Better than the real thing

My dear old Dad loved Christmas and did his very best to provide a magical morning of surprises under the tree. During the years when he was left alone with four girls under the age of 9,  his inner child often went shopping for the kind of presents that any small boy would adore. 

We girls got cowboy suits, holsters and dart guns. (This once led to me hitting my younger sister between the eyes with a dart and there ended the gunslinging.) There was always lego, which in those days was for making white buildings with little red doors and once there was a corduroy bean bag, very cool for an aspiring teenager's bedroom. 

When I turned about 12 he decided he was now in jewellery territory. I was never a jewellery kind of gal but I did love that Roman coin charm bracelet. It made me feel grown up and is probably the reason I still love a good bracelet.

At some point in later years he surrendered to the feminine mystique and was able to show great love and affection for each of us. Like a lot of Dads he continued to get it wrong on a regular basis, but as time went on we became softer and very forgiving!! 

It was always the fantasies of Christmas we enjoyed more than the real thing. Stories of Santa coming down our chimney; of North Pole elves making toys and snowy sleighs delivering them; of reindeer eating carrots on our roof in the middle of the night. We conjured the whole show. Made our own magic. Created a snowy wintery scene in our imagination. 

So happy conjuring my dear, dear friends. I hope you have a wonderful hibernation, celebration or whatever it is makes magic in your life at this time of year.




And there are a few more previous Christmasy posts here

A bleak mid-winter post

A frosty Christmas morning post

A Comeragh Mountain Christmas view

The welcoming light of Stockholm

It was stormy and grey on the streets of Stockholm where I was visiting family last week, so for a change I was photographing the glow of a Scandinavian Christmas, but indoors. 

Tastefully designed, as you would expect, Christmas here knocks the stuffing out of the predictable old tat that it often brings out in the rest of us! For Swedes there is a kind of reverence for the winter festival of light. You can understand why the further north you travel; long nights, harsh weather, deep hibernation.

Every window here is lit by a traditional candelabra. Along Hornsgaten where we soaked up the warmth of this vintage shop (Hornsgaten 64) there are wax candles and small paraffin lamps everywhere. The light of welcome, that this year has even deeper meaning.

While I was enjoying the warmth of my Swedish family and being mesmerised by my new Grandnephew, Syrian refugees continued their long march from the south to Stockholm. 

Under the Christmas market in Sergels Torget there are layers of lives being lived out and stories being told with every new arrival. In the Central station Red Cross workers are in tents waiting for the next train. They now think that approximately 200,000 refugees will have arrived here by the end of 2015. The system moves people on efficiently but there is talk of closing the Bridge to Denmark which allows Sweden to be so accessible. The Swedes are feeling overwhelmed. 

And you'd have to wonder how this dark cold December is affecting those Syrian children who have probably never seen snow or such dark days without a hint of sun? I hope their first Christmas in Sweden will be as beautiful and welcoming as I found it to be.......






Check out this link for more blogposts about Sweden 

A mile from home

Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.

 Gary Snyder


There comes a point in every journey when you turn for home. For me it's the last twisty turn of a boreen, onto our meandering lane. This first bend of the lane is also the top of a hill and just before I set off on the last mile, I can take in the sweep of the lake, the valley and the Comeragh Mountains. 

The view from here depends a lot on weather, light and time of day. It changes by the hour. Sometimes I snap this scene through the windscreen, breathe in that short mile towards home, relax a little.

And this is the spot, where my heart always lifts in spite of everything.... 

A note on gift giving 

 My little book "Seek light, embrace shade, live colour" is still for sale in the Blurb Bookshop.

If you would like to give a Foxglove Lane Gift Token I would be very happy to sort you out and fill the orders in 2016......just send me a mail through the contact page. 

Need more help? Visit the how to buy page 

There are shifts and changes at play

There are shifts and changes at play. A tattooed family gazes into the distance. Their whole stance creating a question. 

Yes, there are shifts and changes at play. Like what the future will bring for us all and for our vulnerable world? Like what makes sense for a contemplative photographer in these days of high alerts and lock downs? Like how to make use of every precious moment without adding to consumerism and overload? 

The question for the tattooed family was whether or not to take a risk on a fairground ride? How to figure out the moves required for jumping on and jumping off? 

And that's just exactly where I'm at too......

On gift giving 

 My little book "Seek light, embrace shade, live colour" is still for sale in the Blurb Bookshop.

If you would like to give a Foxglove Lane Gift Token I would be very happy to sort you out and fill the orders in 2016......just send me a mail through the contact page. 

