Stumbling upon treasure & where are you, my friend?

I am addicted to surfing the internet. I know I’m not on my own, people. I love it but sometimes I resent it. Purely for the reason that I don’t get anything done. Like tonight, for example. I sat down, to write a post about asking you to let me know where you are in the world. That post hasn’t been written, because I’ve just been trawling through an eclectic mixture of  sweet, sweet websites. And now I’m writing about something totally unintended. But that’s ok.

Plus, I should be in bed. I promised myself I would finish my book tonight, so that I can start my new book club book, A Gate At The Stairs by  Lorrie Moore. ( I know. I am actually, like, in a book club. Made up of two whole people. Ahem.)

Anyways, one new diamond in the rough I in particular, which I wanted to mention is Cathe Holden’s Just Something I Made. What a clever, clever lady. There are so many thing to look at on her site, I think I’ll be here till Monday.  Her studio is my studio in 2 years. It is exactly as I see it. The stuff she collects is the stuff I collect and want to collect more of. Its quite uncanny. (Or is it?)

It’s one of those kinds of studios where everything collected has a special memory, a romantic connection. It’s what you would see if you could delve into the depths of the left side of this ladys brain. That’s not supposed to be freaky. Right now, I’m a five year old in an old fashioned sweet shop. I can’t believe my luck.

Ok, so I may aswell combine this post with the one I was actually supposed to be writing, which was to encourage you to leave me a comment on this site, letting me know where you’re checking in from. I’m really curious to know. And even more curious, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a little map thingy to the bottom right of the screen, called MapClustr, which tells you and I where my web hits are coming from. I’m 1) surprised 2) totally flattered to see that I have visitors as far away as Japan. How cool is that? Thank you whoever you are for visiting. It truly excites me when I login to my little stats screen. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know exactly where you are, its all very vague right now. But if you have a spare second, I’d love it if you dropped me a line using the comment box at the end of this post, telling me your town, county and country where you live. Maybe even how you came across my site if you like. If not, no sweat. It’s just a bit of fun. (I’m smiling)

Ok, well, I’ll hopefully see you soon. Nighty night.

Sun-Worshipping.

Two weeks ago, I had just returned from Mallorca. It was the fourth time I had been invited by my lovely friend, and this time I was able to gleefully accept, rather than morosely yet graciously refuse. I was leaving my job. I had no excuses. Not that I ever made any up. I just never had enough holiday. So, feet first, I was determined I would not miss out on a major opportunity to let myself go. To just be. To read. To think. To swim. To worship some sun. My charming husband and our two tinkers were left to fend for themselves for five days. They did a pretty good job (although my husband lost weight while I was gone. Huh?). They went camping, to the beach, to stay with my mother-in-law and basically just have, like, a tonne of fun. Nice style.

The thing with me is that I don’t think about things enough beforehand. It’s a fault, but it’s also a bit of a positive. If you don’t over analyse, then you can’t worry too much. But then when something occurs, which you may have already considered may happen, it wouldn’t be such a shock. My husband is the opposite to me. He’s a massive forward thinker. I am not. Perhaps thats why it works so well. Although, it’s also another reason for me to beat myself up, thinking I should be something I’m not. Not that I need any more reasons.

Another thing about me, is that I struggle in large groups of girls/ladies/females. I feel self conscious. Every one looks better than me. Every one speaks better than me. Every one knows more than me. Every one seems so much more grown up than 14-year-old-inside-my-head me. It’s always been this way.It’s a very unattractive trait, and hopefully, I hide it well. I don’t really go out with larger groups of people so much these days. If I do, they’re pretty much balanced with husbands, which somehow seems to make it easier.

These lovely people I went away with provided me with absolutely no reason to feel the way I felt on a couple of occasions. They’re genuine, honest, thoughtful people. So, its obviously me and my deep rooted issues. I feel kind of sad when these feelings start welling up. I can feel them coming. And then I fill with dread. I almost feel like I want to swallow them away, like you would with inappropriate hot tears. “Go away. This is not the time or the place. And anyway, I thought you’d gone for good.”  I’d love to know where this silly little itch came from. I’m sure one day, I’ll work it out.

