6 January 2009


As 2008 drew to a close, I resolved to make 2009 the year when I would consciously try to live every day in a creative way, and to do this with compassion and empathy for others, whether I be weeding or cleaning, driving or washing, cooking or relaxing . This has been building for many years, sometimes buried by the detritus of mistakes, disapproval and diversions and the stuff of daily life but always there and always resurfacing and demanding attention. There are so many ideas and so much energy. Time has often served as the excuse not to make a piece of art, the usual fear and lack of confidence, coupled with the idea that I should be doing something 'other'. It has taken so long for me to realize that a creative act does not necessarily have to be a painted master piece on a perfectly stretched canvass, using the finest of materials, or that the daily chores need not be a grind or a distraction from my creativity, but a part of it. Finally, the penny dropped, I am my creativity and the life that I am living is my, albeit badly stretched and somewhat warped, canvass. With that in mind my thoughts turned to this blog and what changes could be made in the light of this new approach to life.
Then came Gaza.
There are so many things that I could say, so many feelings watching the news on the BBC. I am guilty, for, where ever there is conflict, I watch and do nothing. I am a voyeur of other people's suffering. Some demonstrate, remonstrate, speak out or deliberate, petition, protest or procrastinate. It is not much but I wanted to do something and in the light of the above resolution, the desire to find a common bond with humanity and in an effort to share our individuality, no matter where we live, what background we come from or what side they may say we are on, I determined to

It is a small thing but one that, if we all searched the web and found like minded people in hidden places, places that we only hear about because of conflict, where, because of the nature of the news reports we are led to believe that everyone is a terrorist or a fanatic, and, instead, discovered people who share our passions, (mine is for art but it could equally be for writing or cooking or embroidery or poetry or music or dance etc.) and brought them to others' attention by means of our little blogs, no matter how small the readership, might just make it possible for the world to see that we are killing our brothers and our sisters.

You may find this idea simplistic and naive, it most probably is but, if you feel as I do, please feel free to share this post.
To those artists who are featured here, I pray that you are safe.


  1. So, so far from 'simplistic and naive'...you have such a beautiful soul x

  2. Thanks Deb.

    Hala Shurouf My City's Ceiling Is Too Tight

    Translated from the Arabic by Issa J. Boullatta

    I am now overflowing
    beyond my name, beyond my body
    and going out of my details
    to the pain of place
    while my heart is as cool as a cloud,
    a lonely female.
    As for my hands, they protect my heart
    from an imminent pain
    and offer my life as a sacrifice
    for a moment of neutrality
    or for a journey to it.
    My poetry is deficient
    it does not explain the female within me
    but may slightly explain the exile
    and the night crowded with dreams
    that shine in the dark.

    My city's ceiling is too tight for its body
    and my body is too tight for me
    and I don't find inner peace
    hanging in my closet so that I may wear it
    Perhaps it preferred to go on a long trip
    rather than commit suicide with a roar
    next to old friends
    Perhaps it died as a result of a wound in the chest
    or perhaps it died a self-inflicted death
    Perhaps we have never met.
    But it is dreams that practice deception professionally
    in response to a host of questions.

    My city is a cage of concrete
    which becomes smaller every day
    whenever we increase by one baby
    or as we get accustomed to our earliest tight size
    and fraternize with weeping.
    Space surprises us
    when steel subjugates it again and again
    and yet it becomes tighter.
    Why does it not take sides in favor of the souls
    being killed in it by the stifled horizon
    in the wide open sky?

    I walk on the tips of my heart
    in accordance with the evening's wishes
    Part of the night is disturbed by life's quivering
    and part of me surrenders my steps
    to the blowing wind.

    O my city . . . Be a little larger
    so that I may see my shadow free
    on the sidewalks

    My city, be larger
    so that I may not see my shadow
    with no freedom-like me.
    Sufficient is the death of one of us by suffocation
    in search of a breath of air
    between two windows of concrete.

  3. The poem above was written by a far more beauteous soul than mine at a time when it was still possible to dream.

  4. It's a great New Year resolution, zooms! ... Reading it made me somewhat ashamed of mine... and it was a good thing ;-)

  5. Beautiful Zooms...you leave me speechless, humbled, and honored to be connected with you. I'll put up a post on my blog.

    Mary Ann

  6. I love your point of sharing the creativity of others. Very humbling and inspirational.

  7. Art is so often a metaphor of our lives. Give some guiltfree time to your art (yourself) this year.

  8. Here is a poem...

    I wanted to share. I was inspired by your message...and for joy for all beings.

    Whisper to me in the light
    never in the dark
    the light that we create
    through our touch--
    not only sensuous but
    through two palms touching
    in recognition.

    Whisper to me and then sing
    of a joy that is found
    within our hearts
    even if pain buries
    it, it can be undone
    until the joy
    flutters forth like butterflies.

    Speak to me of your dreams,
    and I will speak of mine.
    Dream your cities
    whole and beautiful with
    gardens and without gates.

    Let us walk there
    in the morning and evening
    where the dark holds
    only the scent of jasmine.

    Where the buildings gleam
    with the kindness
    our hands have brought,
    murals and plants abounding
    overspilling from
    our imaginations
    into the world
    made whole
    by the faith and work
    of palms touching.

  9. Thanks English 115 for the beautiful poem and for visiting. Welcome.

    "Saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
    And palm to palm is holy palmists' kiss."
    Shakespeare's Juliet.

  10. This makes me think of my nanee who did not get a chance to go to school, yet she lived so creatively, making a perfumed garden, a lovely home, she sewed and embroidered. She is one of my role models.


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