Need more help? Visit the how to buy page

Underneath the surface

Some towns were barely touched by the "boomiest" boom Ireland never had. Today a small dog, waiting for his master to return from the match, is alone amongst empty shops, messy paint jobs and abandoned petrol pumps. 

Some buildings change hands every few months; go from being a sweet shop to being a cafe, and back again. But other shop windows remain empty, like vacant faces where there should be a smile.

The lens is loving the wabi-sabi of it, the cracks in the doorways, the nostalgia of childhood memories. But there is quiet desperation here too, and for many people a calm exterior belies furious fast paddling below the surface.




Also check out the latest gallery of black and white nature photography

Midlife and the great unknown

In the middle of the road of my life I awoke in a dark wood, where the true way was wholly lost.

Dante Alighieri



David Whyte has a great image in his audio set,  Midlife and the Great Unknown. He describes the moment when you are at the end of a project or when you have settled your affairs. You finally tidy up the house, make a cup of coffee and sit down to enjoy the peace and achievement. Maybe you've been looking forward to reading your favourite book, turning up the music full volume, putting your feet up? I am here at last you might think to yourself. I have finally arrived. (I may not be remembering this fully accurately as it's many years since I devoured this little gem of wisdom, but it went something like this.) 

Anyway in that moment there is a feeling of deep relaxation, completion and a huge sigh of relief! As you put your feet up to sink into that precious moment of being, a knock comes to the door.......This to David is the essence of mid-life; just as we think we have it sussed, a new spanner is thrown into the works. All we can know for sure is that every stage, event, project, dream is transient and that an unscheduled knock at the door is always looming. 

Some how this image soothed me in a period of wondering what I would do for the rest of my days. I was probably coming up to 50, and having that "who am I, what am I" mid life crisis. This unsettling feeling gripped me, but I had some illusion that it would pass as I got older. 

Ha! Fat chance! Why? Because it keeps on happening! Just as I think I might have a handle on the Great Unknown,  I find that everything has changed, I need to go in some new direction, and I am without a clue yet again.  

My day job involves a flimsy year to year contract and has done all my life. I've never actually had one of those permanent and pensionable jobs. I've been privileged to work in the social sector where there is such scope for good work and relationships with good people. To continue to be paid to do it, most of the time, has been lucky for sure. 

But it has never been secure and I have become used to the flotsam and jetsam flow of work, the tide coming in and going out. At this age I am wondering (yes again) if I might steal a moment or two to put the kettle on and put my feet up? I seem to be craving it. Yes I am still drawn towards that illusive state of peace and tranquility, a closing of the front door behind me..... 

And although I know it won't last, I wonder would it ever at least just begin?

Where does creativity come from?

The highest goal one can achieve is amazement. ~ Goethe

My first design experiments involved selecting snails along a narrow garden path. Lining them up in rows, I would talk kindly and invite them to take part in games. I would be their big sister, telling them stories and giving them names like Germaine and Margaret. Blended with rose petals and pebbles, they would become part of spiralling collages and patterns.  

Snails were the closest thing I had to a proper pet until we got our dog Timmy. After Timmy was "sent to live on a farm" we got a tortoise which went to sleep for the winter and never woke up. But the snails were always there and Pooka Snails, the large ones with protruding horns, were always my favourite. 

I began a half day at school at three and a half. In the afternoons I would sit on the path, school bag on my back, practicing my letters and reciting to those snails. Here were the foundations of my dream life; finding a quiet space for an inner world, connecting with nature, spending time mulling over the mysteries.

When you are looking at the random play and explorations of a very young child you are peeking into her soul, her love of what comes naturally. For some it will be climbing trees, for others kicking a ball, for the quiet few it will be escaping into imaginary worlds and talking to snails. 

Blogging and the things that make us more alive

No artist is pleased… There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive.......

Martha Graham

Photoblogging has brought me deep into the world of light and mystery, ordinary everyday beauty, friendship across the world and back on a path to writing. It's been every week now for almost 5 years.    

This year was my fourth to be in the final of the annual Irish Blog Awards. Each time it has sent me on a bit of a wobble, something that I don't enjoy. Don't get me wrong, I love sharing what I create with you. But judging and competing? It reminds me too much of waiting outside the door of the Oral Irish Exam in the Leaving Cert; sets my poor nerves on edge!