But you know what? We did laugh. We really did. About allioli. About sangria o’clock.About football. About skin and the clouds. About nothing. And not once did we struggle to find something to talk about. I think that’s something to be proud of. I also think its a sign that you’ve found true friends. It takes a while, but its worth it. Its like a good song is rarely one you love when you hear it for the first time. It grows. And then it grows some more. And then you know you’ll always love it, no matter how much you hear it.

I came home feeling refreshed inside and out. Time, as much as we all discuss it, moan and curse it, is massively underrated. It sorts all kinds of things out. It puts things in perspective. It purges and cleanses. It allows an unhurried reflection. It may seem like it was ‘only a holiday’, but for me, it was alot more. And I loved every second.

And now I need another one.

I’m trying to focus.

I really am. It’s tricky though. Everything else takes over. I’m sure you get that, right? The daily drone. Washing, ironing, clearing the dishes (at least 3 times a day). Children constantly treading on my toes whilst I’m buttering toast. ‘Mummy, can I do this?’ ‘Mummy, can I go there?’ ‘Why?’ ‘But, why?’ ‘But pleeeeeeease’. It’s not always easy. And its alot easier when you have a full nights sleep. So I’ve heard. Missed calls on my phone. Oh, I’ll call back later. Another text arrives. Beep beep. Oh, must remember to text back later. A week passes. The guilt cloud is by my knees. Chest is tight. Smiles are rare. Laughter even rarer. Must learn how to cope better. I mean, every day’s a school day. It’s not that hard, is it?

A new post is cooking in the oven that is my brain box. It’s been brewing a while, and is actually well over due. I simply need to make more time, or I shall burst. I really will. So, may I ask you to hold your breath?

Wakey wakey!

“Maaaaa-mmmeeeee.”

“Maa-mee.”

My left eye struggles to open. It snaps shut. I’m able to prize it open to pick up my overturned phone from on top of the book I’m not reading on my bedside table, to check that it really isn’t the ungodly hour I think it might be. It is. I sigh out loud, through my nose, but groan on the inside. I’m frustrated, my ears hurt pathetically with the not so loud noises I can hear coming from his cot. I check again, and muster the energy to speak. “It’s half. past. five.”

“I know” my husband says, like I’ve said the same thing to him for the fifth time.

The bedroom door gently opens and Rosa peeks around it, as quiet as a mouse. “Mummy” She whispers. “I’m thirsty.” Displeased, I sit up. My brow is furrowed, for a few reasons. My left ankle is weak and slightly aching from a 10k run the evening before. I am frustrated that children don’t understand time. I’m annoyed at myself for feeling frustrated that children don’t understand time. It’s not their fault. I feel mean. And, I’m just trying to wake up from a very deep sleep, my eyes aren’t adjusting to the dawn light as well as they should. I hobble downstairs, to fetch drinks for the children. On my return, I put the drinks in the childrens’ bedroom, that they’re currently sharing, the reason for not just one child being awake at this time. As I walk back to our bedroom to try to steal a few more seconds in bed, I see Rosa in front of me. “Your drink is in your bedroom”.

I left her drink in there when I took her brother out of his cot, and put him on the floor, hoping he would want to play.

“Why?” she asks me. I think for a few seconds.

“Because that’s where I put it” I say, irritatingly. I immediately feel dreadful for my answer and for the way in which I said it. Especially when she replies,

“Mummy, I’ll play with Jackson” in her sweetest, loveliest tone. “Look, Jackson. This is what you do with this” and she drops an oversized, moulded, plastic coin into a toy piggy-bank.

Despite feeling engulfed in guilt, I steal away, in the hope I won’t be followed by my little ducklings, so that I can crawl back into bed.

With all the noise I’m sure he can make, Jackson runs into our bedroom. He stands by the edge of the bed, near my face and makes a noise, which means ‘Let me up, let me up’.

