JUST ME :: and a stack of blank pages

:: Living creatively ::

About me

This is the real secret of life — to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, realise it is play. The only thing that is ultimately real about your journey is the step that you are taking at this moment. That’s all there ever is. I’m here to tell you that the path to peace is right there, when you want to get away. When you are present, you can allow the mind to be as it is without getting entangled in it. If you miss the present moment, you miss your appointment with life. That is very serious!

Friday, January 31, 2014

Pink mums

“Why don’t you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum.” 
- P. G. Wodehouse

W&N watercolour on Bockingford 300gsm

I’ve just bought some potted Chrysanthemums from Woolworths, and I don’t know why I do this, because I never have much luck with their potted plants I buy! What I HAVE discovered is that there are Mums and there are HARDY mums, and obviously the potted variety for sale in pots are NOT the hardy variety! So planting them in the garden, like I usually do after they’ve finished flowering, is a useless exercise. This one will therefore just stay in-doors and I’ll enjoy it until it expires!

The chrysanthemum is the November birth flower, which means with love and cheerfulness. The hidden meaning of this beautiful flower is you’re a wonderful friend. Although Chrysanthemums are native to Asia and north-eastern Europe, they are widely grown all over the world.

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Friday, January 10, 2014

Hydrangeas speak of Summer


W&N watercolour on X-pressit 300gsm
Hydrangeas on my kitchen table

To me Hydrangeas speak of Summer and their fading colours speak of Autumn. In winter they are silent and in Spring they shout, “We’re here! We’re back! And Spring has come with us!”

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Sunday, January 5, 2014

Enthroned in his earthenware pot

 
Watercolour on Bockingford 300gsm – 8″ × 12″
Dried Hydrangeas from my garden (Tarlton, South Africa) standing in my potting shed.
 
From the bottom of the garden,
enthroned in his earthenware pot,
the hydrangea god surveys his minions—
lavender agapanthuses bowing starburst heads,
red begonia calyxes trumpeting his fame,
oleander leaves whispering of his misdeeds.
The central path leads straight to him. Behind,
a stained mirror and mossy wall back up his power.
Thousands of crinkled, tiny, white ideas occur to him
with frilled and overlapping edges. No one else
deploys such Byzantine metaphysics. No one
can read his mind. Only he remembers
the children’s secret fort by the cypress tree
among fraught weeds, rusted buckets, and dumped ash,
and how lost the grown-ups sounded, calling, as night came.
“Hydrangea” By Rosanna Warren

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