She sat with Ash's head in her lap, running her hand down the once-sleek jowl and throat, now harsh with dry, staring hair. Don't die, she thought. Don't die. There's already little enough of me; if you leave me, the piece of me you'll take with you might be the end of me, too.

She must have fallen asleep, and and the fire begun to smoke, for the room became full of roiling grey, and ten the grey began to separate itself into black and white, and the black and white began to shape itself into an outline, although within the outline the black and white continued to chase each other into a mesmerizing, indecipherable pattern, as if light and shadow fell on some swift-moving thing, like water or fire. And the Moonwoman said, "Ash is fighting her way back to you, my dear; I believe she will make it, because she believes it herself. She is an indomitable spirit, your dog, and she will leave you so long as you hold her as you hold her now, begging her to stay. She will this battle because she can conceive of no other outcome."

The Moonwoman's seemed to fall, black and white, in Lissar's ears; she heard them as if they were spoken twice, as if they had two distinct meanings; and she recognised each of the meanings.
"Do not be to hard on yourself," said the Moonwoman, reading her mind, or the black and white shadows on her own face. "It is a much more straighforward thing to be a dog, and a dog's love, once given, is not reconsidered; it just is, like sunlight or mountains. It is for human beings to see the shadows behind the light, and the light behind the shadows. It is perhaps why dogs have people and people have dogs.

"But, my dear, my poor child, don't you understand that healing carries its own responsiblities? Your battle was from death to life no less than Ash's is now; would you deny it? But you have not excepted your own gift to yourself, your gift or your own life. Ash is looking forward to running in meadows agian; can you not give yourself leave to run though meadows too?"

Lissar woke, finding herself crying, and finding Ash, rolled up on her belly to her side, where she had lain for so many helpless days, feebly licking the hands where the tears fell.

taken from Deerskin by Robin McKinley

click on photos for links

inspiring things...

vintage bikes on new roads in front of ancient buildings, berets, red wine, fields, black, bare legs under skirts, sitting on the ground in a park, kissing, sunlight streaming through big windows into a small room, row boats, sketch books and water color sets, chocolate croissant, loose dress, grapes, empty rooms, laughter, no jewelry, people watching, pigeons, poetry that you keep getting distracted from reading, absent minded knitting, fresh flowers, white lace, trees hanging over a pond or river, roof tops, love notes, paint brushes, open air markets, window shopping (especially desserts), treats wrapped in paper, soft cheese, baskets that hold picnics, sudden questions, french music, feelings that come in pictures or music rather than words, vines growing up old buildings, lipstick, paper bag of candy, shopping bags and packages, baskets on bikes, sandals, history that never went away and is still living on.

Mid morning sunshine pours past curtain's film,

Bare feet gently step into artist's realm,

Where old unwashed teacups are scattered around,

And the papers and paints of her projects surround.

Long hair pulled back into a loose braid,

Pale pink shirt long ago did fade,

Above a homemade skirt flowing down from its frame,

And painted red toenails lead each step without shame.

Supplies are unpacked from each ones place,

Buttons and thread, sewing machine's case,

Old wooden brushes with years of paint stained,

And cloudy jars full of water, long ago attained.

One picture in mind blocks out other goals,

Hands gather up needed paints and charcoals,

To create the image that's deeply ingrained,

And put it down rightly just as its pertained.

Canvas spread out on the hard, cold floor,

Object in hand over artwork does soar,

Creating a wonder first seen in a dream,

And now it is living, giving off it's gleam.

Hours fly by without even a glance,

Composer continues soloists dance,

While under her fingers forms a kind of hope,

And gradually it slows, reached the end of it's rope.

Eyes are locked on their masterpiece finished,

Heat inside knows the fires diminished,

What drove the soul on has now been put out,

And the artist sits back, her mind without doubt.

Work is left on the ground to wait,

Break is required after flurry abates,

For the artist is exhausted from forth put passion,

And rest is executed in perfected fashion.

The poem and photos are by me. Sadly, these are not of my bedroom, (I wish they were!) they are from my friend Lauren's room, which also inspired this poem.

Love, Clara

From me, To you

I hope you all have a lovely Valentines Day!

Love, Clara

vision of things not seen

We are rich," said Anne staunchly. "Why, we have sixteen years to our credit and we're as happy as queens, and we've all got imaginations, more or less. Look at that sea, girls- all silver and shadow and vision of things not seen. We couldn't enjoy its loveliness anymore if we had millions of dollars and ropes of diamonds. You wouldn't change into any of those women if you could. Would you want to be that white lace girl and wear a sour look all your life, as if you'd been born turning up your nose at the world? Or the pink lady, kind and nice as she is, so stout and short that you'd really no figure at all? Or even Mrs. Evans with that sad, sad look in her eyes? She must have been dreadfully unhappy sometime to have such a look. You know you wouldn't!"

-Anne of Green Gables

(click on photo for link)