Free Friday, Oriental Designs

Hands

            Of the things in my life I remember most, I don’t know, maybe it’s strange….but I remember hands. Hands say so much about a person, I think, and when I remember those I love and of those I have loved so much and lost, it is their hands I recall first.

            I remember how my mother quietly painted her nails at night when I was a girl, and how I loved the smooth colors and the paleness and the fragility of her fingers as she waved them in front of her mouth to blow them dry. Sometimes I close my eyes and I can hear the click-click-click of the little ball inside the polish bottle as she shook it up, and I am there again in the quiet of the night with her and the missing of her softens enough to finally succumb to sleep.

            My grandmother has the palest wrists and hands. When I was a girl, she always wore the same gold watch and gold bangles and charm bracelets that would jingle together as she patted my left shoulder…It was Afternoon Delight on the radio and there I was, sandwiched between two of the greatest loves of my life in the front seat of that big ‘ole maroon Lincoln. I remember her hands and the shape of them against my smooth tan young summer skin. Even now, at 41, I still crave them. And now, as I face the tougher things in my life, in my selfishness, I still need them to jingle and pat some of this pain away from me….even as she struggles against the things that 80 years of living and loving brings. I am in need of her and her healing hands.

             I also think of Jerry’s hands…tan and lanky and strong and his own. I secretly adored him and his hands as he showed me his newfangled digital watch,  But those hands were mine too. I coveted his hands because they belonged to the angel that came to my mother and my sister and I when despair had hung its hat by our door once again. No, I will never forget his hands…how they healed us, or the joy and the laughter he brought to us. They are the hands I so sorely miss. Even after more than 27 years has gone by, sometimes it feels like yesterday he waved goodbye to me in the morning light.

            And my father’s hands, they were so large and so calloused and rough…they enveloped mine twofold, but I knew in my heart it wouldn't last. I’d say the story of his life was written on his hands. He lived under the hoods of cars and trucks doing only what he knew he could do best. His hands were his life and they were large enough and strong enough to carry a hunk of greasy machinery, but not large enough or capable enough to hold on to me. And he and I were not something his roughness could fix. And that’s ok.

          But these…these are the hands that now hold my heart. These are the hands that guard me and hold me and offer to me, the world within them. The hands of my dear one, who walks this life with me. The one who can so melt me with the mere touch of them. The one who can hold time in his hands and so often repairs the brokenness found in the world and in the silver and gold roundness of long forgotten antique time. He has even healed some of the brokenness in me.

 There are stories there, in your hands………there are stories there.

Little White Dresses

I rescued more than 10 antique dresses and Christening gowns from a dumpster last year...and I couldn't bear to leave them put away, so I employ them and enjoy them as valances in my windows. I love the way the patterns look against the sky...I have always loved antique lace and linens.

...and it is a such good thing for me that my husband enjoys antiquities just as much as I do...even little the white dresses hanging all over our house.....

 

Two of my Favorites, for Free Friday

"If man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears the sound of a different drummer. Let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away."
                                                                                     -Henry David Thoreau

                                              (my middle son, Christian)

Thirst for Dignity - Blood Water Mission

Thirst for Dignity - Blood Water Mission

This is a cause so near to my heart...please take a moment to read what this mission team is all about. You won't ever EVER look at free flowing, readily available tap water the same way again.

Blessings,
Jennifer

Queen Anne's Lace

 I am honored to be included in the Merry Month of May World Wide Collective Blogging Event sponsored by Roxanne of Illuminated Perfume. Though the flower of which I write today is not necessarily a May flower, and is sometimes referred to as a weed, it is a flower nonetheless and therefore, here it will be celebrated:

            Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Ed would take me there in the summer all those years ago. To the building with insides as blue as an empty old swimming pool, and with walls that were damp and cool to the touch. I remember the thick metal blinds hovering over the windows and the twittering sparrows in the eaves just beyond them. I remember the welcoming smiles from those mobile enough to roam the cool August hallways. I remember how my artwork looked on the walls of her room from the summer before; so curled and faded from the exposure of the previous year, but most of all I remember her laying there waiting for me in her laced up black shoes and too tan knee highs, and the dense forest of Queen Anne’s Lace that grew around the place that sheltered her paleness from the summer sun.

