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The Rose That Grew From The Concrete

28 Mar
Copyright: Daydreamdaisies

Copyright: Daydreamdaisies

 

Here’s a painting of Tupac Shakur I finished the other day. I didn’t really have a burning passion for this guy’s music before picking up the brush since this piece started out as a present to my sister’s boyfriend. But its meaning soon became greater in my heart.

Tupac is one of those people who surprised me with his message.  I thought it was sex, drugs and bling bling combined with girls grinding shiny cars; in other words, the tool kit of many succesful (MTV) rapper. Oh, but how wrong was I.

Tupac speaks of bravery and of beating the odds. He encourages you to dream big, to journey on, to be resilient and to keep your head up. This man had many things to say, and many of them good. He had a tough life but still his voice rang clear and inspired many.

And guess what throws me and surprises me again and again?

The realisation that be your idol Jimi Hendrix or Susan Boyle, they’re all just humans. These inspiring, amazing people who we throw our dreams and knickers at in concerts.  These people who we look up to, they’re just people like us. Their hair gets greasy like ours and they have their bad days.

So if they are like us that means we are also like them. It means that the ability to inspire and comfort lives in all of us. We can reach out and touch someone’s heart. We can dream and make our dreams happen, if we only dare to. If we stop standing in our own way with doubts.

And even when life seems hopeless and dreams torn, there is still a way for us. Or have you not heard about the rose that grew from the concrete?

 

“Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?

Proving nature’s law is wrong, it learned to walk without having feet.

Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams

It learned to breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from the concrete

When no-one else ever cared.”

-Tupac Shakur 1971-1996

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Small but significant

26 Mar

There has been many thoughts swirling in my mind lately, too many to find words for them. Big changes are happening, like the news that I get to move to Scotland next September to study in University of Edinburgh. I am so excited!

But today, I found my words again. I found my way back home, back here. The feeling was quite magical.

I was sitting on a bench by the sea, gazing out to the horizon. Wind started blowing wilder and as I sat there, I took a moment to just empty my mind. I closed my eyes for a while and I tried to inhale the light of the spring sun climbing higher. Slowly, the insides of my eyelids became patterned with patches of blue light. I assumed this to be the sky shining through to my vision. But as I opened my eyes, I found that the sea had broken free. Where before there had been just a vast, blank canvas of ice, a distant and cold glacier, there was now the sea. It was deep blue and it spread. I stood up and as I gazed at the sea growing, I felt that I was in a right place, at a right time. I belonged but I was free to go. I thanked the sea for making me feel whole.

Just before the sea broke out in the distance, I took this photo with my phone:

2013-03-26 13.49.39

You can see that little black figure on the left, under the big cloud? Not much bigger than a black dot. Smaller than the rocks, smaller than the skies. Well, that is you and me. That is a human being. Small maybe, but significant too. Cherished for its ability to love, for its foolish pleasure of treading on the ice. The ice, it carried this person into safety, into the land. Only then did the sea free itself.

And it reminded me of how we are part of this whole entirety, how it carries us in its chain, even when we feel or act like the weakest link. And of how we should always respect the nature, for we belong, for we are enveloped by it.

We can choose to be the sun’s mirror. We can choose to be a willow’s branch, bent by the wind but not snapping.

Love for life- Romantic Monday

25 Feb

Image source: http://www.forwardedemails.com I own no rights.

– The meaning of life is to live rich. To be courageous. Life is short and there’s many lives for us to live within that short time. Many places to see, many wells to peek in. You don’t have to jump straight into them all but at least take a look and see how deep the water is. Find what rich life means, to you. Is it money? No…

– Money might be riches in your wallet but what are the riches of the heart is a totally different matter.

– You’re right. So don’t be afraid. Go where your heart yearns to go.

 

Above is the conversation I just had with my neighbour. It came out of nowhere, as I was coming home from my walk. Out of nowhere came the words I needed to hear, the courage I needed to feel again. Who knew? Who knew that life can be this generous?

My neighbour did.  He had the wisdom. Now it has been passed on to me. And I wish to pass it on to you.

So I hope, I wish, I pray you feel blessed today. Just remember:

The love for life is the only love you need. Out of that love is all other love born.

