Sunday, April 9, 2017

Beads and things...





They hang on my wall collecting dust and memories.

I have never worn them, not once.

These aren't the only ones.

There are the big silver beads on leather that I brought back from India and gave to a woman named Mary.

When she passed away her grand daughter sent them back to me with a beautiful note saying how much she had loved them. And that she wanted me to keep them for her.





There are the cherry amber beads on twine given to me by the chief of a Zambian village as a gift of thanks for my visit to do an art project with the children there.






There are the antique ivory beads, that I would never wear but they are beautiful even though they represent the senseless slaughter of endangered species.






There are the ones that where purchased in Tanzania from a woman who needed to feed her children...





Will I ever wear any of them?

I do not know.

But each strand has the ability to take me right back to the moment and the place.
The people, the sensations, the colors that permeate the air of the place I happen to be at the time.

Hold on to the moment I tell myself every single time I find myself in a new place, a new situation.

These moments are precious.

Respect and cherish them...

And be grateful for the opportunity to be here to experience them.





Wednesday, February 22, 2017

a writers folly...







I bought it on a trip to Paris.

I was blocked. Staring at blank paper day after day, week after week.

What better inspiration to write stories and poems than with an extraordinary pen purchased in this
city, home to so many great writers.

Voltaire
Victor Hugo
Jules Verne
Simone de Beauvoir
Ernest Hemingway
and Gertrude Stein to name but a few.

And so I bought the pen.

I'd seen it in the window of a stationary store on my walks to and from the café every morning.

It beckoned me toward the window with it's intricate silver design.

I'd managed to admire it in passing for days, but now it was becoming an obsession.

I broke down and bought the pen.

It was extravagant and expensive but with a pen like this one could, no, one must write wonderful stories.

It is seven years later;

I was cleaning out a drawer and there was the pen.

Still in it's box.

Upon my arrival back home all those years ago, I had tried to use the pen but it was too heavy and
bulky. Too difficult to write with easily.

And so it was retired to the drawer.

Never used to write the masterpiece it was meant to write.

Maybe I'll try it again, who knows...