            I would arrive with an armful of my latest creations, lovingly made at the picnic table under the army green tarp at my grandparents’ house on Oak Street. I was patient in my youngsters’ skin on the long ride there because I knew that I would see her and  the sparrows and the only  Queen Anne’s Lace that I had ever, in my shallow memory seen, and it grew as tall as I.

            I don’t think my artwork ever meant as much to anyone then, or since, and I wonder how many countless hours that it rested there on the walls under her proud and wistful gaze as she thought of  the countless years and of baby me and of my smile and how I looked so much like my mother when she was my age. I can still hear her voice as she pointed out my new creations to the nurse that brought her afternoon medication and quickly left with a nod and a smile.

            Queen Anne’s Lace always reminds me of Great Grandma Dorothy, which reminds me of that visit to her tidy apartment years before when she asked if I wore a brassiere and not knowing what a brassiere was. It reminds me of the very beginnings of my artful life and the times I went to see her with an armload of my latest “work”, knowing that no matter what I created, it would be loved and gazed upon fondly and accepted with tears of joy and wonder at how differently it looked from the summer before that one. Queen Anne’s lace reminds me of the journey and the way each soft plume felt under my fingertips as I brushed by it along the longest driveway we walked to her…and the love in her eyes when I stood in her doorway and she saw me again after an entire year away. Surely it was an eternity as she lay there in the coolness with the old swimming pool colored walls, looking back on her life and tracing in her mind, all the little faces and hands she washed after dinner. One face and set of little hands belonging to tiny Jennifer me.

            Queen Anne’s lace reminds me of my youth and of Dorothy’s smile and the birth of possibility as I sat for hours creating at the shaded picnic table summer after summer after summer. The rough wooden surface burgeoning with Paint by Numbers and construction paper and glue; cross stitch pot holders and dolls made from Styrofoam and sequins and pins. It reminds me of how our lives are all so intertwined and yet our experiences so singular; each of us a tiny pinpoint of whiteness like little stars, so much more beautiful when clustered together in oneness under the gaze of the sky.

Reflections and Such

I like the way that small town life is reflected by the window of my van over my face in the photo above...this place has become a part of who I am. There is a sweetness here...an earnestness and an ease...sidewalks shaded by Tulip trees and Maples...the stillness of a Sunday morning...The familiarity of it all is comforting to me these days and I am grateful for the precious people who remember who I am every where I go...hearing my name said out loud  makes me feel more real somehow...more whole. It is as if they are really saying,
"I see you Jennifer, and you're going to be ok."

...acquired this amazing cement Paw Paw Leaf from Anne at Everlasting Leaves recently...it is now one of my favorite things...it rests with its pale gray roughness against the smooth lines and handles and subtle shades of other favorite belongings, on the little white china hutch my husband bought for me for mother's day this year.

French Labels for Free Friday

Exotic Flowers for Free Friday enjoyment...

It has been such a busy week for me, that I haven't had a moment to post any of my thoughts. I think I am in need of time management skills. I am taking Kelly Rae's E-course soon and I know it will include time management ideas and strategies. I am very excited to be a part of it! So, here are the lovlies for the week, taking from a vintage book on exotic flowers. Enjoy!
                                              

Free Friday...here already? Little antique Bird Cards that came from Arm & Hammer Baking Soda Boxes

Happy Friday Everyone! These are great for tags, gifts, cards, assemblages, and such.

Hope they provide some colorful inspiration!