 

I cradle the silence

I bow my head as life’s candle is lit

I can see the flame trembling

In the meandering trail of birds

Rejoicing in the cry of a newborn

My gaze, it answers to the infinity

My fingers run smooth

In morning’s blinding curtain

With gratitude

With freedom of breath

In laughter and in vehemence

They run and my hands

They lift me up

When I throw myself in between

The blades of thunder and light

I am the spark

Flaring, blazing

I am the warmth born

Where those two blades meet

I am life

Where swords of contrasts

Sometimes dash to fall

In love

If you feel tired, I hope your strenght is revived. If you feel happy, I hope you feel happier today than you did yesterday. I hope for peace to your soul. Better still, I believe in hope, happiness and peace. I believe in love. I believe in life. I even believe in Mondays.

Wishing you peace and love on this particular one!

Four Letters Forgotten – Friday Five Sentence Fictioneers

18 Jan
Mouth by Thomas Saliot, I own no rights. Image source and more of his art at:http://www.thomassaliot.com/?gallery=mouth

Mouth by Thomas Saliot, I own no rights. Image source and more of his art at:
http://www.thomassaliot.com/?gallery=mouth

Four Letters Forgotten

I can see the shake in your eyes, the ache strumming at your spine. I can hear your stomach mourn every miscarriage of words like a loving parent would, crying in pain as your expressions melt in the hell’s kettle of acid and hurt that has filled your hollow bones. Steam gathers in your eyes and foggy ghosts of the past lurk in the corners of your lips. But in all their darkness, they’re still scared of your glorious cupid’s bow, the god-carved figurehead of your brave spirit. Because when every shop and soul is sold out of smiles, you lead your mouth to another wondrous waltz and your laugh rings like the bells of Notre Dame, in a loving concerto that revives the four letters forgotten.

————————

 

That little piece above is my first ever Five Sentence Fictioneers and needless to say, I’m excited! Five Sentence Fictioneers is an intriguing challenge that, as lovely Lillie McFerring explains in her blog, is ” about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. ”

Five sentences, a prompt word, inspiration. A recipe for an imaginative adventure.

This week’s prompt word is forgotten. To check out other creative Fictioneers click here, to know more or to participate dance over to Lillie’s place.

Peace and love, always!

xx

When life gives you lemons, make lemon-meringue

13 Jan

I have learnt an important lesson this weekend. And a tasty one too. Here it is, take a look:

Lemon-meringue pie, also called YAMMY!

Lemon-meringue pie, also called YAMMY!

Macarons with lemon marmalade filling

Macarons with lemon marmalade filling

After my latest kitchen catastrophe, which involved a baking tray set in fire, and all the times I have called myself “the girl who even failed at making Rice Krispie cakes”, I decided to do something different.
So I whipped up a lemon-meringue pie and even braved myself to make macarons, those little cakes that can apparently go wrong in million different ways and make baking art. When I told my sister about my intention to battle these cutely coloured but bad-tempered sweets, she actually gasped a little bit. She probably started designing an emergency escape plan righ there and then, with an appropriate bomb shelter mapped on it just in case I blew up the kitchen.

But guess what?

I managed to make them, and they were delicious! And *drum rolls please* …so was the cake! And out of everyone who ate them, I think I was the most surprised by this. Because I had held this view about myself for so long, this thought that I’m not precise enough person to cook or bake. Yes, I admit, I am still clumsy and there was flour all over the walls. But they were the flag of victory I threw in the air! Because I realised, I had been wrong about myself.

So, when life gives you lemons, make some lemon-meringue.

Firstly, because it’s delicious! And secondly, because I guess it is how they say: You never know just how strong and brave you are before you find yourself pushed out of your comfort zone.
So, when life sets you challenges, don’t be afraid to rise up to them! Remember to dust your beliefs about yourself every once in a while. Otherwise you might miss the little things, like my new tiny best friend le macaron, that give you the opportunity to see the world in a different light!
So be pleased to meet yourself, every day, with a smile and fresh eyes. You might just find you’re stronger, more creative, more surprising than you ever imagined.

And if sometimes you try and try and things still go wrong, don’t feel bad. Just make some more meringue. Then at least you have a cake to eat. This is a win-win plan right here.

