The Drops of Hope Project

drops of hope earrings

I have often wondered, in my years here in this community, how I can give back...aside from helping the wayward kids that have wondered through our doors over the past Nine years here. There have been many that KW and I have cooked for, sheltered and briefly fostered to our best ability, while navigating turbulent teen years of our own children. The house is more settled now, and I have some time to spend on a small project here and there. I try to know my own limits as a person, so I don't take on too much at once and beat myself up for not "making it happen".
My current project is one close to my heart. I have even gotten help of my youngest, who punches cards for me. I think it is very important for children today to be involved in giving back. I think it helps to keep them more aware of the community in which they live, and it shows them the importance of working together.

our little guy punching cards

This project, I call "Drops of Hope". 

The earrings I make are simple. Made with vintage bead caps, faceted glass and non-reactive brass earwires and they come in pretty colors. At the end of each week, I use the money I make to purchase baby food for the local food pantry. So far, I have sold several pair and was able to donate two whole flats of large jars of babyfood to the local pantry, "People Helping People."

You can find the details here.

I am also hosting a free earring making class at the local library in August, and have plans to speak with the local Lions Club about hosting a walk-in workshop  for local teens to learn how to make jewelry of their own.  I'll keep you posted!

“Community is a sign that love is possible in a materialistic world where people so often either ignore or fight each other. It is a sign that we don't need a lot of money to be happy--in fact, the opposite.” ― Jean Vanier

Making Love

Recently, I received an amazing care package from someone very special to me. My idol, Stephanie Lee!We've never even met in person. It was filled with homemade jams, a piece of amazingly gorgeous jewelry, beautiful beads, and one of the kindest, softest notes I have ever received. This has become part of the unforgettable memories of my life. I know how busy life can get. And I know what it takes to send a package to someone...I do it often in my line of work...but one carefully filled with little glass mason jars in bubble wrap among other things? Well, that is above and beyond a care package...It made me feel seen and loved and heard...all of those things which we need as a human "being".

jams and preserves

            I lined the jars up and gingerly held them up to the sunlit window, slowly turning them like chunky kaleidoscopes. Each jar carefully labeled with the contents...beautiful amber and red colors...tiny chunks of fruit carefully cut and suspended in time. Friends, I know about canning. I know how labor intensive it is...

Nanny taught me about canning.

            During the hot summer months on Lake Santa Fe in northern Florida, I'd sit barefoot and tanned in a metal folding chair on the carport with my Nanny (Kathleen) Roberts shucking peas, de-veining  string beans, snapping them into smaller pieces...the scent of raw green in my nostrils and the gentle sound of the lapping lake in the distance. She called me Jenny in her gentle, southern voice and the sound soothed me with warmth each time.

Granddaddy and Nanny circa 1982

          Those summer days are some of the most cherished memories of my life. She and I and large bowls of snap peas and beans, chatting about canning and how long she had been doing it. The sound of metal lawn chairs scraping the carport cement as I scooted closer to her so I could see how it was properly done.

The large jars of butter beans were stored up on a shelf on the carport in long, neat rows. They could be seen when you drove up onto the carport, up to the kitchen door. I can still hear her voice calling to my father, Jerry, to go and get a jar of butter beans for supper. I can see his sun-browned hands reaching for one of the the large mason jars. Jars filled with those pale beans;  jars filled with conversations and sunshine. and the labors of a community garden in the deep southern sun.

            Holding those little jewel filled jars that were sent to me, my memory was flooded like a tide pool...holding the most precious living things I could ever own; my memories.

            Nanny is gone now. She was 85. Jerry left long before her in 1983. I was 14. She always said one should never have to outlive her children, but that he was with Jesus now.

            Holding the little jars from my box to the light, I remember love. I remembered family meals around a creaky old table. And I felt loved.... my mind flooded with memories of my father; of love, family and gentle conversation with one of the softest, kindest women I've ever known. All of this from a single box bearing my name.

            I bought muffins yesterday. Savoring the thought that this morning I would open one of the jars with that familiar POPing sound as the seal breaks, and spreading the fruity sweetness over crusty brown bread and  real butter...almost like the feeling of rolling vintage jewels around in the palm of my hand. I imagine the journey from garden to hands to bowl to plate. I hear voices and laughter spilling out into the morning air.

