. I found it fascinating that restaurants would have postcards, and, even more so, that he’d eaten at so many before cancer took his first wife and his finances, leaving us a diet of rice and beans when we were lucky.

Retablo Postcards - Set 2

My father with little material gifts to give did not hesitate to hand them over when he saw the expression on my face. He even pulled his pen out of his shirt pocket, the pen we were never allowed to use because it was for his Sunday paper crossword puzzle and he didn’t want it lost. That I was granted such permission was enough to convince me of the gravity of my mission. I wasted no time scrambling up my almond tree, writing my messages, addressing them, and dropping some of them in the post box down the street, and carefully placing others in and around the house. It didn’t matter they had no stamps, they would find their way to me, I was certain. It didn’t matter that some were left outside, even stuffed into crevices in the trees, or under the house, they would find their way to me, I was certain.

Y trabajaron, They did work. No, they never came back from the post, nor did the ones outside survive the elements. But the memory of them was never forgotten, and subsequently neither was their message.

Retablo Postcards - Set 3

Needless to say, I have a fondness for postcards. When I hosted a Kindness Swap last year it was in postcards, and as each one arrived waiting to find its way out in the world there was a certain secretive smile on my lips as I carried each one from the post to my house, from my house to the post. And I’ve now made my artwork available in postcards. Whether to save, to gift, or to write a message to a loved one... or yourself…

Retablo Postcards - Set 4

;-)

The Dark

2011-02-07T08:08:00.000-08:00

I love taking walks in the dark. It is my small act of defiance for the way it frightened me when I was a child, taking away the little bit of confidence I had that things would be all right. The dark was a beast trying to swallow me whole, then, ever so gradually, it became an ally, cloaking me from everyone and everything. I almost believed myself invincible (or at least truly invisible) walking in the dark. I suppose deep down I always knew it was an illusion, but a much needed one.

Illustration from Fable For Big Girls

I walked last night holding hands with the moon, it's crescent the perfect handle, and for just a moment I was overcome by that fear that use to follow at my heels. This happens every so often so I am never completely overwhelmed anymore. I simply tightened my grip on the moon, on the dog's leash, on my life here and now instead of all those years ago, y me recuerdo, and I remember the dark is no longer a beast. It is a gentle giant allowing me passage on its bridge to tomorrow.

Treasury Love

2011-02-01T09:47:00.000-08:00

My book was included in a treasury! Actually, this is the first time I've made it in a treasury, and I have to say it is such a wonderful feeling as many of you wonderfully artistic ladies (and gents!) know. And as you, also, know, having any of your pieces acknowledged is like having your child admired (well, very close ;-) - they are so personal, yes? But having poured over a year of myself into these words, having met all these beings (can't really say people since some aren't), the good and bad, and had the honor to tell their story was such a personal journey.

Bourdoir Moderne

One of my blog readers did mention their surprise that my first full-length story to be offered was not poetry, that it was in fact fantasy, however, I do not see it as a deviation of my true literary approach. From the smallest verses to the longest no matter their form, I have to be true to the meaning behind it all. Every one of life's decisions, actions, or inactions can be poetically heroic or tragic. The poetry lies in giving them a voice in this world, and in this sense I play historian first, observing as much as I can with an open mind, then, for better or worse (and quite paradoxily) filtering it through my interpretation. Some of these beings I will hold as dear friends, others, I hope never to encounter again. De cualquier modo, either way, their lives were not trivial to me, they tenaciously clung to my side wanting to be heard. I could not ignore them, and I couldn't dismiss them. Furthermore, I believe I am the better for having known them.

Even now, as I type here and know I have errands to run, I can hear the whispers of my newest acquaintances calling to me. Some have been shy, hesitant to relive their destinies, others want to be at peace yet I must slow them down to ensure nothing is missed. It is a fine line to not force their hand or shortcut through their hurts and triumphs. It is a line that I must ensure never blurs and takes me too far away from my own world and responsibilities, no matter how tempting it can sometimes be. After sitting in their world for days (though it must be a few hours here), I become so comfortable I'm ready to lay down for a nap, then remember that I'm just the historian. I cannot overstay my welcome.

Pero esta bien, but that's ok because I know I will make the journey again...

:-)

If Only...

2011-01-31T08:19:00.000-08:00

If I could

reach

far and wide

I'd take the

time

to reach inside

View my

soul

before it's lost

Pay the

toll

before the cost

Of ignoring

dreams

becomes to dear

If only

could reach in here...

-me

Elephant Walk

2011-01-26T13:10:00.000-08:00

Available in my Etsy store.

Oil pastels are such a soothing medium, I can't help but indulge them when they call me out to play. Especially, when they were most excited about this little elephant, my most favorite of beings. They knew he needed to not only be vibrant but soft and cuddly. I love when elephants play in my colors, no matter the medium used. Their ability to love surpasses even their girth, and that is the way I want to love. It is the way I want to be loved.

My relationship with my father was very trunks and tails--where he went I wanted to follow, holding his hand was the only security. Whenever I see elephants walk in this manner, I'm reminded of our walks, hand in hand, and the wish that we could walk on like that forever. Este elefantito, This little elephant stares longingly into the distance, as I know I did when my dad went where I could not follow.

However, I can continue to follow in his footsteps, and this walk became my daughter's and mine, it was our elephant dance, never forgotten only changing in its rhythm. Just as strong. We love with our whole hearts, and let it fly high bouncing joyously for everyone to see.

For now the pastels are sleeping, yawning every once in a while as they turn over in their little box, making way for my acrylic paints to swim upon wood, seeping into the wood grain, and making themselves at home. Painting on wood is my favorite, but I must admit I cannot wait for my pastels to awaken refreshed and ready to spend some time together.

:-)

Welcoming

2011-01-24T09:40:00.000-08:00

Available in my Etsy shop

When our homes are truly just that, a home, not simply a place to hang our coat and lay our heads, but the place where our hearts linger and yearn for when the day has been long, it is like stepping into a hug, yes? It is chocolate, laughter, y recuerdos cariñosos, and loving memories. Structurally, it can be the most basic of walls and roof, and yet it becomes paradise - perpetual spring to the societal frost that chills the outdoors.

This is the home I dreamt of as a child. The lack of heat and threadbare furniture were nothing compared to the cold of the broken foundation it rested upon. I could have made do with using jackets as extra blankets, and even the empty plates for almost every meal, if fear and anger had not sat at the table with us. Now, greeting my home in the morning and waking up in its arms, I do not take it for granted. And that first step from outside, so welcoming, so loving... it is healing. It is everything I wanted. Everything I had needed to stand a little taller, to smile a little more, to truly realize that sadness doesn't always have to run in with muddy feet to stain frightened hearts.

Home should be welcoming, moreover, living in a home should be viviendo con amor, living with love, yes?

A Throw-Away Synopsis or The Case of The Newly Learned Trick

2011-01-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

I'm very grateful to a wonderful young man who purchased my book. Not only did he take the time to contact me for purchase of my book outside of Etsy (he didn't want to have to sign up), but he then took the time to email me afterwards to offer a very valuable critique. He noted that if he hadn't run across my blog and become acquainted with my writing, he would not have purchased my book with the synopsis I had posted on Etsy. En realidad, If I'm honest, I wasn't pleased with the synopsis myself, but after 227 pages I found it very difficult, damn near impossible, to boil it all down to a few paragraphs. I even reminded myself, think of a jacket-cover description! It has to be interesting! Yet, I kept stumbling at this very important juncture.

Taking this critique to heart, and kicking myself for waiting so long, I've re-listed the book with a new synopsis:

An Iracundai demon bound by hate, sowing the fate of the world in planting a deadly weapon. Always unseen, unheard, it is his actions that will bring about the enslavement and death of the humans. He waits in the dark to watch the slaughter, believing he is invincible.

A Bindi demon bound by birth to the fate of whomever holds her chains. For now, she has landed in the hands of the Night Caller, a being of shadow and power, who clings to humans with a sentiment unlike his brethren, and hopes to salvage them from the oncoming terror. Except Master and demon are separated after a vicious attack, and she must set out to rescue him; her chains preventing her any other direction. Amidst this journey she encounters Kyle, a human lost in a realm of nightmares that will soon worsen.

Teaming up with the demon for survival, Kyle is swept into the quest to save the helpless world he comes from but feels no connection with. The darkness he carries within might become a spark of hope if he can face it, if he can confront the monsters that changed him from the boy to the mercenary. Keeping this secret from himself may cost Kyle more than his soul. It may cost him all of humanity.

Pues Mira! Well, look at me! I guess I can learn a new trick after all, no? And if there are any other constructive critiques out there, please do not hold back. If they are not constructive, if they are negative, thoughtless, or just plain mean, may I refer you to the previous post?

;-)

love,
me

Dear Anonymous,

2011-01-18T17:38:00.000-08:00

Whatever Comes

2011-01-17T08:56:00.000-08:00

Stopping to smell the roses... and if there are none, the leaves will do just fine... it's all beautiful...