Pearls

     This evening, I was working on a locket with my favorite “shabby” pearls and I pulled the usual plastic box out from under my equally shabby and well loved work table. With the opened box on my lap, I noticed something…I noticed the tangle of various white colored strings and the various stages of decay of the pearls…the different sizes and shades and shapes…and the history that was there in this little cosmos of luminescent orbs.
     I imagined the dinner parties, the funerals, the birthday and retirement parties…strands and strands of pearls lost and then found again with relish…sighs of disbelief as broken strands poured from pale necks and bounced all over tile and marble floors. Pearls broken in tumbles of passion and in fits of rage….strands pulled gently, glowing by candlelight, from suitcases all the way from the shores of Europe and World War, to surprised eyes…and the ones bought with money dumped from piggy banks, saved from allowances and countless lawn mowings, from WoolWorths on a Sunday afternoon in May….
    And finally, I ran my hands through the smooth tangles and mounds, and brought a large handful of pearls to my nose, it was the aroma of them that beckoned my pseudo memory…the scent of night musk and the sweetness of jasmine and White Shoulders and Chanel Number Five…and then the names of the wearers came to mind. Names like Mabel and Pearl and Ida and Rose, Sarah and Adelaide and Joy came to mind; filling my mind with phantom faces of the women that wore them and I wonder whose company they keep now and what their stories were and if their journey was memorable and full of song and hope and passionate living. I wondered if they were remembered with love, and how somehow, by chance, how it came to be that my life has been touched by their presence long after they were no longer a part of this world.
     That is what I want my life to be….like a strand of pearls, broken all over the floor of the world…touching lives in ways I never knew I did, and regarded, by those that knew me, with love…memories of me wafting from minds and mouths like the incredible scent rising from this box of pearls in my lap…thoughts of me, smooth and lasting and glowing in the candlelight of love after the journey of my life comes to an end. Filled with laughter and the tangles of stories told again and again.
     I think that is all anyone can truly hope for. Because, it is my understanding, that is really all there is…the pearls of ourselves we leave behind, and found later in the most unexpected places.

Dancing with my Father

It has been years since I could listen to the oldies. That's all my father listened to during our times together. Today I decided to make a memory with my father that I always envisioned....today we danced. Oh yes, he was light on his feet when he was a part of this world. Who knew a hardened mechanic in his clunky work boots would be or could be such; but it is true.  I would watch him dance with his wife on their parquet floor in effortless twirls and shuffles of his large feet..dark denim pants and snap down plaid western shirt. I remember his smile and I remember too, so embarrassed, dancing with him in the faint-wisp memories of my 19th year.
Today we danced, he and I, again...only this time we danced, his smiling photograph framed in fancy silver flourishes( he would not have approved of this frame). I  held him to my heart as we twirled and twisted to the oldies but goodies. The same ones that wafted from his noisy garage that year. I can still smell the freshly cut wood and axle grease in the air...
His hands were huge and rough in mine today and he smiled at me lovingly as we danced, until all of the madness melted away, and the hurt was replaced by this memory of us two and all that there was between us was the
dancing...

1890 Antique Botanicals and Birds for You to Use However You Like

Thought these would be fun for assemblages, cards, giftwrap and such. Check back each Friday for more fun and free vintage and antique downloads.

Scarlet Bouquets

...she ran her hand noisily along the coolness of the chain link fence during her walk home from the shop until she arrived at her favorite spot. There at the edge of the fence, among the shreds of dirty paper and old faded wrappers, were tiny clusters of fragrant wild roses, like tiny scarlet bouquets that grew there just

 for her.

Little Suns

She wore her favorite earrings she called "Little Suns", her first summer day back in Florida. It had been 10 years since she smelled the salt air of the Gulf Coast...so many ghosts were there. The faint shapes of all of her children, when they were so young, danced on the beach before her and she smiled to herself...thinking of their laughter and their delight as they romped in the clear blue-green water....bright, like little suns.......like little suns.

The front page of Etsy today!

How wonderful! my "Tiffany" earrings made it to the front page of Etsy today!

Headfirst into my 41st Year...

My 41st year seems to have begun with opening wide and wonderful and mysterious. I can't wait to tell you what is to come. I have allowed myself to dream largely for the first time in my life...opening myself up to possibilities beyond my imagining...telling myself that it is ok trust God's plan for me. I want to be an intrument through which spirit plays...to use my life and the things I create to change the world in little ways...because as Pavese said, "We do not remember days, we remember moments." It is those little moments that are woven into our lives, like bright blue scraps in a Robin's nest and regarded with wonder and awe for the making of it.