            I sigh with the thought of it all. Where love begins and never ends...long after the jars are empty, rinsed and ready for the next season. Jars turned upside down, long bereft of their contents, a symbol of hope for another season of love to be made.



Jewelry by Stephanie Lee

Pennies from Heaven (because I forgot the really good title)

            I found the perfect one word title for this post, and then as quickly as it came, I lost it. Which is very much like me I imagine. Forgetting things, names, words and appointments. Forgetting why I came into another room with the purpose lost by the time I entered into the middle of it. And then leaving said room frustrated with myself. I read that it has much to do with the neurological issues I have. I have so many labels...fibromyalgia, postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, peripheral neuropathy, depression, bulging disks and torn stuff in my spine, arthritis, Fabry's disease...

            Truth is, no one really knows why I am loosing myself to whatever this body of mine decides to do. Could be hereditary, but I know very little about my natural fathers health before he died. I only know that sometimes I am scared. I am scared of becoming encased in skin that cannot feel.

            I've lost my feet to numbness and  I experience excruciating neuropathic pain that saps my energy. I've lost my shins to partial numbness and parts of my thighs. Parts I didn't even realize were gone until the neurologist started poking me with a pin and caressing parts of me with a piece of tissue paper as my eyes were closed...

"Can you feel this?"

"This?"

"How about this?"

           Mostly, I miss the feel of the grass beneath my feet. Oh, and sand too. Now I have to wear "special" shoes. I smile to myself as I write this because I think immediately of Forrest Gump when I put them on each day....these expensive pseudo-hip mary janes with fat heels and velcro straps to keep me steady.

I miss my feet.

         But none of this can stop me from my belief that it all has a purpose beyond what I can see. Because I've seen it in action, this truly amazing Grace that God gives to us each and every day.

I look for it. And it is there.

In the smallest of things.

            Last Sunday before church we were running late. The last spots were by the big mud puddles outside of the parking lot fence. I decided to walk along the fence so I could touch it as I skirted past front bumpers, secretly savoring the cool metal beneath my fading fingertips. It reminded me of my childhood, walking by fences and running my fingertips along to cool metal as I walked. I held on to the fence to steady myself before entering the parking lot of our church. When I reached the entrance, I happened to look down. At the entrance, right by the big metal post, embedded in grass and mud and leaves, was a penny.

I was not looking for pennies. It found me. I picked it up and looked closely at the date.

1969.

The year I was born.                                                                                                                                                                                                           God knows my thoughts. He knows my pain. To me, it was a sign  that I was born for a reason. That my life has a divine plan.  Not to give up.

I'm not saying that God throws pennies down just for me to find.

What I am trying to say is that if your heart is open to receive signs...you will find them.

There are little miracles everywhere. I truly believe this. Signs of God's love exist all around us.

        I could not stop the tears coming from my eyes during the whole service that day. My youngest son, looking over at me from his seat with questioning eyes and I couldn't explain why the tears would not stop.

How can one really explain to anyone how finding a penny with 1969 on it was such a touching thing...

I guess that is what I'm trying to do here.

Through an old penny, God said to me that I was born to do this.

That my life is purposeful and that I was on the right path...just watch for big muddy puddles, touch everything and everyone you possibly can. Hold on. This numbness in your body is a gift. Use it. Use your life.

You were born to do this.

My Winged Heart Art

This is where is all began for me...the first pieces of artwork I ever made involved hearts with paper and wire wings, and sometimes messily sewn fabric ones, back in 1999. The wire elements were inspired by one of my favorite artists, Brian Andreas.  I was fortunate enough to be featured in the wonderful book, Taking Flight, which featured an article with a mirrored piece I did with the same signature paper and wire wings. Cloth Paper Scissors featured an article about me and my work (the first time i was ever published in a magazine!), and I just found an image of my work on their Pinterest board! So nice to see those again...they have long since been given away or sold...but seeing my assemblage work inspires me to want do this again. Assemblage jewelry and art is my heartbeat made tangible. Broken pieces made whole and beautiful again....that is me. It refreshes my spirit to read these old interviews...my heart is still the same kind of heart. I still want the same things from life. I still want to make a difference in the world, even in the smallest ways. Perhaps the smallest ways are best.

photo by Jennifer Valentine,  "Writing in Books"click to visit link

Did I ever tell you how much I love old pencils? I think about the history they hold. Writings I'll never see...signatures, tests, apology letters...I love that about old things. They have stories to tell if we are just quiet enough to listen. This piece required me to very carefully drill holes through the tops of  about 15 old pencils! The wings were actually those cheap puffy fabric wings that I painted with a paint that you can rust.