I lift him up whilst I’m still lying down, and put him on the bed. He sits on me, like he’s on a horse and bumps up and down on my tummy, with a perfect chubby smile, stretched across his face. Its incredible how children can smile so happily so soon after waking up. I should learn something from this. He lurches across me, onto his daddy, to routinely slap his daddy’s shaven head. Steve lifts and turns his head to Jackson and smiles unconditionally at him with his eyes shut.

He gets up with the children, with an unequivocal energy I admire, and takes them downstairs for breakfast, as I bury my head under three pillows, still swamped with self-condemnation for being so abrupt.

I am me.

I was born in Leeds, in 1978 and moved to Norwich in 1980. In 1997, I moved to Nottingham to go to University. In 2000, I moved to Olney, Buckinghamshire. In 2005, I moved north of the county, where I am now settled. I knew I wanted to be settled, I don’t like moving about. I want to encounter the same old journeys every day. I want to drive, run, cycle and walk down the twisty, turny, crumbly back roads home, providing me with a secure sense of belonging – “I know these old roads like the back of my hand”.

When you grow up in one place, you naturally take it for granted. You know you’re going to be bumping into the same people when you go out. You know what time all the buses run by the end of the street, even if you don’t take the bus. In the same way that you know the local shop keeper. That all changes when you move, and in many ways, it’s never the same again. For me, its something I think about frequently, but don’t really talk about. I don’t talk about it with my husband, because it would mean nothing to him, since he didn’t grow up in the same place I did. Almost in the same way it means nothing to friends when you drive them to tears talking about your recent holiday, or showing your holiday snaps. If you weren’t there, its neither here nor there. I mean, you can try, but its never the same. I don’t keep in touch with many people from school, so I don’t naturally talk about it that way. I don’t talk about it a lot with my mum, dad or sister, because I never have the time with two young children ever present.

I used to walk to middle school, listening to my beaten up, red Sony walkman, complete with black foam ear phones. I would listen to rock’n'roll rhythms…”I’ve. Found. My. Freee-dom……..duh, duh, duh, duh, d-d-duh, duh….ooooon Blueberry Hiiiiill”. The smell of the towering hedge of conifers I walked beside was so fragrant. And when I reached the creamy vanilla-coloured house on the corner, the one with the Scottie dog, that scent changed to a drifting photocopy-smell of a tiny, white, blossom creeping up the stippled render. Time to cross the road. Time to methodically negotiate my feet over the crawling roots of the imposing Oak and Horse Chestnut trees, circulating the entrance of the schools, almost like they were keeping watch over the approaching youngsters. And then school. Now there’s a story for another day.

When I was a baby, my mum noticed a small area of bluishness on my upper thigh. Immediately concerned I had been bruised, she took me to the doctors, to be told that I displayed signs of Mongolian Blue Spot, something prevalent amongst East Asian, Native American, Polynesian, Micronesian and Hispanic children or of that descent. Kind of exciting and exotic to find out when you’re younger. Especially when, like myself, I am more than interested in Brazilian and American/Native American cultures. I’m not only interested because I had Mongolian Blue Spot and therefore I feel I should have an interest, I have always had a deep-rooted interest in both American and Latin cultures, almost to a point where, at certain moments I would actually feel part of them. Crazy, I know. And I almost feel childish and moronic revealing this about myself. When I hear the Berimbau, when I taste any kind of South American food, when I gaze spellbound at brightly painted street art, when I am drawn to handcrafted twinkling, silver and turquoise jewels, when I hear the flamboyant chatter of a native Carioca……anything, it would seem, which appeals to the left side of my brain. Recently, I have given this affinity a lot of thought. Why do I feel so connected to these things? Why do these emotive occasions make me feel like I almost belong to them? Are we more connected to these things than we will ever know? In my own private way, I like to think so. Its almost like a secret I only share with myself. The moment I share with anyone else, will be the moment I wish I hadn’t, for fear of feeling the blood rush to my cheeks in a moment of juvenile foolishness. And I realise thats exactly what I’m doing now, but somehow its different, because I’m not telling someone, I’m hiding behind my writing. But actually, you know what? I love this about myself, and it’s quite rare that I would say that about myself. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to be ostentatious or gloating. This ‘secret’ I share only with myself (and now, my blog readers) is precious to me, its something I have spent alot of time mulling over. And now I share it with you.