Friendships

2011-01-15T10:25:00.000-08:00

I confess that friendships often confuse me... either I'm too quick to assume someone is a friend and heartbreakingly later realize this was not the case, or I'm too slow to realize that friendship was a very real possibility, but my need to isolate myself has made it impossible. At 42, it seems ridiculous not to have understood this concept, yet all these years later it is still beyond my grasp. I pour my heart into my writing, my artwork, my cooking, and always hope this connection will speak the words I cannot.

La Comadre Stuffie from previous post

Others do it with ease, not even conscious of the gift to draw people in and keep them in their circle. I marvel at the magic for it's alchemy of the soul and well-being, and it's beyond my ability. I mark my days by the magic of natural marvels: the rising and setting of the sun, the brilliance of stars, the tickling of rain drops, and the sweet smell of grass and flowers shaking hands. Cuentos mis bendiciones, I count my blessings in my daughter's laughter, in assisting my husband with his charitable organization, in cleaning my house and filling it with the scent of soups, stews, and fresh-baked bread. But when I sit at night, or my heart aches, or the niggling at the back of my neck causes me to turn my head to confide in another... there is no one there. And I've no one to blame but me.

I turn to my pen, and the allure of blank pages. I call to those mas asustados que yo, who are more frightened of the dark than I am, the ones who are more beaten in spirit, and who must be cajoled to let me in. I do for them, what I lack in my own sphere. I listen. I am there.

A part of me realizes it is probably not the norm to feel more connected to people on paper, the ones who dwell in hidden worlds tunneling to this one through my pen, than to "real people", but it's what I've always known. It's the comfort that has held me together all these years, and when I'm ripped away I cannot wait to run back. It's not easy living in two worlds when I can embrace the magic of one, and am lost in the other, especially when I have to live in the one I don't understand for the most part. But no one would ever know, I do my part and there's something to be said for that. No siempre es malo, I guess it's not always bad to not spill... otherwise, where would all those hidden people go?

:-)

Sewing and Mending

2011-01-13T15:31:00.000-08:00

I created a few dollies for my Etsy store, and there was immense satisfaction in bringing them to life when they had been sorely lacking in my childhood. See how sweetly this one smiles? She's just happy to be here, and so enamored that she has picked a flower for whomever will love her.

Her heart glitters with all that is good in the world, and the dark will never overcome her soul. She even sits atop a harvest! Her little box is weighted with beans, and she will never fall over from hunger. No emptiness in her tummy will keep her awake at night; her morning meal will be hearty and a good omen.

I've also made a softie dolly, my broken-hearted retablo dolly I'd created once before and sold on Etsy. As I stitched her up I couldn't resist feeling as I did so many years ago when I would cut the pant legs off an old worn pair of corduroys to make my own stuffie. These block-dolls were usually filled with socks so threadbare lla no servían para nada mas, they served no other purpose than to be a stuffie's innards. I thought about my patchwork friends so much I've already cut out the little pieces I need to put one together.

I often felt like those stuffies, unable to change the fact that I was threadbare and unappealing, that my insides felt worn and ill-used. That I would always be a cheap imitation, a bargain-basement rag doll with no place in the front window for people to oooh and aaaah. I believed I would always lie at the bottom of a musty world, unravelling with no hope of mending.

Asi creia,
That is what I believed,
But at least in the company
of another awkward creature,
It made the dark unbearable...

:-)

Just When You Fear...

2011-01-11T12:04:00.000-08:00

it's all black and white, you get a sign from above that there are many shades in between.

I meant to...

2011-01-03T13:01:00.000-08:00

start the New Year with a renewed devotion to my blog. Just because. Just for me to be here in this place where I write freely. I meant to then realized I rarely wrote on weekends, even when I wrote often, and I think it kept me balanced. (well, as balanced as I'm capable of anyway, ha!) Pero si lo quiero hacer, But I do want to to do this, and it's my own promise to me. Even if it's just an image or a word. A sigh or a smile.

As you can see, my ducks are still not in a row... but they seem to be trying.

:-)

Happy New Year to you all,
love,
me

My Girls...

2010-11-09T17:26:00.000-08:00

... are up on Etsy. After all this time, I finally started doing prints - yay!

:-D

(((hugs)))!

Basking In The Storm

2010-11-07T10:11:00.000-08:00

You know that feeling of wanting to savor a treat, parceling it out a little each day for that tingling anticipation of magic? That was my plan with a most wonderful treasure of words found in the book A Distant Storm. That WAS the plan...

By the time my tea was ready, and I settled into the comfort of Amy's collection of poetry, I lost track of time and took in every page, each adorned with a beautiful picture. However, there was nothing lost having done so. The following day I simply renewed my plan, rereading the book enjoying a poem every morning... que modo tan bella, it is a beautiful way to greet the rising sun.

If you haven't met Amy at Winged Paths, now would be a great time to get acquainted...

:-)

1985

2010-11-02T19:15:00.000-07:00

Illustration from A Fable for Big Girls

Holding my breath

Waiting for light

Nothing but dark…

Nothing seems right

Holding my breath

So nightmares won’t hear

Nothing but dark…

Nothing but fear…

-me

1985

Congratulations!

2010-11-01T08:44:00.000-07:00

Here's a beautiful blogger with words as poignant as her artwork. I love that even as she has the kindest, tenderest heart, she is quite bold in her opinions and convictions - after all, this gal's from Texas! She is featured in Artful Blogging, and it is so very well deserved. (Her profile picture alone will tell you just how adorable she is, heehee) Drop in and you'll be hooked... in this case it's a good thing.

Congratulations, mi amor, so much love to you!
(((hugs))),
me

For Every little Girl...

2010-10-27T15:59:00.000-07:00

inside every BIG girl, I have a fable for you. I know what it is like to fear the dark, I know what it is like to feel fear closing in, and loneliness sapping all of one's strength. The crowding of nothing and no one is unlike any other suffocation... it is true despair.

Gracias a Dios, Thankfully, I also know what it is like to hear music when the only sound before was the breaking of one's heart. But does the music last? Can the dark truly recede?

Yes, I have a fable for you...

Another Way to Create Stillness...

2010-10-26T18:29:00.000-07:00

Here's a gorgeous POST that encompasses a golden opportunity. Creating stillness, finding the quiet, are blessed moments that allow a peace of mind that can only help us grow into happiness. What a wonderful way to spend a weekend then, yes? Not to mention it can be spent with two very lovely ladies - Kate Swoboda, who I had the chance to meet, and the most delightful and beautiful of bloggers, Darlene. This lovely, makes me smile in a million different ways when I think of all her generosity and friendship.

Click on the link, and spend some time on her words... it will brighten your heart...

:-)

Fairy Tale Medium

2010-10-13T18:58:00.000-07:00

These two art pieces were done in pastels - my new love! The colors are vibrant, yet softened like a dream... a fairy tale come true. The trees never lose their leaves, though they flame or grow tranquil with the seasons; the birds will nest on the stars hatching starlets; and dolls grow worn with love, but never fall apart.

I had one baby-sized doll growing up, handed to me on Christmas Eve by a lady in red working for The Salvation Army. The Doll had yellow, yarn hair, and half-lidded eyes. Her purple dress was already a bit worn, but she was mine. I fed her mud pies, and ran my fingers through her hank of hair. I cared for her, and she never felt a slap, a kick, or a broken heart. She simply faded away with every year. Not so the dolls I draw. They stay near their little girls always.

Go Ahead...

2010-10-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

If I think back far enough will I remember the first time I smiled? Or the first time I wanted to? A great belly laugh is so rewarding, but a smile brought on by nothing more than the serenity of a happy home is cleansing... nurturing... it is like giving yourself a (((hug))) simply because you have done well at being you. It means you acknowledge that in this vast entire universe the teensy spark your soul engenders has illuminated a precious nook, and made life that much brighter and warmer.

Go ahead, smile - sabes porque? you know why? Because you are wonderful at being you... and I can see your light from here...

love,

Another Day

2010-09-26T21:44:00.000-07:00

The sun has set, and the clocks are winding down another day while, thankfully, my roof still holds; my belly is full of goodness; and soon the gentle dreams of my family will fill our home. Times feel a bit frightening, pero ahorita, yet at this moment I am surrounded by blessings that I will fight to hold on to, no matter how hard that fight might get.

Sleep well,

love,

Wave

2010-09-16T19:55:00.000-07:00

Upon a wave of sadness

I crashed upon the shore

Broken and cowed

A final cry aloud

I drew a breath no more

-me

I have no idea why these words of melancholy ebbed within me as I took a walk just now. Such words, admittedly, have been intermittent my entire life, but they never swelled within me unbidden. It has always been like the tide, slowly overtaking me. However, just as suddenly as they came and knotted around my heart, they magically uncoiled and left me sighing with relief. Que cosa, no? Strange, yes? And oddly comforting... my past caught up with me, and receded knowing that its place is well behind me.

