In addition to writing and thinking and discussing it, I also try to make a modest living creating things.
There are a few different mediums which I work in. Here are a few glass etched images that I have created recently. I work to order and I accept commissions too.
As you can see, I have included two etchings of people’s loved ones, which were based on photographs which were sent to me. These are ones which I am proud of.
Haze hidden tarn, a secret from one, lost in the fog
Those words, unbidden, unplanned, dear and deep
Taking a path, converging, winding, slippery steep
To the well, to the well where they gathered
Mossed up history, stones old wind blasted statues
Deep carved words, wounds in the stone.
The well, she sings, she’s sung here forever.
Into the unknown, deep in our minds we delve
Hurt hidden turns, a secret from one, lost love solved
Those words, unbidden, unplanned, dear and deep
Talking the path, conversing, listening, pain to sleep.
To the stones, to the stones where they gathered
Propped up mystery, old stones gathered in pairs
Six leaning pairs, deep in the earth.
The stones, they stand, they’ve stood here forever.
Out into the known, back to the world we go
Cloud free, no secrets at all, jump beck’s flow
That view, unbidden, unplanned, clear and crisp
Taking the path, concluding, retracing our steps.
When we walk, I never know where we will go. One of us at least, knows the place, the geography, the way the path curves to the right; the name of the little field, or the old stone. But that’s not why we walk, where we go is important but it’s the stage upon which we extemporise, speak true and open. We go to get lost in the tangles of the tangles of the tangles. One by one, instinct seems to pick a thread and, gently, carefully, with love, respect and understanding, tease it free from the others.
I won’t share the things that we discuss, but it mixes with tales of the past, the origins of words, songs, places, and people to become a cleansing, somehow a theme which we follow to a natural conclusion. We manage to talk. We listen.
And what does this tell me? Respect, trust and kinship, this comes unbidden. It tells me that, within, we instinctively know what we want to, what we need to exorcise. And, as the body is distracted by the joy of exercise, the head distracted by the beauty of the open countryside; then, the heart can weave, gently, the worries and the concerns and find a resolution in the rise and fall of the feet, the ups and downs of the conversational journey. Listening is the way to have a conversation. And, like a cloud lifting, once the thread has been unravelled, it’s time to go home and ground again.
And I know it’s the old stones, the paths trodden for centuries, the heart-piercing beauty of the heather, moss, slippy stone, the peat stained becks, that make the conversation naturally flow and rise. There places hold wisdom, they have been special for centuries. Countless feet have trodden and created the paths. Hands have carved and lifted the stones, lips drank the water. Sun warmed backs and frost-bitten feet. Love found, lost and regained. Lives too. Old ways lost and new ways found.
All under the sky. All on the moors. The beauty, bleak and brutal. This is when I find my voice. This is when my soul finds an answer. This is where I go to be renewed.
That’s why I carved a hare. The symbol of rebirth.
underavintagesky 