Below is a heart from years ago (my mother's heart) that was featured on KellyRaeRoberts.Com. It was for an interview and It is made with old garter straps and stained up fabric from an old ironing board (I think i still have some of that.). Oh, how I love old raggedy fabric!

image by Kelly Rae Roberts, click for article

I used the same kind of silver thread for my hearts for years until the last bit left the spool...and I have not been able to find the same thread since. Would you like to learn to make the paper and wire wings? I was thinking about a little tutorial. It isn't as hard as it might seem. I have a little suitcase FULL of old, yellowed tissue paper that I have found stuffed inside old hats at garage sales and various places. This has really got me going now...i feel some more heart art coming on!

Here are a couple more paper and wire winged pieces featured years ago on Lovely Liz Lamoreux's blog back in 2009, when she did an interview with me (SO honored.)!

"Leaving" by Jennifer Valentine

"Flying Irony" by Jennifer Valentine

No Matter How Lonely

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.” 
― Mary Oliver

Free Easy DIY Earring Display Idea

 I don't like my favorite assemblage jewelry to hide in a box, so I made something simple to display my assemblage earrings that is easy to make, and makes each pair easy to see and enjoy, wear and replace.

What I did~
I added small eye screws from a picture hanging kit to an antique rubber carriage wheel. The rubber is very hard, but very easy to screw into. I used a saw tooth picture hanging bracket for the back. Just nail it right into the hard rubber.
I also used a chemical called "Novacan Black" to make the bright metal of the eye screws look dark and aged.
I did something a bit differently in another post here,  
to display my favorite necklaces with a large antique tricycle wheel.
Hope this inspires you! I love to display my artful collection of earrings. Earrings pictured clockwise from the top are Sacred Cake,  Age Before Beauty, Sacred Cake,  Fanciful Devices, and Read Between the Lines.

I've even found some for you! just follow these leads by clicking on the photo:

Affirmation, a Mother's Day Letter to My First Born

My Dear "Little Prince",

            Mother’s Day morning is here, and I reflect today in the rare stillness of early morning; my thoughts turning to you. My first child. Born to me on the edge of 18. I could not stop looking at you. So incredible. So beautiful. So mine.
            I was a natural, even at that age. I know I've told you that before haven't I? I surprised everyone. I just knew what to do somehow, as if guided by something unseen and unknown. A force of pure love. I imagine that is what is called maternal instinct...
            I fumbled through your later years, as I imagine all parents do. We grew up together. I made mistakes that, in my mother's mind, are completely unforgivable. But you have forgiven me before I have even begun to forgive myself. Thank you for that.

            I am writing because I want to share with you one of my fondest memories. I have years upon years of memories stored up in my mind of you and your four siblings...fleeting glimpses of the past, like tiny movies I can play and re-play. And I so agree with  Pavese who once wrote,  “We do not remember days, we remember moments. The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.”  Isn't it strange how a memory that only lasts just a few seconds, can change a person so...but the richness of the moment stays with us like sweetness on our tongues after desert is long gone.

            It was 2006. You were graduating from high school. Your father and his wife had the “good” seats, while I had to sit in the balcony section for guests... straining to find you among the sea of caps and tassels and gowns. And it was ok. Your father and his wife are the ones who were there in person, and urged you onward and finally got you to that place, a graduating senior, while i lived 3,000 miles and five years away from you.

            You had just received your diploma and I only applauded loudly as requested by the high school staff. You must have known how hard it was for me to stay reserved. I am never one to be demure! I had to quietly swallow the burst of pride that I felt, and tears of joy mixed with regret and longing leaked from the corners of my eyes. You walked by your father and his wife and found your seat and then it happened.

            As I watched in earnest to catch your eye, you turned around in your seat, searching the balcony crowd for my face.  My face. We made eye contact. You raised your diploma in the air and smiled at me. I waved and smiled back.

            It was two seconds. The most life affirming two seconds of my entire life.

            To be loved by you, I find such grace.