Inconsistent

2010-09-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

It seems, lately, it takes me a couple of months to find my way back here. The new book takes me far from this now, and the renewed efforts I’m putting back into my shop for fall/holidays have gathered the remaining hours after work and family time and kept a firm hold. Good yes, but I miss ruminating and just letting my mind wander on different topics, poems, beauty and emotions. Por su puesto, Of course it does wanders into these areas, they just don’t make it onto paper for the most part.

I’ve noticed with this new story there is an obstinate character that refuses to open up, still not trusting that I will take his words and not taint them with my own point of view. He wants his world, his story, his way, and it is a bit unnerving, not to mention frustrating. If I’m to be honest, I avoid him at times because he is too much like me. Reaching for the stars, but never branching out to others; keeping to himself and finding reasons to avoid asking for anything. Ever. Me encanta servir y ayudar a la gente, I love to help people and be of service to them, but it is near impossible to let others do that for me. I find it hard to even let them know of any negative feelings, sadness, or hurts, afraid that it will bring them down and cause any undue burden.

I see this same trait in him, in the way he walks away, not running for that would cause suspicion, he simply walks and no one notices. I alternate between seeking him out and feeling relieved he’s moved off the page. Then I realize there is a gapping hole in the story and that world loses its dimension becoming flat. It is no longer real when I ignore and/or avoid him for too long. Therein lies a lesson I suppose…

Branching out? I know there’s something to that. My mind tells me so, I’ve lived long enough to see it work for many others… but it’s hard to change what becomes innate, what is such an ingrained part of my life to rein in anything but joy. Those buoyant feelings are meant to shine upon the world and hug others. Dark days are for hiding, or so I learned long ago. Quien sabe, Who knows, perhaps in changing him, some of that will change in me. I suppose that’s why I feel such a need to write and meddle in these other worlds, no?

For now I hope to find you all enjoying your own creative worlds, families, and loves…

Wondrous Beauty

2010-07-29T14:24:00.000-07:00

I could stare at the ocean all day, conversing with the waves that undulate boldly and shyly, racing to investigate then receding with mournful farewell. Sometimes the waves bring treasures laying them out haphazardly only to change their minds and tuck them away for another time. It is mesmerizing, y encuentro alegria renovada, and I’m finding renewed joy every time I descend the cliffs cupping the ocean with their craggy sides.

I’m fortunate in that this beautiful sight is but 45 minutes away, and either to or from it hillside fruit stands from local farms provide refreshing snacks. If I continued on the highway but a few minutes more, I would find myself at my father’s lasting home at the National Cemetery. However, I prefer to have him meet me here at this calming, wondrous beauty. He doesn’t even have to say a word. The ocean says it for us—reaching to the farthest end of the world and connecting with heaven.

Offline

2010-07-18T16:11:00.000-07:00

I have to say it was refreshing to sign in to my blog today and face a blank post filled with possibilities. I have been offline longer than intended, both in writing and reading blogs. I’ve maintained my little etsy store, kept up with current events, and have balanced out and eventually suspended my Netflix queue, but more than that, nope, the internet and I have not had much interaction.

Te fijas? You realize I say the “internet” and not my computer, for I’ve been typing away working on a new story that dwells on my mind most every minute of the day. For those of you who write creatively, this sounds familiar, yes? I wake up and one of my characters greets me; having been left in limbo while I made and ate dinner, and of course slept, they are anxious to resume their life. Sporadically, throughout my housework and errands, they confide in me details that effect the direction of where the story will go, and it is sometimes a challenge to scribble shorthand or simply to have to memorize the details until I can sit down and fully commit to a few more pages.

Sounds a bit like going mad, no? I suppose in part that’s kind of how it works, but the reward of having seen these places, and met these characters (though not all are agreeable, yikes!) is so cathartic. It, paradoxically, settles my wandering mind, and actually allows me to sleep better than any other time. I am a life-long insomniac, and only during the grips of these literary musings, when I have fully committed to listening and seeing that world, do I truly find some peace. Even more so than painting and crafting I have to admit. The merging of colors and textures when creating art is a momentary purge, while the need to resolve these characters’ dilemmas is constant thought processing.

El peligro, the dangers, as I’m sure I’ve pointed out in a previous post, or if I didn’t I should have, is of course losing sight of this here and now. I find myself less sociable (and I’m pretty reclusive as it is), and all in all reluctant to engage in the world at large, not my immediate family—husband, daughter, dog, and cat—but anyone outside of that very, tiny, circle. After all, I’m quite overwhelmed with the confessions and demands of these lost souls who depend on me to give them a voice, and aid them in finding their way back home.

I’ve also gone back to work, but find myself with a few vacation days that freed me up enough to reach out here. To remember what a warm, and caring community bloggy world extends even to misfits like me, ha! Smiley face as I say that ladies and gents. I’m in one of those wonderful swings when not only do I accept my oddball status, but find comfort in it when I know I’ve been set upon a path of worlds beyond this one, and can embrace the magic of knowing I found them within myself, and brought them and freed them for anyone to see if they wish.

(((hugs)))!

Tangled

2010-04-21T11:18:00.000-07:00

Because time is stitched day by day with such a fine thread, the moments can become tangled, a blur, and I lose track of how long it’s been since I’ve reached out and connected. No solamente aqui, Not only here and in this space, but my whole life.

When I finally begin to unknot my feelings, my isolation, I realize that, once again, I am a great distance from where others stand and laugh and share. The road back seems so far, and there's always the chance I will never catch up. I realize that I may even get tangled all over again before I manage my way back... because there is no way to wind up the thread and begin again.

Gentle

2010-03-01T13:02:00.000-08:00

I'm dreaming of Spring while wiping Winter's tears in gentle comfort...

Still

2010-02-19T16:12:00.000-08:00

A life that stands still too long is but an image of lost chances...

Extraordinary...

2010-01-24T16:36:00.000-08:00

Mist rolls down from the hills
Whispering fairy tales to the trees,
Encouraging the moss to play on the sidewalk…

Inspirando magia,
Inspiring magic…

Extraordinary…

Calling Me Home

2010-01-21T13:19:00.000-08:00

Is it possible to slip in and out of time? Absolutely. We reminisce and regret often, yes? We go back to our joys and sorrows and can sink so deeply into that memory that our souls glow and darken accordingly. We are told to move on, pero no siempre es malo, but slipping is not always a bad thing. Recalling what makes our lives sing can remind us to value what is truly important, the big and the small; likewise remembering our misfortune, especially if it is brought about by our own hand, helps us to truly see ourselves and grow. And slipping away from the here and now gives us sight into the vast universe of our hearts and minds.

So when DOES this become a bad thing? When it becomes obsession? When we slip a little too much or too long? I suppose those are markers, and it is something I always had to watch for as an adolescent.

Stepping out of time became a haven for a girl who was too young to be so tired. It became a need that blurred itself with reality, and was on the verge of swallowing me whole. Ironically, the need to maintain the façade that nothing was wrong, to hide from the world and prying eyes all my pain, all my anger, and all my fear, to not give this world the satisfaction that it was breaking me and making me run gave me the strength to maintain a fragile balancing act that continued until the birth of my daughter. At that time I knew there was no choice but to solidify that barrier, to be aware of crossing over so that I could paint, write, and create, and never believe that it was a place I could live and never return from. My daughter healed me in so many ways… her smile, her laughter, eventually allowing that world to harmlessly blend with this one.

With the arrival of the rains this week, everyday a new cleansing, I have been slipping more often, en buen modo, in the good way. I know I’ll find my way back, and so I dance with every beat of the rain drops and feel my feet slip out from under me, and time whooooshes with the wind sending me up and over the hills in a valley where everything looks the same but different, where I meet him, and her, and before they can help it they want me to know their story. I accommodate them, and write as much down as possible. I write as fast as I can before the wind starts blowing again, calling my name in a familiar voice, calling me by that name I love more than any other. Calling me “mama” and letting me know that my daughter needs me, reminding me that my husband is leaving work, and that dinner should be started. That familiar voice llamando me a casa, calling me home.

The Clarity of Night Writing Contest

2010-01-11T09:19:00.001-08:00

(picture courtesy of Jason Evans)

If you have a moment to visit Jason at his blog, The Clarity of Night, you'll find a treasure trove of writing talent. Jason is hosting his 6th anuual writing contest, and the entries are of the highest caliber. The deadline is coming up (January 13th), so for any interested in participating there is a link for entry rules posted, but the basics is a 250-word (max) story inspired by the photo above.

You'll enjoy perusing the entire blog, as Jason is a truly gifted writer with a versatility of ease in most any genre. Whether it's contemporary, humorous, or a bit macabre, and whether it's poetry, a short story, or a vignette from the book he is currently writing, a trip to his blog is a treat worth granting yourself.

Aqui esta el mio, Here is my entry:

The Crossing

The wind continues to fight me. I glide for a moment, passing but a few rays of sun, and it drags me back. I push forward, and it shrieks, wrestling what strength I have left out of my soul.