Building a space to be creative is why I blog. I get to own and nurture my own artistic apprenticeship. I can share with you out of love and vocation, and still be the one who benefits most of all from the whole process. I gain the satisfaction, connection, learning, progression and pleasure from the work I do. I can barely even call what I do here work, it's actually a lot more like play.....

So I did in fact win the Silver Award for photography in the Blog Awards. Thank you to all of you who supported and voted for me through the early stages and those who judged and organised the event. 

And a special shout out to all the finalists, nominees, and bloggers everywhere who are part of this creative Irish Blogging Community doing what "keeps us marching and makes us more alive".

If you love the veils of early morning fog visit the Mist Gallery 

Tiny dewy rainbows

Today I'm re-posting these tiny dewy rainbows from 2012.

Would you like to join me in a moment of reflection? While we both take a slow deep breath?

And while we continue to breathe, here are some explorations of contemplative photography practice

And while I was breathing deeply I won Silver in the Blog Awards for photography Yay!!!!

We are terrified, and we are brave #dayofthegirl

"We are terrified, and we are brave. "

Elizabeth Gilbert

Am I the photographer who writes? Am I the writer who takes pictures? Almost 5 years ago I began to blog. Writing would have to be part of it, but I would never, ever call myself a writer.....I would be a photo blogger.....

The first steps were so terrifying that I blogged anonymously. In 2012 I was invited to host the @Ireland twitter account and decided I would have to come out of my shell. Gradually I became comfortable with the tag "blogger," won a couple of awards for the photography and happily continued. 

From the age of about four I had filled lined copybooks with stories (about sad things mostly) illustrated with colouring pencil drawings. Brene Browne says that about 80% of adults have a shaming story from their past of which 50% are about their creativity. Well I too have mine, about "writing" but it happened much later during my teen-age years.

I had written a school essay about a young poet I had a crush on. (He grew up to be the real deal but that's neither here nor there.) I quoted what I thought was a wonderful line about Dylan Thomas in this essay, "as happy as the grass is green." To this day I'm not sure whether Dylan Thomas, my poet with the long hair or my 16 year old self actually said that??? Anyway when the essays were given back I was a sick with anticipation. I had gushed, I had strayed from the text we were given, I had shown something of my vulnerability. 

Our English Teacher used to stand on the podium, open each essay, bark a result and mutter a short comment. When she came to mine, she didn't open it or comment. She threw the copy book at me spitting one word, "Trite!" The strongest possible message that I needed to shut up the fledgeling voice which somehow through innocence had gotten loose. 

Later she took me aside and gave me a lecture about doing well in the exam and sticking to the tried and tested formulae. I don't think any of this was done out of meanness at all. It was done out of fear for my future. A girl needed to hide her feelings, know how to protect herself from silly notions and get enough of an education to be employable. 

You might think that the Art Teacher was a bit more encouraging as I ended up going to Art College? Strange thing is, I often saw other girls being undermined or "shamed" in similar ways about their art work. By the time I left school I felt both abandoned and free. There was a complete lack of support but there was also a lack of expectation.   

For some reason, I never fully gave up on that precious space where I mooched with paint, a camera or even words. Thanks to my English Teacher I moved into the visual world, and thanks to blogging there is now a space to reclaim my love of language too.

Best of both worlds; a brave photographer who writes AND a terrified writer who takes pictures.......

11th October was International Day of the Girl Child  #dayofthegirl which reminded me of how precious creativity can be to a young girl. 

You can preview my little book on the creative path here

For even more on creativity delve into the brilliant Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert 

And special thanks to the Woodland Girl

There is human time and there is wild time

There is human time and there is wild time.......

Clarissa Linkola Estes

This morning it's wild time. A slow motion sunrise, where nature's spinners have draped everything in layers of lace. 

Barely present. Fragile and momentary. 

Later when the day fully arrives, dew drops are blow dried from the faces of leaves. Webs disappear into the foliage and this sleepy photographer is re-absorbed into the human world.

Back in human time I'm reading Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets and Philosophers by Leonard Koren.  

"Wabi-sabi (a Japanese philosophy) is a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. It is a beauty of things modest and humble. It is a beauty of things unconventional."

I remember when I started this blog my tagline was "celebrating the ordinary and the everyday in a place where nothing much happens."  I must be a wabi-sabi photographer (of an Irish rural variety maybe?) as every page of this carefully crafted book feels like a comfortable old pair of slippers.......

So I am re-inspired to sink into the elusive and the mysterious. To believe again that beauty can be coaxed out of ugliness. That in the wild time and the human time there is always space for perfect imperfection. 

More about Contemplative Photography here