Summer in Japan

I spent the summer in Japan
beside you in the countryside
after the blossoms had faded
almost as quickly as they came.
And I noticed the way you looked
at me
after our last kiss faded
into the firey sunset--
there was a faint chill in the air
that day
but our summer in Japan
will always
warm my heart and
stain my memory
like the blossoms pressed
under our bare feet.

of Dogwoods and Rainclouds

Today I saw the sky open up
after the clouds rolled in,
and God shed tears
once more upon the Dogwood tree
that stood by itself in the Springtime
of the forest
because ol' John died before
he could plant any more;
and what I am trying to say
is that God was not crying for grief
but for the joy of John's liveliness
there in the heavens
and in gratitude for the Dogwood tree
he planted there so long ago in the woodland
with such adoration for the Earth
that every tree around it
flourished there because
of its beautiful branches
reaching out into the world...

This was very quick and imperfect late night poem, inspired by these earrings I created for my Etsy shop and by my foresty husband, Ken. John Morford, was otherwise known as "The Mushroom Man" in these parts, due to his extensive knowledge of the forest floor. I wish I had known him, but he lives on through his son, of whom he'd be so very proud of the branches he's spread into the world.

Baisers Passionnés (Passionate Kisses), an Intention Locket

I made this locket with the thought that one could write one's intentions and place them inside...if you are at all like me, I often need a "hard copy" reminder of what I need in my life. I don't journal enough, nor blog enough, so my thought is that I could just write a little note to myself now and then and place it in something that I could not forget....and this is it. How could you look down at this beautiful creation and NOT think about what is inside?
This one is called "Passionate Kisses"...because I know that a lot of us are in desperate need of more passion in our lives.
Moments that are unforgettable....moments that steal your very breath and make your heart race and make you wonder where you've been hiding yourself all these years. These are the "notes to self" that need to be held here, among the sparkle of the deep red vintage rhinestones and blooms and leaves that symbolize growth and renewal and above all, HOPE.
Moments of passion are not beyond our reach. I think sometimes everyday life gets the best of us and we forget about passionate living. I know I do.
Manifest them on paper and wear them close to your heart...let's see what happens!

This locket is currently for sale in my Etsy Shop.

Scenes from the Quiet Spaces of Home Today

Contentment

When May comes,

and the daffodils have faded
into the blush of the cottage roses
that I adore almost as much as you,
and the weathered barn,
surrounded by newly dressed maples,
whispers in the wind
its dreams of the summer sun,
I'll still be there;
among the ancient calls of crows
and the occasional twit of a cardinal,
waiting in the cool of long grasses
for you to see
that I've been there
all along.

the Secret Diary

     She thought it best to keep the key to her secret diary on her favorite necklace...the one she never took off. It was so worn in spots and the locket was rusty, but she never cared. The chain was from his necklace and that key would unlock her innermost secrets...things she never told a soul except God himself.
and she kept a picture of her father in the locket....the one of him before he went to war...and she smiled to herself and was thankful she didn't inherit his big ears, but she had loved him nonetheless. The photograph reminded her of the good things...his smile and the moments emblazoned on her heart...like the perpetual story he told her each time they met. The story about how she fell asleep on his chest as a newborn; she, fresh from the womb, and he, fresh from a war that had only just begun.

Return

Return to me,
my love,
as you have year after year
and think not
of the voices
in your sacred garden,
you know the ones,
that whisper your name
in each drop of dew
on the tips of
the lips of dawn....

you knew
you could see right through me
as you held my
heart to the light
to see
where the fern
and the wild flowers grow
and the cut glass
sparkle of the day
rises to meet
your eyes...