Nothing comes easy since the moon fell out of the sky—the darkness embraced me, kept me cloaked and safe. Now, there is nowhere to hide. Their eyes are everywhere, and their claws are sure to follow. Even the trees have begun discarding their leaves, rendering me as bare as their branches, leaving me at the mercy of death’s arrow.

Dare I stop for a moment? Can I give in to the weakness in my wings, and escape the fate of the flock of which I alone am left to dot the sky? They all fell as wooden thunderbolts from below brought them crashing down like raindrops soaking the land in their life’s blood.

There is little choice. Even as I struggle to climb further away from the ground, it pulls at me, the weight of its desire sapping my will. I aim for the ragged peaks, talons forward, then fold my wings keeping myself still as the granite upon which I grab hold. If the rocks accept my burden, if refuge is to be found, I will carry the song of my ancestors back into the night. And I will lay the future of my kind upon a nest of hope.

Settling In

2010-01-02T20:36:00.000-08:00

The holidays have come and gone like a fluttering of wings: laughter, gift wrapping, food, and love descending like a gentle whirlwind, a blur of memories to be recaptured in bits and pieces. So much to do, and so many visits either to our house or another’s there was no time for connecting here, and even very little time to escape into that world of words and far away. The few times allowed for sitting I did manage to read a few books, pero era todo, but that was it.

It is for this reason my anxiety often peaks during the holidays, though I love the Christmas season. Every one, even my husband, mistakes this for the usual holiday stress, however, the interruption of stringing words to the tune I hear in my heart is always draining. Oh, I string them nonetheless, I'm simply unable to write them down and this causes me to drift and become distracted. When a few minutes become available to capture these words on paper, it feels like an added holiday blessing.

Well, Christmas has now been constrained into its allotted boxes, and the boxes are lined up in the hall like passengers on a platform waiting to make the final trip to the attic until December. The familiar everyday routines are shaking off the cobwebs, and getting ready to settle in and greet us every morning. The latest story I have been working on is about to awaken from the holiday slumber as well, and return to its own pace.

Que se encuentran felices, I hope to find you all happy and healthy, and that the New Year has worn its finest to greet you with magic and wonder. Love to all of you, and a big I’ve-missed-you-all (((hug))),

love,
me

Recovering...

2009-12-12T15:40:00.000-08:00

It looks like the flu has finally left our household, replaced with the smell of pine and Christmas decorations. The house is festive with color twinkling like fireworks and blooming along the banisters and shelves.

My daughter turns eighteen tomorrow, and though we had a celebration dinner on Friday then a play afterwards, tomorrow there will be a little something extra waiting for her. Every year on her birthday there is a small, sentimental gift awaiting her when she awakens - the greatest gift for me, of course, is the opening of her eyes, the sound of her voice as another year fully embraces her before relinquishing her to another day. Es lo que me mantenie, It's what keeps me going, what brings me joy, and what gives every breath meaning.

Thank you for all your well-wishes, and I will be visiting soon, hoping to catch up on your words, thoughts, and smiles from afar.

Love,
me

Oink, Oink

2009-11-25T14:59:00.000-08:00

All cooking and baking has come to a standstill... my little piggy went to market and brought home the swine flu...

:-(

This past weekend, hubby has been shaking, rattling, and rolling and not in an Elvis-Presley-kind-of-way. Fever, chills, the works, but thankfully he is recovering. I waited on him every second, and in his never-ending generosity he gave me the flu in all its glory. Te digo! I tell ya, my honey is all kinds of considerate in one package! heehee

So, with a fever of 102, I believe it is best to keep away from food, mixing, and magic in the kitchen, and give myself over to my couch, my doggy, and Netflix. Reading is a little hard at this stage, as I realize I have to read some sentences over and over because they continuously melt and blur before my fevered eyes. Those little suckers race across the page, and I have no energy for keeping up with them - mock me now with what little power you wield whilst this bain is upon me, but one day revenge will be mine! I will smear you into an illegible blot that will never recover from the pounding of my fist!

(yeah, you see? That's my fever getting the best of me... or is it? hmmmm... de todos modos, anyway, back to the real world...)

Also, as my 17 year old daughter has been lucky enough to escape this so far (fingers crossed!), I keep disinecting my hands and giving the house a good once over with vinegar and water, and opening the windows to try and keep it as contagion free as possible. Trying to read I keep falling asleep, and once I'm asleep - yup! you guessed it - no cleaning!

I will catch up with your blogs once all those little squiggles on the page make a lot more sense, and I'll be back with the canning recipe for escebeche for any who are interested in trying this. (How's that Jason? ;-) I figure since it's canning I should be in a clear frame of mind before I try typing the recipe out, yes?

A todos buenas tardes,
To everyone a very good evening
with no little squeals and grunts
around the corner...

love,
me

Christmas Is Coming...

2009-11-19T10:45:00.000-08:00

It’s been a week since I’ve had time to post as I’ve been in the midst of painting, embroidering, cooking, and canning. Christmas has packed its bags, already journeying on its sleigh ride to visit. A homemade Christmas makes for a bustle of activity in the kitchen where spices have lingered like a sneeze while canning escebeche (pickled carrots with jalapenos). This treat especially needs to be done at least a month ahead of time to allow all the flavors to come together and make merry. Next on the list are almond-cinnamon pancake mixes measured and sifted into jars, and soon it will be time for tamale pies and pumpkin bread to name a few.

There’s nothing like making room in your home for all the good smells that come from a winter kitchen… and a Christmas kitchen is like wrapping all the smells up in a bow. Es un regalo sin igual, It is a gift like no other, and putting together Christmas baskets of savories and sweets is a salve for Christmases darkened by the past. If I peer behind me into those years there are no trees (once the aluminum tree was so bent it was like piecing together a pretzel), no tamales, no candy… and a few times no gifts.

I remember finding a box of papery, shimmery Christmas icicles that someone must have dropped from their shopping. I ran all the way home and sprinkled it over the windowsill, and I danced with joy that Christmas would nest there for me to see every morning. Those bits of silver were the only sign of Christmas, and seeing the forced smile my dad managed every morning as it neared I knew there would be no gifts that year. I knew there would be no treats and I had none left from Halloween.

A week or so before the morning I knew others would be tearing open wrapping paper yo justifique, I justified the plan in my head.

The walk to the store consisted of a heated conversation between the proverbial angel and devil that rest on one’s shoulders. The fluttering wings of right were no match for the prodding of that little pitchfork that assured me I deserved this. Once inside the store I deftly picked up a chocolate bar, and never breaking my stride I continued down one isle then another until I found one deserted. Bending over to tie my shoe I slipped the candy underneath my pants, and secured it in my knee-high sock.

The exit seemed miles away, and the candy so light one moment was now a stone knocking me off balance. I knew I wasn’t limping, I knew my face gave nothing away, and no one gave me a second glance, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that the candy had dug itself into my leg while I dragged it screaming out of the store. Once outside I counted a few beats before skipping then breaking into a run. I’d done it! Moreover, no sirens were wailing to contradict that little devil that I had done anything wrong.

I’m certain at this point I should say I couldn’t bring myself to eat the candy, that after one bite I guiltily tossed it aside. The truth, however, is that as guiltily as I ate it, it tasted exquisite. Era tan rico, It was scrumptious eating that smooth chocolatey bar, from the moment it cracked between my teeth only to have it soften into a thick, melting mound that easily slid over my tongue and down my throat filling my belly. And I’ll confess it was not the last bar that managed its way out of the store as a stowaway in my sock. Eventually though, the fluttery wings of what is right sent an insistent chill down my spine convincing me that I was not long for the venture of taking what wasn’t mine.

When my daughter was born, Christmas became what I always dreamed it should be: the living room framed with a tree with twinkling lights, and always lots goodness on plates never allowing the thought of stealing chocolate to enter her mind. For gifts, yes there are the designer shoes, or guitar hero, but, also, quite a few homemade presents whether it’s a scarf, pajamas, or a painting. Every year there is a homemade ornament that she opens on Christmas Eve to hang on the tree for Christmas day, ornaments she’ll take with her when it is time for her own tree and traditions. When the day comes she stands in her own kitchen llenando la con memorias, filling it with all the memories of Christmas past, and all the love of Christmas yet to come.

Overlooked

2009-11-11T13:22:00.000-08:00

(photo by Andrew Cutraro)

How have I overlooked you standing there every day?
Overlooked your boots whispering underneath the door
While taking your place defending my home
My laughter,
My tears,
My breath…
My freedom
To stand in any building
And not have it collapse underneath my feet
To look towards heaven
And not have it obscured by the burning of my country
To hold my daughter
Without losing her to an explosion of hatred

Como es que no me fijé
How did I not notice that you stand where your brother fell?
That you took his place refusing to surrender my rights
That you stepped into the echo of
His laughter,
His tears,
His breath,
His freedom
Laid at our feet and trampled in complacency

For all the times I have not seen your silent tears,
My heart breaks
For all the times you have saved me and mine,
I thank you
And offer a million prayers to that God that offends so many

God who holds you close when those you defend don’t even know your name

Happy Veteran's Day, and many blessings to all who defend our country. Special love to my dad who served in World War 2.

love,
me

Happy Halloween

2009-10-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

The wind has really picked up over the week, and I’ve been watching leaves take to the skies likes ducks flying south, hurrying over the treetops without time to catch their breath. Pumpkins have been peeking out of porches with smiles on their faces, skeletons hanging off the eaves rattle their bones, and black cats already have their backs arched as they wait for tomorrow. They are all ready to greet teeny witches and goblins, princesses and pirates, and hopefully quite a few other enchanted characters.