Be free in yourself

30 Dec
Image source: Wallpaperbuzz.com

Image source: Wallpaperbuzz.com

 

Everything you do is self-expression. Your words, your gestures, smiles and sighs, music you hum to and words you write. Every step you took today was you telling the world you want to move forward.

So don’t forget those steps, those smiles or tears you shed today, don’t forget them when you feel lost in yourself or are afraid to express yourself.

It is bad when you let someone else to limit what you can be. When you allow them to tie your soul into untangable reef knots, when you let them to drown your spirit or send you spiralling into melancholy with their words. Don’t let anyone do that.

But more importantly, don’t do that to yourself.

Never tell yourself that you cannot write or dance in the street in the middle of the night, or that you cannot share your dreams and feelings and thoughts.

Because you can.

Your self-expression, it is not coming up with a masterpiece dazzling enough to make Mona Lisa blush in shame or Einstein scratch his head in total wonder. To express yourself, you don’t need to come up with that masterpiece.

You are that masterpiece.

You are a limitless spring of expression.

In yourself, you will find the strenght for yet another adventure and you will find the safe haven of existence too to nestle in when you come back from all of your wanders.

In yourself, you have life. Never stop living it and nurturing it. Never cage it inside yourself but let it shine through. Because to someone that life in you might just be the light to guide their lost feet.

So be free in yourself. Be free to yourself.

Surrender your doubts and look up. The sky is beautiful and it is your mirror.

Growing things in Farmer’s Kitchen- art and fiction

20 Dec
Farmer's Kitchen By Ivan AllbrightSource: http://www.flickriver.com/photos/maulleigh/4161478770/

Farmer’s Kitchen By Ivan Allbright
Source: http://www.flickriver.com/photos/maulleigh/4161478770/

 

Farmer’s Kitchen by Ivan Allbright. Sometimes also called: Beautiful.

Look at it, isn’t this piece just fascinating?

I could keep staring at the patterns, the colours, the details for forever. If I wasn’t too busy drowning into the expression on the man’s face, of course. Is he sad, tired, lonely, wistful? What is he? What’s the story behind this piece? What’s the story he carries in his heart?

I suppose these questions really show why art is so engaging. It makes you wonder, makes you imagine, makes you consider things that would have not even crossed your mind otherwise. Best art haunts you, it sticks to your mind like a post-it note and reminds you of all the realisations and feelings you experienced when you witnessed a good piece.

This piece definately did that to me. I could not stop wondering about the man. That’s why I wrote his story:

 

Growing things

I never was handsome.

– You wouldn’t make a model, you said when you saw me for the first time, but being a farmer must be a calling to you. Ha, even your nose is like a potato, a hairy and bulky tuber!

I let you say things like that because you  always laughed at them, and your laugh was like a choir of cheerful jingle bells.  How I miss your laugh!  It was the happiest part of you. I wish I could hear it once more, bursting out and bringing these dusty rooms back to life.

I wonder what you would say about me now. Often I imagine you appearing from the rain, standing on my doorstep with smudged make-up and chapped lips, tears running down your face. You would smile and pretend they’re raindrops. You would have a toothbrush in your hand and a backpack.  In my dreams you always look like this, oddly beautiful. In my dreams I look at you with bright lover’s eyes.

I miss you but maybe these kind of dreams should be kept shut away, in my little treasure chest of fantasies.  Because with you, these kind of dreamy scenes of love would only be an illusion. Reality would hit them hard, so hard they would be broken to pieces by your high-pitched shrieks:

“Why on earth are you wearing my old dress? And my apron too?”

“And look at you, you’ve got potato peels stuck all over it!”

“And your hands are all scratchy!”

I’m wearing your dress because once it smelled like you. Just after you had run away. I could smell the cigarette smoke, your sweet-tinted sweat and Chanel’s No. 5. And so I slipped it on, to have you near me. Now it’s lost the smell of you, the softness of your skin. I’m losing you too, the round shape of your face, the wild gestures of your hands.,, I hope this dress can bring them all back. And the potato peels… I’ve been cooking a meal for us. For the past five years. I’ve set the table too. Come in, please! Would you?