My First Public Show

Such sweet and lasting memories made last Saturday night...almost like a dream for me...I stayed up into the small hours of morning trying to come up with a solution for a coffee shop counter space display for my necklaces, and came up with an old washboard-suitcase-cigar box configuration with an old upholstery spring on top to hold things. It was an amazing evening with live music and some very talented vendors, not to mention the wonderful compliments from admirers of my work. I felt very much in my own element and I was reminded that though my beloved work is a solitary thing, I am very much a "people person."

Since I do love me some Blues, the ultimate highlight of my evening was a performance by the very talented duet, Method Star. I'm talking head to toe goosebumps folks. Head. to. toe. I am thinking of becoming an official groupie.

Made it to the Front Page!

as I cleaned out your top dresser drawer
only months after you left,
way in the back corner
under faded floral paper
(the scent long gone)
was the tiny glass cameo
that fell off of your necklace
so long ago…
the one you said he gave you
in 1968
as a token of his affection
before you knew
that his affection was already sleeping there
softly inside your belly.

Blooming

...and she and I,
breathless and lifted and
hand in hand through the snow
sang at the height of our hearts
"We Shall Overcome"...in remembrance of Martin Luther, but I think also for ourselves.
There is a turning point, I think, in the infancy of a friendship, when things get bigger....open.....and bloom into something deeper and more profound...and though I don't call as much as I probably should, I think of her each and every day.
There are little crinkles around her light colored eyes and curls of baby hair buds at the roots of her dreads, that beckon a little twist every now and again as I read my favorite poems by Mary Oliver and we nod at one anothers' revelations...and marvel at the teas that bloom in the steaming water with the rising scent of jasmine in the room.
I marvel as I think of the happenstance day we met... when I gathered my courage and asked her what she was "doing here" in her vintage vest and dreads and holy jeans...in my desperation to connect, I found a lifelong friend.
and
We shall
overcome.
My dearest curmudgeon.

A Trainwreck and Stillness

Inside I feel like a mangled train wreck and I can't remember the last time I bathed since I found out my father is gone forever.... Did I write that out loud just now?
I simply crave beauty and stillness and written words.
In the quiet of the day I glance over to my right as I sit here at the looking glass of the world and I witness such exquisite unfoldings...the portraits my companion creates in the spaces when I am not looking...or when he thinks I am not paying attention...
It is like watching the gentle birth of something so lovely, that I can't find my breath. Something I know is so delicate...so feeling...so amazing....unlike anything I've seen before....

I think they call artists of his (and my) kind "outsiders". Something to do with lack of "formal training"....but Ken...Ken is an "insider" who taught himself to paint more than 40 years ago...he paints the insides...the spirits of those who appear on the canvas...a kind of seance with his brushes and a softness of feeling all his own.

What Was Real

                                                           (me and my father, 1993)

I know you tried. Maybe you just couldn't bear the love you felt for me.Maybe you just didn't think you knew how to love, or how to apologize or start over or forgive..... Maybe you felt you were doing the right thing by not being in my life in your final years...whatever your reasons, I forgive you.
What is real is what I will keep alive in my mind. Images of your smile...remnants of your voice in my head and how I can almost hear you call me Daddy's little girl... falling asleep on your lap, a newly single woman with another baby girl asleep inside of me...comforted by finally being a reflection in your eyes again after so long. Why we just couldn't get it together, you and I...I don't know. Forgive me for not trying harder.

And you know, the pain isn't any less just because we were "estranged" for some years.....my heart just aches at the thought of it. You are gone.......forever. No more second chances. No more hope that one day..........one day............
I have some photographs of you smiling at me and I have the memory of your huge rough hands that enveloped mine and the way you ate pickles and always told me you kept my tattered little smiling girl picture in your tool box for 20 years.....
There are memories I choose to keep and those I will simply discard. What good is negativity in this world; in this life? I know all to well that life is too short for it. Too short for petty things that never matter in the beauty that is this life. This one life...
I know you loved me in your own way...
and I can feel your deep brown eyes watching me, again my fiercest protector...with your wallet chain and your pocket knife and your quick temper and your leather boots.
No regrets, old man. No regrets, ok?
I'll always be your little girl.

Still Life with Portrait

A portrait by my talented husband, Ken.