since i fell so badly two weeks ago, i haven’t been able to make much, my hands are in splints, my knees bruised and scraped, my eyes bruised with a lump on my forehead…lots of resting, lots of  friends coming to help me manage. i am very, very lucky!

one friend is organising an event in september and suggested i perform some poetry there and that seemed to be suggest to my subconscious what to do with all my trapped creativity – write some more. this links to the beautiful daughters and the new artwork struggling to shape itself, literally, i keep juggling completely different media in my mind’s eye…

after rehearsing this, i changed the words, interesting how hearing words makes them need to be different…and took the chance in my introduction to explain the ojibwe sioux definition of beauty, which is based on right living, being what is right for you and gives best to the world around you, so beauty becomes the energy shining through your life, touching all around you…a bit like ahimsa, and to contrast this with the multibillion pound/dollar industries invested in making us feel bad about ourselves/our appearances so they can sell us ever more tat (including 95% unsuccessful weight loss diets) to maximise their profits, while draining the planet of its resources…so hopefully this is now more clearly about how doing what i’m best at (for me, that’s making) is what makes me shine…and that my wounds matter, but it is my response to the attacks that defines me…we so need words for what comes after victim and survivor, something to honour the beauty of all the scarred sisters..

loving beauty

i want to know someone again,
i want to know someone as well as the one i buried,
i want someone

to light up as they turn towards me
to smile as they catch my eye

i want to reach out
and feel a hand meet mine,
open, kind, gentle,
hear my name spoken with affection,
a laugh waiting
for my next tease,
a joke waiting its turn,
a thought waiting to be shared,
a question only they can ask

a question only i can answer

i want someone who chooses creativity
who sees creativity and beauty and order and grace
but will love me in my joyful chaos of making!

someone who loves beauty

but will be open
to the grace of spirit

that is lacking in my body
after all the broken bones, all the falls, all the twisting turns
to stand against fear and pain and the order to die

and it makes me frightened, and it hurts, and like i might die inside
even though i know i wouldn’t
even though i’ve lived through worse
far worse
than not being chosen

my beauty is that
i have lived through so much ugliness
and yet, i make beauty!
i can make with the smallest things,
the feathers and leaves in the garden,
the rocks and the weeds.
i can make with string and beads and tickytacky,
i can make a painting the size of a door, and wish it were larger,
i can bedizen a hall and wish for the room next door too,
i can make a bead the size of a ring from a hundred elements
and an hour of cussing and daydreaming and pricked fingers.
i can pile high the paints and fabrics and sequins
i can stitch, i can work all morning,

beachcomb all afternoon

and go home and draw in the snow with ash and a stick
there is enough beauty trying to get out of me
to fill a lot of walls,
do the mirrors really matter?

i want to say proudly,

here i am

and so
i stand as tall as i can and
i reach to the highest shelf,
holding my collarbone in,
i reach and i take down the paints,
the brushes and the scrapers,
i kneel on the knee with less bruises
and i bring out the rollers and inks
and, this is the most pain, i reach inside
and i let brokenness out
and i let it be part of what i am making
and i stand for never being perfect,
even before;
i live and i breathe and i make :

i make connections
i make windows and doors and lifelines
for myself to come back in by, to hold on to

for us all to come back in by,

for us all to hold on to

to help me be strong, to help me be proud,
to help us all be strong, to help us all be proud

to be and do and make

in my eyes

in their eyes

in our eyes