Would you? That’s what I wonder every day. Would you love my face now,  would you love it still now that it’s full of deep raisin lines? Would you love my awkward hands that resemble the dry, cracked ground I try to tame? Would you take my hand, hold it gently and not flinch at the touch of my rough, scaly skin? Would you dive into the quarry of my heart, dig out all the sharp stones of misery and grind them into soft sand? Would you?

I will never find answers. I don’t expect to. But I cannot be moved, I cannot forget, I cannot leave like you did.  I’m a work horse on this farm, I stay here faithfully even after everything’s dead. I go about my routines, try to make things grow, I set the table for two, wait for you in vain and then allow the cat to take your seat. The cat meows and looks at me in amusement, spoils the soup with its hairy paws. Oh well, you always disliked soup anyway. Maybe you started to dislike me too, or was it just the solidity of these walls you feared? When the house squeaked and creaked at night, did you fear that our security was falling apart? If I lean into a same wall for too long, it crumbles under my weight, that’s what you always used to say. I have to keep on moving, you mumbled many times. Did you plan your departure already, even then?

I suppose you were right. You leaned into me after all, you got close, so close I could feel the even warmth of your breath and the fast rabbit’s pulse on your wrist. Then you left and I crumbled. I turned into rocks scattered around this house.  I started to carry the colours of beetroot, carrot and potato on my face, blending into the lonely landscape of abandoned vegetable crops. I look like this house more and more every day. I’m empty like this house and my joints creak like the doors that are not opened often enough to let someone in. I’m old, draughty and unhinged like my kitchen. Our kitchen. I’ve become a bit skewed, this house was built sweked and so was our love. Shouldn’t we have known better from the start?

And maybe one day I will fall apart, turn into ash and fire and burn with this house. Or maybe I will become a solid part of these worn floors, one of the blind planks. Then I would find oblivion. But before I do, I want to forgive you. I used to think that the only passion I ever got from you was a passion fruit. You grabbed it once during a fight and threw it at me with blazing eyes. It hit me hard on my lips like a violent kiss. I didn’t mind the bruise, but I hated you for ruining a perfectly good fruit. I loved all things growing, and you laughed at me for this. You used to stand and look in wonder as I tended my garden.

“GROW UP! GROW UP!!”  I shouted at you, during our fights.

Grow up, just grow into something, into anything. Grow so I can love you too. Why did I left that tint of affection unsaid?

Now that it’s too late I understand  that you gave me so much more than one poorly aimed fruit and bruises on my heart. You gave me totally insensible love, the most honest kind of love, the one that doesn’t follow any planned paths. Stubborn kind of love that just comes like a wave and swipes over you, one that doesn’t come early or late or when it’s asked. It just comes and takes you.

And I loved you, you have no idea how much. Despite your poor temper, your chain smoking and the fact you sometimes treated me like a foreign object, I loved you.  Because I remember those other times… the time you snorted juice through your nose because I made you laugh so hard. The time you insisted on making pancakes for me in order to make up for some silly comment, and somehow you managed to set the frying pan on fire. Your cheeks were burning red as you panted and panicked, trying to figure out how to save the pancakes and not cause an inferno. I remember you sliding around the kitchen like a lost ice cube. I came to you, and you melted under my touch. And all was calm again.

And always, as I looked at you, I felt a weir lump swelling inside me, like a sponge that sucked all air out of me. It was just a feeling that never quite translated into words or proposals, but it was a strong feeling. It made me gulp and shiver. It was love, I recognise now. Our  bittersweet love that didn’t make any sense, totally incomprehensible, maybe doomed from the start, but just too beautiful and pitiful to be shooed away. You gave me that love and you forgot to pack it away and take it with you when you left, and for that I’m thankful.  It still lingers here, keeping me company. As I stand in the middle of my fields and look at the light creeping up, stretching its hands above the horizon to push the darkness away, I feel it. Our love, the memory of it mixing with the fresh light of dawn. And look, what’s that? A little growing seedling, how odd. I had forgotten what they look like. But now I remember. They look beautiful. They look like you but funnily, they look like the future too. They look like hope.

Your turn. What does the piece bring to your mind?