            There are the broken places inside of me that still ache for a second chance to get some things right, though I know it isn’t possible. And I know, as a parent, all parents have those tender, achey places.

            On this Mother’s Day, I want to thank you for your love. For loving me despite all of my faults. For forgiving the seemingly unforgivable. Imaginative, dynamic, beautiful child of mine;  thank you, for your unlimited love and grace.

                                                                                        Love Forever,

                                                                                        Mom

Surfacing

It comes when I least expect it. And I am left wondering where it came from. What triggered it...

The feeling that I cannot catch my breath...the feeling of being smothered. The helplessness that comes with a memory I don’t want to remember. The brief bewilderment, the ache and sadness that comes with it. I find myself inhaling deeply. Calming with each free breath.

            I wonder if the memory comes with  stress, or the feeling of not being able to catch my breath, or if it comes after. I just know it arrives.

 No  longer the victim, I say to myself. No more, does he have the power to make me feel afraid. And almost as quickly as it comes, the memory finally fades. We cannot control every thought, or every memory; but we can control how we react to it…

My hope is that by writing these words, those of you who were abused at the hands of those who were supposed to love and cherish you, will find comfort that you are not alone in it. I know the darkness at times can seem overwhelming, and we get weary of fighting it, but there is light. There is hope. Always hope. I believe this with all of my heart.

I find that childhood  memories usually come in the stillness when I am holding one of my children, or one of my grandchildren. Or as I watch my children from afar.

The thought that comes is how? And Why? How can anyone abuse an innocent child? A child like me? A child like mine?

It just seems so easy to love.

Among my experiences as a young girl, one particular moment is emblazoned in my memory, like the branding of cattle. I was held under water in a pool for so long, I thought for certain I would never surface again. I was only seven years old, and I was afraid of the deep end of the pool at our apartment complex.

“Let's jump in together then,” he said.  Reluctantly, I held his hand, and leaped into the pool...only I did not get to surface.

His grip tightened, and I was held under for an eternity. My lungs burned. I remember struggling, looking up at his distorted face through the ripples of surface water…and the sound of the bubbles of my last exhaled breath rumbling in my ears. And it seemed like such a long way up to the surface where that breath awaited. An eternity, it was, for me.

When I was finally allowed to come up for air, I got out of the pool gasping for air and choking on tears of disbelief and hurt.

That was the last time tried to leap fearlessly.

I am not telling this story to elicit sympathy. I am telling it because it is part of my story.  It is a part of the story of my life. Just one of the many many moments that changed me, and my feelings of security and trust for most of my life.

We who are left to struggle with the aftermath of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse often times identify as victims. It becomes our brand. Our excuse. We try to control our lives and our relationships in ways we sometimes don't even realize, because at an early age, we were completely powerless. We were at the mercy of other people and their control over us.

We worry about what people think. We become people pleasers. We demand love on our terms. We live our lives around everything and everyone but ourselves. We feel unworthy. We have inner voices that drag us through absolute hell. We put ourselves last…

And we feel broken.

For years, I lived inside of the brokenness. I lived inside of the feelings of unfairness and anger and resentment and regret. I had no self-worth. I chose all of the wrong men and tried to “fix” them to my liking. I felt absolutely unlovable for the first 37 years of my life.

 I feel like I am finally beginning to surface. Even now, at 44 years old; even when I think I have fully conquered it, it is still here.

I am sometimes still giving my past abuse, and my abuser, the power to determine my self worth. I still struggle. I'm not here to lie to you and tell you I'm leaping fearlessly and to tell you I'm all healed up shiny new and I never make mistakes. I work on healing every. single. day.

What I am here to tell you is that I know it is not easy.

I am here to tell you that we can rise above it.

I am here to tell you that you are not alone in your struggle.

I am here to tell you that we are worthy of joy and happiness and love.

No matter how old we are, we can always begin.

Give yourself the chance to surface.

 

playing with seagulls, 2012

Gift from the Sea, Part One

me at Jax Beach, circa 1976

     I grew up in Jacksonville, Florida, about a 40 minute drive from the frothy coast of Jacksonville Beach. I have the sweetest memories of being there under the sun; squinting my eyes to see how far I'd drifted away from our colorful beach blanket. And then she would catch my eye. My beautiful mother, standing resolute with her pale legs stained pink from the sun and a delicate arm lifted to her brow, shading her eyes to see where I had gone. I'd wave and run back to her, to our spot, only to drift again and again in the summer sun.