I remember my dad cutting holes in a big, brown grocery bag I’d decorated with squares and knobs making me a robot. Oh, the thought of running around at night like this--todo diferente por la noche, everything different because of the night. There was magic waiting to ignite, and I never wanted it to end: racing from one lawn to the next, dodging scarecrows displayed with scary masks, and shrieking in delight when a werewolf answered the door. And after all that adventure, coming home with free candy that I could piece out to last me for at least a couple of months.

Getting my daughter's costumes ready year after year brought me right back to that excitement. True, the crowds weren’t like before, and I only entrusted her to the mall going from store to store. However, I could see that same laughter in her eyes, and the glee when she ran into someone she knew and they’d run holding hands to the next shop for handfuls of treats. I’d forget to take pictures after the first go round of poses; too lost in that moment, getting swept away in her childhood I knew would be gone all too soon keeping me from stepping back behind the lens.

Ahorita, Right now we have three pumpkins sitting on the porch, and they know their big day is almost here, after which they will not be forgotten. Only my husband carves his, but my daughter and I leave ours to show of their orange, pleated skins so that they can enjoy the autumn for as long as it lasts...

Happy Halloween,
Love,
me

Lesson Learned

2009-10-26T09:52:00.000-07:00

Against a grey backdrop, this little bird didn't make a sound. No song, no tweets, he merely sat contemplating the falling leaves like shingles disappearing from his roof one by one, though he didn't seem distraught that his shelter was coming apart. He knows he'll fly away soon and find another home, perhaps a better one. Perhaps on his way he'll meet his mate and they'll create their new home together. I doubt I'll see him again tomorrow, but I wish him well.

Una lección en el cielo, A lesson in the sky, a lesson as easily visible as a bird sitting in a tree in Autumn. Learning to adapt, making the best of what is--ever changing times, and life in general keeps us thinking and planning. And if we're lucky along the way we find friends and soul mates, laughter and love, and maybe children to connect us to everything that lives and breathes. After a lifetime of ups and downs, when the downs descended so far and for so long it was imperceptible when the ups were beginning, it is a lesson learned.

View From 18

2009-10-22T11:04:00.000-07:00

Not every door is meant to be open
Not every doorway should be ignored
Looking back at the years that have passed
A darkened corridor marked by choices and chances
Some taken, doors flung open
Others left closed, the doorknobs rusted

No turning back
No changing what was

Ahead the corridor brightens...
Apenas,
Barely
Choices and Chances flickering silently
Marking time

It's not easy as running through each
Too much tunneling and the corridor's lost
Yet straight through the journey's insignificant
The lights sputtering with regret

No turning back
No changing what was

--me

*written October 22nd, 1986 when I turned 18

Shameless, I know...

2009-10-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

...however, I can't help but make mention that today I'm being featured on the Indie Craft Corner blog.

:-D

Ok, lla lo se, I know it seems like I'm tooting my horn (toot - oops! did I do that?), but I find it exciting. (eek! - there I go again...)

For someone who has always been very solitary, promoting myself does not come easy. I'm not shy by any means for the two are not one and the same. If I find something distasteful, if someone is rude - it will be known. When I'm happy and/or thrilled at another's good fortune or because the clouds are beautifully lit behind the burning sun - it will be known (yes, I'll be the one who does a happy-dance, claps her hands, twirls, gives hugs, etc... in other words I make a spectacle of myself).

Yet, about myself I'm often mute except for here in this space. I suppose it is the freedom of the degree of anonymity, the feel that I'm sharing a secret dispersed like droplets of rain - they go so far that they will not return to storm over me. Feelings are sacred and potent, and in the wrong hands they are dangerous. Soltando los en voz baja, Released in a whisper they do not call too much attention, but are still allowed to make their way out into the world.

So this is another secret I'm entrusting to you all: knowing that people have seen my artwork, that a couple of beauties ordered my book, that I could make a feature on a blog, makes me happy... it is a bit of redemption for watching most of my childhood dreams dissolve like tear-stained watercolors.

:-)

A Good Man

2009-10-16T11:48:00.000-07:00

How do you know a good man? Is it his smile? His silence? The way he brings light into a cold, dark room? The way he sits by your bedside assuring you nightmares are not real? Is it the apology in his eyes before he warns you that it is not safe to be in your own home, that the “bad days” have come, and she will be vandalizing the house with screams? Warning and giving you enough time to scramble up the almond tree in the backyard like a cat scrambling for survival to get out of reach?

Is he good man aunque quebró su promesa, though he broke his promise never to leave you alone with her and all those bad days?

Twenty-four years ago yesterday, my dad passed away, and I became lost in conversations and jokes we'd shared. Sitting on my patio, I took the same long walk to the church and back where I would collect rocks big enough to drown my fears. I was just swirling sugar into a second cup of tea when my mom called to remind me that twenty-four years ago we sat with him for the last time, and I could hear her voice saddened that the man who tried to save her from her “bad days” was no more but a whisper in heart. Es tan facil olvidar me, It’s easy for me to forget that the “bad days” didn’t only affect me. My dad was in over his head trying to save both my mom and I.

It reminded me even good men don’t always win. You can’t win a game when the rules are thrown out, and in that sad house the rules were cracked more than the walls and broken more than our hearts. He was already 58 years old when I was born, and he was a good man despite leaving me before I even turned 17 and breaking that promise to keep me safe. And I even forgive him most likely welcoming his time to leave that little house of straw that always blew apart with all the huffing and puffing of my stormy childhood.

Yesterday was not a day I wanted to place blame, not a day I wanted to be sad. Yesterday I remembered him with more smiles than heartache befitting the role he played in my life.

I miss you and I love you no solamente porque eres mi padre, not only because you’re my father, but because I have no doubt you were a good man. No doubts whatsoever that you still are.

love,
me

Leading Home

2009-10-12T11:14:00.000-07:00

This little sidewalk running left from our house can take me anywhere. I look at it and am often reminded of Bilbo from The Hobbit who left his home without so much as a handkerchief to embark on a grand adventure. No dragons to slay in my near future, though I’ll never say never; however, the most rewarding aspect of this little walk is that just as it leads me out, tambien me trae a casa, so it leads me home.

This weekend alone, if you’d had the chance to come down this walk you’d have found a little dog that shakes himself with such joy he often collapses before he shoots back up and starts all over again; you’d have smelled bacon frying, dinner rolls rising, apple-muffins baking, not to mention fabric softener for weekend laundry. You would have heard a book read aloud, and laughter as my daughter went from seventeen to seven recounting goofy jokes; and good-natured groans as my husband cannot resist a pun and will stretch one to unimaginable limits.

This little walk has led me far from where I started in this life, and I feel my heart open wide whenever I’m on it. The trees on both sides (though not visible in the photo) are slender but caring, rounding over to see how I’m doing and making sure I make it safely to whichever end. I know I get sentimental over so many things, but if I can’t appreciate it all then what’s the point, yes? On all the roads traveled, hasta los pequeños, even the little ones, and especially the ones that lead back home, there are memories dotting the sides like flowers waiting to be sniffed and remembered. Every petal can be plucked and will elicit a smile, or perhaps a tear, for there isn't a road that has never seen rain.

I have no ideas how many roads are out there for me, perhaps this little walk will lead me home always. Either way it has a special place in my heart, and I'll admit every once in a while I'll skip down this road and do a little happy dance. My daughter wonders if I'll always be such a goofball, thankfully she says this smiling and always adds "I hope so!" because I don't think I can help it. ;-)

Evolving

2009-10-06T09:07:00.001-07:00

Aqui está, So here it is – my project unveiled. Depending how long you’ve been visiting my little blog, you may recall that during my yearlong absence from bloggy land I began writing a story that helped me cope with the many troubles I was going through. No surprise that it was during Autumn that this story crept into my head, that during my walks around the nearby lake I began to see a face with so many words ready to pour out that I couldn’t help but speak to her. She was a demon, but I wasn’t frightened; she opened her heart to me, and since mine was a bit broken at the time I gratefully fell in.

The world she described intrigued me, and it wasn’t long before she introduced me to Kyle and the Master she served. I kept track of their adventure, often fearing for them, shuddering at their encounters, and so very proud of what they were trying to accomplish. Two hundred pages later, I was putting my life back together. Two hundred pages later, I knew I didn’t just want to wrap this story up and tuck it away. However, I did put it aside for a little over a month, wanting to return to it with fresh eyes before editing. That was quite a process. And of course since writers can be their own worse editor, I knew that if I was serious I had to let someone else read it, which I did.