And, as if by magic, I hear a lady nearby pick up the phone. She dials a number. There’s a pause whilst she waits tentatively for the other person to pick up, and the beginning of a long, excited babble begins…..”Olá! Como você está? Sim. Eu não sou realmente ruim. Você tem um bom fim de semana?…..”

Wafting aromas of Lemon Chicken Flan & Wisteria

On a raw, icy morning in January, our mini-tribe trundled across the village, leaving our rickety old home, to hibernate, for the rest of the gloomy season, in a rented house.

We moved into our humble Victorian nest back in July 2007, and were to be married two months later. In theory, moving and marrying in a very short space of time, could have been fraught with angst and apprehension. But the moment the key slipped into the tatty old lock, it turned and clunked solidly, the door creaked open, echoing gently through the opening of the empty house, I was absolutely certain that this was all I had ever dreamed of. That feeling was simply confirmed the following morning, when I opened my eyes to find myself looking out of the window onto the village church. The morning sunlight flooded onto the creamy, intricately embroidered bed sheets and in turn, reflected onto my face, which slowly unfurled a warm, comforted smile. I will never forget that moment.

After some sense was made of unpacking our new lives from what felt like hundreds of multi-sized brown parcels, we ventured out into the garden. What a sight we were met with! Flowering jasmine clambered its way clumsily over our heads, above the back door. Over grown conifers shadowed the courtyard garden, swaying slowly and ominously back and forth beside the path around the back of the house. Ivy had sneakily crept its way slowly but surely over the red brickwork, edging towards the wooden sash window frames, in an effort to prize its green spindly fingers into the building. Some of it had to go. It had to be ripped and torn off the fascia. It had to be churned up within a noisy, disruptive, log-cutting machine. But when the silence returned, the true beauty of our new home was unhurriedly being discovered. We stumbled across a twisted, mature pear tree, heavy with miniature growing fruits. Another old fruit tree tucked away, down the steps at the bottom garden, which after a little bit of research and identification, revealed itself as a greengage tree. And underneath that diamond in the rough, some fuchsia pink rhubarb stems poked out from beneath the undergrowth. My mind was bursting with thoughts of jam making, cake baking, steamed rhubarb and rosewater.  A ready-made mini orchard of soft treats – what luck!

As a balmy autumn drew closer, plans for expanding our nest grew from small seedlings into ideas of grandeur, and a year on, along with a little seedling of our own flourishing in my tummy, those visions were put onto large cumbersome pieces paper in the form of bewildering architects drawings.

And today, we are only a heartbeat away from taking that walk back through the village to our brand new old house, which we will, once again, make into our home. Just two short weeks away. My heart flutters when I think about it. I think about that first morning I woke up to find myself overlooking a view to hold onto tightly. I think about making a house a home for those who I nurture and care for, creating memories that hopefully they will recollect fondly, the way I do when I think of wisteria and lemon chicken flan, creating homely cooking smells and leave-the-door-open-on-a-summers-evening smells. These times are precious. These times are here with us now, they’re here for a reason.

Inspire. Motivate. Stimulate. Push. Propel. Or stagnate.

Following on from my last post (where I ranted a little. Again. I really didn’t want to have to do that but selfishly, it helped. It really did), the next step of getting myself back in the game is to stick a bit of tinder on the flame. Y’know. I have the spark, its there, but nothing’s smoking yet. So where do I get me some dry, mossy, combustibles from? The question I really want to ask is how do you stay motivated without burning out? (I’m dropping the fire analogies now.)