That is how it is when you're busy swimming in the ocean and looking for pretty shells. You drift. You come back. And drift again.

     Life is like that for me, and I'm sure for most of you. We find ourselves drifting from who we really are; find ourselves again, drift; and repeat. I've been drifting and arriving again at myself for many years now. (I'll be Fourty-four this spring.) But the journey truly began when a friend of mine gave me the book written by Sarah Ban Breathnach called, "Simple Abundance." It was life changing. And it was in reading that book that I found the writer, Anne Morrow Lindbergh and her book, "Gift from the Sea." I unearthed my old 1955 edition book again recently to refresh my mind.

Words are powerful.

When I first read her book, the words brought me from depression and trying to measure up to societies standards, to truly reveling in the joy of the moment. Life became colorful again. I began to see the beauty in the tiniest things. I realized that anywhere can be home...that even the bleakest of circumstances could be overcome with only a change of perspective.

     Reading the book again has brought me back to what is important.

It is renewing my spirit, and bringing me back to what I yearned for before I ever read it...creating my life....curating my life, as I like it. Justifiable time to put down the "HELLO, I'M Jeremy, Christian, Jonathan, Rebecca and Emily's MOM" tag to take care of myself. To take a breath and center in stillness.

     Somewhere in the hard core dream chasing, battling my illness and  mommying  I had lost that. Anne says, once again, that I need to find it, that stillness.

She says in the chapter entitled Moon Shell that, "I must try to be alone for part of each year, even a week or a few days; and for part of each day, even an hour or a few minutes in order to keep my core, my center, my island-quality........a woman must be still as the axis of a wheel in the midst of her activities; that she must be the pioneer in achieving this stillness, not only for her own salvation, but for the salvation of family life, of society, perhaps even of our civilization."

Wise words that echo truth to us even now, 57 years later.

assemblage Gift from the Sea bracelet

Being near water has always brought me stillness and centering. You know those times you need to go to your happy place? Mine is usually during dental work or while I'm in yet another MRI tube! The beach is where I go every. single. time. 

     There is a feeling there that there is something more at work in the world. Be it the roll of the ocean, or the rhythmic lapping of water along a shallow lakefront; water has always been a calming presence for me...a gift from the sea.

     My thoughts have spilled into my latest work. I have piled shells and wood and bits and baubles in shades of many waters on my work table. That too, is my most happy place. The place where I can find myself. When the house is quiet...the ocean is rolling once again, or I'm walking on cool leaves Creek-side with my children or I'm wading into cool lake water with my little sister holding my hand. It is there by the water, where I can remember, center and create.

Driftwood Earrings

Morning

I am here, in our little room upstairs which we refer to as "Paris" though I've never been. It is a vacation spot for me; our bedroom, where the boughs of the trees reach inward toward the windows, birds flit about at the feeder hung on the oustide sash and a cat or two lounging on our bed with fresh vintage sheets. They watching intently with drowsy eyes...oh and old feather pillows that smell of grandmothers house. Bolstering my back against the old white metal bed whose life itself has seen so much of children bouncing, love making, sickness and tears and thousands  upon thousands of sleeps.
It is quiet up here. I can escape the busy busy busy of my grandchild and my youngest daughter fumbling around in her motherhood as all mothers have done. There are dishes not clean, piled in the sink, clothes in heaps on the floor in the landry room and work that beckons me each time I pass by my making desk downstairs, heaped with potential and discarded rhinestones.
This is not my whole life. It's just a moment that I have taken to reconnect. For me, reconnecting means reading a little favorite poetry, or writing a bit with a cup of Chai tea in hand. Setting aside the remains of the day until I can take a deep breath, and exhale; get dressed, put on a pair of favorite earrings or a sparkly necklace, and face the day ahead with a grateful heart.
Here is a poem I read this morning by my most beloved poet, Billy Collins~

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,

the swale of the afternoon,

the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,

his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—

throwing off the light covers,

feet on the cold floor,

and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,

a palmful of vitamins—

but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—

trees fifty, a hundred years old

out there,

heavy clouds on the way

and the lawn steaming like a horse

in the early morning.