Now learning how to bind the book was a frustrating task, but if I was publishing this book myself, then I was going to actually MAKE it myself. I wanted it to have that old-world feel, like a lost manuscript unearthed. Here is the synopsis:

We all fall at some time in our lives whether losing our way or overcome by demons. However, when Kyle falls he falls out of the world, and his only hope is a demon… and her Master. A being of shadow and power, a Night Caller, Master is determined to help a civilization, the people who birthed him, from an ambush cunningly set by a dark hatred.

The monsters of human imaginings will not prepare them for the creatures lurking the perimeters of true nightmares held back by ancient rules soon to be crushed. Kyle is aware of these devils though he has yet to confront the ones that changed him from the boy to the mercenary. Keeping this secret from himself may cost Kyle more than his soul. It may cost him humanity.

Oh, and here’s my demon:

I love her. Really. Y te puedo decir, and I can tell you letting her out into the world is hugely scary, but I think she and her companions deserve their story to be told. I’ve put a few copies of my book available on Etsy along with some Dia De Los Muertos art.

I’ll be catching up with all of you as soon as I’m back from my walk. I'm late getting started on my day because of Etsy posting, and my furbaby is anxiously wagging his tail. Also, there’s someone else waiting for me. Yes, I’ve started another book, and he’s finally opening up.

;-)

Love,
me

14 Syllables

2009-10-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

Whisper released
Soaring, floating... gentle descent
Autumn

Out of Focus

2009-09-25T13:38:00.001-07:00

Swimming away now that summer is gone, and the morning sun is out of focus taking longer to warm their baths, los patitos, these little duckies are clearing the lake near my house. My dog tugs against his leash wanting a closer look, but within a few whispers of the wind all that is left are ripples widening in a final farewell.

Happy Autumn,
Love,
me

I Had Mail

2009-09-23T10:22:00.001-07:00

My inbox has really been a circus these last few days. Thank goodness for those beautiful and positive comments awaiting me (who doesn’t get happy seeing these, right? you’re smiling, yes?) Apart from those there were a few Etsy notices, craft fair inquiries, and of course those emails that finagle their way through the filters by misspelling target words: Would you like your peanis to rival the empire state building? No, I don’t have a peanis, thank you very much; Would you like your man’s peanis to talk to you all night long? Ni lo mande Dios! May God never allow that! I have enough problems when my husband gets ideas in his head, imagine if his "peanis" had an opinion? Nope, pass. Then there were a few emails that confused me and caused me to “WTF?!”, but I’ll only discuss one in particular.

It has been brought to my attention that my last post was a let down. Apparently on the heels of the post A Long Journey, my Finishing Touches post was “generic” and “lacking depth”. This was a long, detailed email, and I must admit by the second paragraph I became a bit fascinated by the sincerity of this person’s disappointment AND irritation at my inconsistency. They must have missed the one with my dog and his wrestling obsession otherwise I would really have a lot to answer for!

I suppose the difference in posts was one is a poem, the other was reaching out to connect with blogglyland. I suppose the other difference being I was unaware I was obligated to raise the bar, and perform on demand. Oh? I’m not, am I? That’s right, this is my space… hmmmm… that does mean I post what I will and how I will. And you know what (yes You), there were still beautiful comments waiting for me (en verdad, really, go look), and the fact that You are disappointed did not, much to your dismay, bring the world crashing down upon my head. But hey! You did earn your own post! True you rated lower than the misspelled penis emails, but if it makes you feel better while reading your email I immediately associated it with a talking penis, so I guess that’s something, no? Let’s just call it even.

For all the lovelies and gents who make there way here, thank you for no expectations, thank you for accepting whatever ramblings I... well, ramble on about, heehee

;-)

love,
me

Finishing Touches

2009-09-21T07:36:00.000-07:00

This was my baby's weekend - loungey. Mine? Not so much. On top of the usual flurry of my mom, and general home stuff I have quite a few projects that need finishing touches.

Today will be all about adorning these last details, taking pictures, and starting the whole process all over again. I must admit I love the ritual of brewing my tea (strong Irish Breakfast Tea), and sitting down to swirls of colors. Whether acrylics, watercolor, or in paper patterns this combination is soothing. Oh, and the other project? Tu sabes, you know the one I keep hinting at? It is sooooo close now – those tummy-butterflies are really whirlin’!

I hope your weekend was beautiful. I hope there was magic, and that it tapped you on the shoulder, kissed your nose so that your eyes opened wide with wonder, and you smiled from deep within your heart. Si, eso es lo que deseo, Yes, that is what I hope…

:-)

Gift of Jewels

2009-09-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

Imagine receiving all this loveliness in the mail! As usual I walked to my mailbox while going over my mental checklist, crossing one thing off and adding three more, when I spied an envelope with the name of one of the most inspiring blogs I know - Soul Aperture. I literally stopped in my tracks before rushing back in to savor this friendship. Beautiful Christina mailed me my Gift of Jewels, inspired by the magnificent Se'Lah (don't you just LOVE her name!)

I have to tell you this bloggy love is amazing, and I am reveling in it! Oh, y no era todo, and that wasn't all. There were a few more postcard sets for the kindness swap - you ladies are in for such a treat. With every postcard package there is such fun and love that I can't wait to get these going. Solamente, Just waiting on a few more then it will be time to put all your love into action - yay!

:-)

My Dog's Dark Side

2009-09-13T22:14:00.000-07:00

First let me clarify, my dog, my baby, my sweetness whom I cannot deny anything, loves wrestling. Yes, professional, fake wrestling. There is something about that steel chair knocking someone out, and that dive off the top rope, that is a thrilling rush!... so my dog says. However, as of late, my dog is not happy with wrestling entertainment, and he needs to vent.

Now, the fact that this is a scripted sport makes it very maddening when the right person doesn't win. I mean, imaginate, imagine it: Superbowl, the World Series are all about ability and chance, you do not know who is going to win, and there's really no one to blame when the game doesn't go your way, yes? But wrestling someone KNOWS. Someone DECIDED that "x" person is going to win the belt, and HOW they are going to do it. Then they don't pick the right one!

grrrrrrrr!

How can I enjoy my fake sport, when all I want to do is strangle the little man behind the curtain!?... er, this is what my dog would like to know. If you're going to give me a heel (bad guy) don't make them all the same; if you want to put a face over (promoting a good guy or "hero" and giving him credibility) give him some flaws for dimension! Otherwise they may as well use cardboard cutouts, no?

Have I caught some of you off guard? You know, with my dog's passion for wrestling? I know that UFC (ultimate fighting) is the real deal, and I suppose some might think boxing is far more respectable, but let's consider the brutality, something that was far too prevalent in my neighborhood growing up. Well, actually, I guess that says it all. No quiero que se matan, I don't want them killing each for real! Imagine gladiators giving crowds the thrill of a blood sport, then high-five-ing each other backstage, or feeding and training the lions that will pretend to eat them every day at 11 and 5, Sundays off.

Action in the ring, primal and brutal--I can enjoy it knowing that most of these guys will walk backstage, shake hands and get along. There are serious injuries in the ring, no doubt, these are some big guys flipping and throwing each other around even outside the padded ring, but they are pulling punches, and timing their kicks. They spot each other, and give us the action without real violence. It allows me to enjoy the dark side without it being too dark - more like twilight.

Oh, wait! It allows my dog to enjoy it... yes, that's what I meant...

;-)

We Are Still Here

2009-09-11T07:32:00.000-07:00

Beautiful sky
Beautiful sun
Rising to shine over us
Because we are still here…

We were shaken
We were struck
We were angry
We still are

Just as we are still here

You wanted to scare us
You did
You wanted our attention
You got it
You wanted to destroy us

But we are still here

You wanted us to look at this day
And see your face
We look at this day
And see those who were murdered
We look at this day
And we see OUR faces

Because we are still here

Dios nos bendiga,
God Bless America
We still stand

Yes, we still have a lot to learn
We are not perfect
But we are capable of great love
We show it every day
We are capable of great deeds
We accomplish them every day
We are capable of greatness
We prove that always
Not for you
But for us
For all of us

Because WE are still here

-me

9/11

Ooops! Is My Mexican Showing?

2009-09-09T11:32:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of calaveras y ofrendas, skulls & shrines as the days turn a little chilly. In the blink of an eye Dia de Los Muertos, Day of the Dead will be here, and I'm stirring up some goodies to pop in my Etsy store for those who want to partake of this holiday. It is a special time in Mexican culture, a time when our loved ones take a wondrous journey to be by our sides, and enjoy the earthly comforts that warmed their hearts when they were alive. We offer them their favorite meals, their favorite drinks, we hold them in our hearts always, but on this day we hold their presence far more tangibly. It is a time to look forward to, not morbidly, but lovingly. And certainly cathartically.