For the past few weeks, my creative spark has gone astray. I can get it back, I know its not dissolved completely, like a sugar cube suspended in hot, milky coffee. Or. Oh yea, I know. Or, or, or like a McVities Digestive held too long in a cup of tea. (Good one, Vic. Hi-5 atcha). The problem lies in having the motivation to start doing something again. I mean, I’ve had other stuff to focus on. Leaving my job, being one of them. The other kind of major thing is our house renovation. We moved out of our home six months ago and its nearly time to go back. Its not been easy. Oh, and one more thing, my two babies. Yeeeeeah. They kind of wear me out, if I’m honest. So, there, on a plate, are my excuses. Do you buy them? I don’t. I don’t think there are any excuses really. If you’re creative, you’re creative. There’s no getting away from it. I’ve just been lazy. But then, even that doesn’t make sense. If you’re intrinsically creative, you still find ways of expressing yourself, right? Someone out there help me, cos I’m really beating myself up about this. I call myself a creative person, but I feel like a fraud. I started this blog a few months ago on the right foot. I maintained it, I managed to post reguarly. I thought I was past the novelty stage, and as it turns out, maybe I wasn’t. Or maybe, I should just shut up, and move on. I mean, this isn’t my full time job. This isn’t  how I make my living. Its something I do when I have a little bit of spare time. Writing it out like this, makes me realise that I crave for this to be my full time job. I mean, I kind of knew that already. (I can hear my husband in my ear now ‘Its a hobby. If you turn it into your job, it’ll take the enjoyment out of it). I don’t have time for it to be my full time job right now, but eventually, it will be. You know that already, right? Because I wrote about it a few months ago. I know. I’m boring. I talk about the same old thing. Blah Blah Blah.

One other preoccupation I would like to share, is that I would probably describe myself as a person of extremes. When I focus on something, I can’t give it up. I can’t go to bed at night, without dreaming about it. And the extreme at the moment is fitness. When I do make time for myself right now, its to run. Or do yoga. Or some lunges. I mean, its a perfect time of year to do that, and if I’m honest, I think I’d rather be outside enjoying our long evenings, saying hi to all the birdies in the hedges as I wallop past like the BFG in flippers, than sat under the dark stairs at a warm-buzzing-electrical fun box. Its refreshing, mind-clearing and truly liberating. I don’t have to talk to anyone, justify myself, or even think if I don’t want to. Its just me and the beats of the BEP’s.

Back to the point I was trying to make, or rather the question I wanted to ask you. I’m going to open it up to you, my fellow blog friends. How do you stay motivated and consistent without experiencing burnout? I am genuinely curious to find out if I’m on my own here. You can send me your tips or just comment by filling in the comments box at the end of this post. Go on, help an old girl out.

Some nice things to look at on a Friday

I stumbled across some images I’ve been keeping on my computer. I kept them because I liked them and thought I would use them in moments where I’m struggling to come up with something original. The reality is I haven’t looked at them since I stored them away. Some use that theory was. So, instead, I share with you. Voilà.

I don’t know where I got this image from, but I love it. So simple. If someone reading this knows, please get in touch so I can reference them.

A beautiful antique Victorian calling card design. Amazing penmanship.

I think I came across this when I was looking for inspiration for designing my Lovebird logo. Again, sorry for not referencing the source but if anyone can help out on this, please let me know.

Dreamy Sonoma County in Northern California. Mother to the Mayacamas Mountains and the Sonoma Mountains. I would give my big toe to be bouncing along on a bench seat of an old Chevy pickup, windows down, picnic on board. Yes please.

If you don’t try, you won’t know.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again. Take the bull by the horns.

Ok. Enough of the old chestnuts. Let’s get on with what I’m trying to say.

I’m new to this game. Its something I’ve been over-thinking lately. And when it comes to the point where you can’t get to sleep at night, because the brain-cogs are whirring in overtime, its time to take the bull by the horns.

Hmm, I can’t seem to shake those old chestnuts off the tree. If you’re not into stock phrases, look away now.

For a while, I’ve had a dream. Quite a romantic one, in fact, where I’ve wanted to throw in the executive towel, and paint, draw, make then sell. Life gets in the way, it takes over and these dreams are filed away for a rainy, empty day. But then, something life-changing happens. It makes me think is this my silver lining? What the heck am I waiting for? So, here I am, writing my first blog entry. It could be the first, it could be the last.

I’m hoping this blog is going to be a personal visual history. I see things I love, I store them away in the dusty retreat of my brain, never knowing if I will see them again. So, instead of storing them away somewhere, I will store them here, and they will form a pattern, a story. A story of me.

On that note, it’s onwards and upwards.

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