:-)

Abandoned

2009-09-07T14:35:00.000-07:00

I found you on my walk
I don't know to whom you belonged
Y no se como obtuvieron el valor,
And I don't know how they got the courage to toss you aside
But if gloom has been abandoned
Deseo,
I hope it is because happiness has taken your place
I hope that while you whither dreams are blossoming
You have caused enough damage, haven't you?

Choosing Our Words

2009-09-04T08:12:00.000-07:00

Carefully chosen words can make someone's day, it can lift their spirits and make them feel good about themselves. Unfortunately, so many times it is the carelessly chosen words that stick with us. Nagging us, perhaps making us question if we have shown too much of ourselves, careless words can be a relentless itch or a barrier from which we retreat. Whether or not it is the intention to be flippant or condescending, often it can be a matter of not thinking before speaking, the weight of words can still be a burden to the one to whom they're delivered.

The gift of words is treasured, while the sting of words is painful, this in itself tells us que tan preciosas, just how precious words are. We savor, fear or revile them depending on how they're arranged and the tone in which they are carried. Words should be no more casually thrown about than someone's feelings. Actions may speak louder, but the echo of a thoughtless quip can ring in our ears for some time, yes?

We draw conclusions from both sides of the conversation, from how much we reveal--is this friendship? is this a person I can trust? does this person even care that I've reached out?--to the listener's reaction. It shapes us and helps us navigate future conversations and relationships. Opening ourselves up whether divulging opinions, dreams or memories is never a small thing, and it should never be treated as such. No matter how hectic life is, at what crazy speeds life moves, words should be given their due before they are bandied about and tossed como si fueran dulces, as if they are little more than candy on Halloween.

From my own experience, I can have an acid tongue, sometimes well deserved and yes, very well thought out, but also having used it with reckless abandon. A lost temper, so very tired, frustrated - a million reasons to have charged without considering how my words will land. Those I regret, and there have been some I could not take back. I've also been on the receiving end, and the ones that have hurt the most was when there was no thought placed on how those words would affect me. They were not necessarily meant to be nasty, but there was no care to ensure they wouldn't be either. It didn't matter one way or the other.

It should matter, in all we do, in all we say. I wish everyone a beautiful weekend, and I do mean this in every sense. I hope that there is magic in all the little things, from the smiles of your loved ones, to the dinner you enjoy, from a cat curled up on the bed, from the leaves that are beginning to fall and waft lazily at your feet. When I sign off in (((hugs))) and love, these are not casual words, they are the (((hugs))) from here in my little home to close the distance, it is love that all though I may not know you well, I wish you well, I want you to smile and be happy, and rest your head at night knowing the world is a good place in part porque TU estas aqui, because YOU are here. It is my thank you for trusting me with your own words when you leave a comment here or when you share on your blog. It is my thank you for making my world a better place.

(((hugs))),
love,
me

Where I Live

2009-09-02T07:43:00.000-07:00

I live in a small house
with a big heart

From the outside you might think
"Ay, Que pequeña" "Oh, it's so tiny"
But inside this home live
big dreams
big ideas
big laughter
and sometimes
big tears

In this house resides
everything I live for
my family
my hope
my salvation
my future
my daughter
my husband
my kitty
and my dog
who fills every day with kisses.

In this house I make art
I write with the love passed on from my father
I cook with gratitude for the bounty I never saw in my childhood
and bird houses will be fixed
after the heat of summer
to be ready for the rains of winter

In this house with a big heart
es donde vivo, is where I live.

To visit where many different bloggy beauties live, drop by Lens Us Together.

Conversation & Root Beer Floats

2009-08-31T09:32:00.000-07:00

My mother and I have never had the easiest of relationships, it has always hinged on two extremely stubborn people, entre dos mulas solo los cabronasos suenan, get two mules together and only the clashing of their hoofs can be heard. Since very young I knew I was not her favorite. Since very young I knew there was something that set her off edge every time she looked at me.

There are reasons, I wish I'd understood then what bipolar was, it would have saved a lot of heart ache, but I suppose at this point it is moot. At this point in her life much of my anger towards her, many of her reactions, often physical and extreme, no longer matter. She is my mother, and she needs me. No matter how tiring spending a day with her can be, and crea me, believe me I know how bad that sounds, I see her every Saturday because I had to drop that big bag of grudges for my own sake as well as hers.

For the most part our conversations now are repeats of the week before… and the week before that, her memory failing more and more. Mostly our conversations are along the lines of the Root Beer conversation that looped throughout one day, even seeping into the next few weeks:

Mom: “Have you ever tried pouring root beer over your ice cream?”

Me: “A root beer float?”

My mom raises her voice as she believes me to be confused: “ROOT BEER OVER YOUR ICE CREAM? I like pouring root beer over my ice cream, if it’s vanilla. Sabe rico, it taste really good?”

Me: “Yes... a root beer float.”

Blank looks at this point. She has no idea what a root beer float is. She explains her yummy concoction one more time, at which point I say—

Me: “Oh, yeah, I have done that, it’s good.”

Mom: “It is, huh? I must have made that for you when you were younger, I’ve always done that.”

Why remind her that she never made me one, that my dad always took the time to make this treat, a great extravagance for our meager budget. Why remind her that seeing a root beer float could ignite her temper leaving her raging over how he spoiled me, and how unfair the world was. Besides, she easily and randomly moves on to something else, some other gossip or news bit. Some current, some that happened years ago. Sometimes I can stay silent the entire car ride while she answers both sides.

Meandering through the store, where I have to keep a really close eye on her else she wanders off and gets lost, she spies the soda isle, and turns to me with great excitement:

Mom: “Have you ever tried pouring root beer over your ice cream?”

Me: “Yes, I think you made this for me when I was younger.”

Mom: “Did I?”

A few hours later dropping her back off at home, she reports that she will plop herself in front of the fan it is such a hot day. I know it is only a matter of minutes before we are replaying the root beer float scenario, and sure enough she launches.

This weekend I took her to A&W for their specialty: root beer floats. She could not believe her eyes, as I brought her the big stein filled with vanilla ice cream and root beer. I had to keep prompting her to eat her food and not fill up on her float. She tried a few bites, but it was the float that had all her attention. After all, in her mind she has always poured root beer over her ice cream, and even made it for me. To her credit, in all of her rages she never took my root beer float away. No matter que tan enojada, how angry she was, she let me finish every last drop.

Memories of Him

2009-08-28T07:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the sun rose and set, and I was grateful but not surprised. If you’d ask me twenty-three years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it possible. Twenty-three years ago yesterday would have been my father’s first birthday without him sitting in his favorite spot, right-hand side on the couch, newspaper to his left. He passed away the year before in October and for me el mundo se rompió, the world cracked, the pieces drifting cold and brittle away from the sun. I couldn’t feel it around me anymore, the world couldn’t be turning without him to greet me good morning, without him to tell me a story of when he was a child, or a young man, or a man sent off to war. He was everywhere and no where, an echo that I kept chasing around every corner only to find myself running in circles.

I was sixteen, and could barely get through a day without so much pain, the eternal phantom itch of an amputee, but his birthdays and mine were the worst. I began to overlook these days, scratching them off the calendar from the local supermarket that hung in the dining room. They were cruel in their irony – birth days for the dead? Birth days for a heart that had stopped, for days that were dark, and where no happiness grew? It was unbearable for many years.

When my daughter was born, there was a release like never before, and where shadows had fallen, there was her smile; where pain had lived, I felt her move in, su manita, her little hand reaching across to pull me into sunshine. Birth days are full of life once again, and on his birthday, papi’s birthday, there is now the vibrancy of memories:

His smile,

The way he would hold his wedding ring on end, give it a flick and send it twirling across the table, dancing just for me,

The pensive way he mulled over an answer before voicing it,

His exaggerated faces of dismay when I was in the midst of a rant, reducing me to giggles, my anger forgotten,

The love of words he instilled in me so that my excitement soars at the smell and feel of a book in my hands, a pen and paper close by.

He was often a man of few words, quiet and still in a crowd, never wanting any fanfare for himself, and so I spent his birthday the way he loved spending it. A nice long walk as el ojo derecho de Dios, the right eye of God, the sun, rose. And, of course, a good book to read, and a few poems recited. It was a very nice birth day.

Inside Looking Out

2009-08-26T07:48:00.000-07:00

I know, it is usually the reverse, yes? Outside looking in? However, there are times that I feel inside looking out, wanting to be free, and knowing that I’m stifled only because I refuse to swing open the doors and run wild. This is not my usual way. I usually burst onto the scene, ready to take action – if it is for another. These months concentrating on my own projects have been exhilarating and a little scary. I’m in the final stages of a project that has really shown me the meaning of the phrase “labor of love”.

I’ve always created, but for me, or gifts for people that I have become close to, but doing it for my shop, es algo increíble, is something incredible. Putting your self out there, and saying “yeah, I think this is talent worth paying for” seems to me a monstrous ego, and yet makes me extremely vulnerable. It’s VERY personal.

Also, loving the creative aspect of this venture can make me feel guilty. I’m at home painting, making jewelry, playing with ideas for new items, and that just doesn’t seem like work. Then there’s maintaining my online shop, contacting local venues, googling for any reasonably-priced craft shows, you know, the business side of this whole thing, and quite honestly I can get very frustrated.

However, I believe I’m on the right path it’s just not paved and therefore gets stumbly, a little rocky, and often hard to climb. There are times I want to scoot over to the side and set up camp, but know that I can’t. A dream is right in front of me, and I’m not about to let it rot on the vine. I could never forgive myself if I lived my life trapped inside, mientras que los demás, while every one else is running, skipping, and dancing outside.

I hope you’re all running, skipping and dancing – what dreams are you flying like kites, letting them soar free in the sky?

PS,
If you signed up for the Kindness Swap but have not received an email from me, your profile may have been blocked preventing me from getting in contact with you. Please email me directly!

She Leans

2009-08-24T09:16:00.000-07:00

On vacation a couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to spend time with this handsome guy and his family. Imaginate, Imagine going on safari in Santa Rosa, CA! It is a wonderful animal sanctuary, Safari Wild, that allows for a 2 1/2 hour drive (we were lucky enough to sit on top of the jeep) through their acres encountering giraffes, zebras and antelope. We also had the chance to meet an amazing beauty. Eileen.

Studying the pictures you get the joke, yes? She was born with one horn about 5lbs heavier than the other, and so she always leans to one side. Immediately guests began to question why no one bothered to correct her situation, to shave down the horn if possible. Our guide explained that the she ate fine, had no other health issues, and she got along with the rest of the herd. The risks of something going wrong in surgery far outweighed Eileen’s quality of life.

The herd accepts her, they have not ostracized her, they eat with her—she is one of them. They obviously see her condition, pero lo aceptan, but they accept it. The difference makes her beautiful, yes? AND without making her companions any less beautiful. She leans on her horn, but also on her herd, her friends. What a wonderful way to roam this earth...

:-)

Should I Be Afraid of FB?

2009-08-21T08:44:00.000-07:00

I recently joined Facebook only because I received a friend request via email. Since I did not want to lose contact with this blogger (who was blogging less and less) I opted in. I’m not justifying my jaunt to Facebook, but it is significant in where this rant is going.

Leaving my little blank wall on Facebook, I sent her a "hello", which couldn't have taken more than a few seconds. Maybe less. Let's see:

hello.

Ok, that was definitely a few seconds.

By the time I went back to my wall I’d been vandalized. Facebook had been waiting for me to turn my back and the second I had they struck. There were suggestions of “friends” to invite (come over children, step into the light)—MANY of whom I knew!!! MANY who were not connected to this blogger, but certainly had connections to me!

The cold chill blew through me… so I yelled at my husband to close the damn refrigerator, we’re not made out of money!… and I went back to Facebook.

In all truthfulness, it felt like a Big-Brother-Orwellian moment, yo se que me estaban mirado, oh, yes I knew they were watching me. I confess I logged out quickly, before the monitor scrunched its forehead, and eyes began tracking my every move. Yes, in true adult fashion, I chided myself afterwards: simple explanations, of course, I mean, I wasn’t sure what they were but I’m not very computer savvy. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I was perturbed. The more I convinced myself, “They ARE watching me!” I huddled in the dark, a lone siren wailing in the distance… er, sorry… that didn’t actually happen, just using a little creative license.

Back to the point, y por su puesto, and by now you’re probably wondering if there is one, my original question stands. Should I be afraid of Facebook? Are they my nemesis as I stand alone facing… Damn! There I go again.

Should Facebook have been able to quite accurately show me a plethora of connections that I did indeed have connections to? Uuuh, I hate ending a sentence on "to".

Should Facebook have been able to quite accurately show me a plethora (why am I using "plethora"? Was there really a "plethora"? Mejor otra palabra, choose another word... a "scattering"? Yes, a scattering!) a scattering (ooh, I do like that) of connections that I indeed have connections... ah, shit I'm going to end on "to" again.... *sigh

All right. One. Last. Try.

Should I be afraid of Facebook?

Ha! Question without ending in "to".

(you realize that question is the title of your post?)

so?

(so you could have just left the title and kept the post blank?)

shut up!

Mornings

2009-08-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

Some mornings feel so golden a part of me wishes I could bottle it up, and keep it on the mantle so that every morning is a treasure. Yet that would tarnish what makes those mornings different from the others: not necessarily a good night’s sleep; not necessarily that there are special plans for that day. For me it is often that I awake on those mornings with a deep understanding of the gifts I have been given, and not taking for granted that I have opened my eyes under my roof with my family safe and sound. Not taking for granted that the most beautiful scene in the world is unfolding, el sol amaneciendo, the sun rising, birds singing, our belly’s soon to be filled with breakfast and love that can sustain us through the day before the moon softens the evening.

Bottling this up would keep it from spilling over onto the rest of my life. Y asi no lo quiero, and I wouldn’t want that. I absolutely couldn’t live without these mornings when everything makes sense, and yet is still completely beyond my grasp for all its grandeur, and all the wonder before me.

Kindness Swap

2009-08-11T07:52:00.000-07:00

This is something I have been considering since re-emerging on my blog. Some of you may have had the chance to read the article I wrote featured at The Wishstudio, and you know that I went through a very lonely time. The kindness I was enveloped in making my way back to this space was absolutely magical, and even now makes me teary when I think of these sweet souls taking time out of their day to leave me a comment and/or email me some love. I want to do the same for anyone out there feeling a little out of sorts, feeling very tired or overwhelmed, or anyone whom could use an extra smile when they make their way to the post.

How often would it be nice to hear that we are loved, that we are important? How special would it be to know that even in this hectic world with our lives racing from morning to night someone has taken the time to send us a few words to remind us we are all connected? This kindness swap es para eso mismo, is intended to do just that.

The (general) details are to make three postcards with an affirmation on the back either original or a favorite saying. You can be as creative as you want in any type of medium: painting, collage, photos. You will mail your three postcards to me by September 15th (international lovelies as well--there are no borders here!), and once I have everyone’s I will sort them out and mail them within one week of each other. You will receive three postcards (not all at once) from three different lovelies all sending you mail love.

If you would like to participate, and I’m really hoping you will, leave me a comment and I will email a confirmation along with further details. Que diferencia puedemos hacer, What a difference we can make in someone's day with with mere paper and pen, yes?

Happy Tuesday!
Love,
me

Today...

2009-08-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

... you can find me at The Wishstudio. If you haven't been you're in for a treat. It is a blog of beauty and community with editorial touching on every subject. Today I have been honored as a guest columnist!

:-)

Back Home

2009-08-06T16:57:00.001-07:00

This lone flower grew at the edge of a cliff overlooking a 20ft drop to the ocean below. It had no fear of its precarious perch, neither was it brave… solamente era, it simply was.

This flower bloomed and absorbed the sun, gathered moisture from the sea spray, and accepted the day, the hour and minutes it was given and radiated such beauty from its noble simplicity.

Upon this Earth,
Who stands true
through the hours?

Her spirit incarnate,
The trees
and flowers.

Heart Wide Open

2009-08-03T09:20:00.000-07:00

I'll be heading out in an hour or so to Windsor for four days with some art supplies in hand, camera at my side, and computer packed away for keeping up with bloggy friends - stalker that I am! ha! However, it is my first vacation in over ten years without my daughter.

She has her internship so she'll being staying with grandparents, and I couldn't bring myself to travel hours and hours away, which is why I chose wine country only a two-hours drive from home. I couldn't even bring myself to do the entire week, after all even the first time I took a vacation without her it was only over the weekend. She's gone on vacation without me for longer, but somehow that feels different. I'm HERE, I'm HOME waiting for her.

Not this time.

I know I'm being very sentimental. This journey of motherhood is not ending, but it is turning down that corridor where I find myself, more often than not, watching her from a distance. There will be far more vacations alone, the weekends will be mine, and family dinners may or may not have a third place setting. That bittersweet moment we strive for is coming, the moment our children stand alone and walk their own path.

Aqui estoy mija,
I'm here sweet baby
Beside you so that I don't stand in your way
Beside you so that you so I can take your hand when you need me

No doubt I've been needing a break. A time to capture the world in a new way, reaching out my hand and holding a fleeting second that is mine to play with. I can't wait to be inspired; I have so many ideas in my head, this time will give me a clear space to sort them out. I even have a "Kindness Swap" I'm planning, so stay tuned for that :-) The drive alone will be a feast for creativity: beautiful rolling vistas making way for the lumpy landscape of San Francisco, then rows upon rows of flatland vineyards.

It is a journey for both my daughter and I, a new branch rooting from our sacred relationship allowing us to climb higher and freer. I'll take flight on the Golden Gate bridge suspended over the bay accepting that my daughter is not "here", yet if I turn my head back home or reach inward dentro de mi corazon, into my heart my daughter is still "there". All the more reason to travel with eyes and heart wide open, yes?