Heart Box Studio

The Secret Garden

I have a friend with a secret garden.

There is the road with exactly two hills, two waves of pause before the car parks beneath the leafy canopy, spreading shade between the green and blue patches of windy sky.  Just below her dune top home, spaced perfectly between the embrace of hello and the wave of goodbye, there waits the delicate path of wander.

Some days she takes me here, opens the seal off the invitation and lets the letter unfold, walking beside me, letting me bathe in the sea of blue lupine currents.

The rain had turned sweet, leaving sugary drops of replenish on each interior vein of life. And his feet chased imagination, following it like a string laid out before a cat, the weave between birch and fern, pulled slug and snail’s retreat.

There are no doors here, in the secret garden, just closed eye entries, the view seen only from the eyes of the heart.  This place where things get collected, stored before they become skin and cell, paint and word. Where hidden nest homes hold dream and fertile life wonder, her brown grass in open beak gathering.

And sometimes I wonder if my words will fail, if the pen and the ink, will run together leaving the golden sun stripped of her amber constellation.  But hope, she undoes, loosening the knots, tickling the frayed edge strings with her assurance, pulling the seasons of worry apart, the confusion and thick skin doors.

So I enter the secret garden and see the inside of this heart for the very first time, walking her forests, her golden light calm. Her trees lined in quiet surrender to the restless call of the wind.  

And he is home here.

Home between the broken limb’s weakness and the shelves of moist fungi under finger. Home inside this open mouth awe, the deep breath hymn for these small hands, pressed together in gratitude.

And this beauty, this beauty left alone, can feel like a glimpse into what we were made to be. A glimpse into a love undeserved yet given.

This place where hurt and worry and the turned corner eyes of doubt lay themselves out over fields of new born growth, the torn bark of shame, the decay of want, somehow becoming part of this secret garden heart landscape, the quiet bent ponder, the fragile dream spun on the stump of regret.

And the clinging, the doubt, the wary step leap, this fear of what may, needs to be shed, left here in the forest to line new paths.  Because there is a sweetness underneath, the peeling paint of mistakes made new, fresh wood under bark, new skin feeling the pain more deeply, sustaining sensitivity over hardwood indifference.

Her walls of columbine, her naval orange drip, her beech and birch, oak and thunder, this bark, the tough skin of wisdom and release.

Sometimes all we need is the slow walk, the secret garden walk, to remind our hearts we are already here. There is nowhere to get to, no place to find, only the deep, lupine wave of this secret garden heart, and her golden hour hope, blanketing buried dreams, where the past holds onto summer scent, the green morning dew of goodbyes held too tight.

It is this gentle path back. Back to this place that collects tears in her felted cup veins, where life is found in the dark corners hidden, where a universe of memory and moments stitched between shadows rest in the lonely drop of forgotten rain thirst.

And the places I forgot to water, now thirst for this blue sky wash. 

Sometimes I wonder if I live on the edge of this secret garden, scanning it only from the perimeter, peering between the trees, but never fully entering her wide embrace gate.

Because discovery requires risk, the heart peeling at the corners, to become small in this vast treasure of beauty we did not create. To place a shattered heart on the healing bed of the unknown.

So we walk past the bones of comparison, the decay of critique, the death of criticism, into the fragrant hands of Love. 

There are still things growing, living there between the rot and the loose soil, the decay, and thorned weed choke.

There is life beneath the passing rust of the brown leaf fall.

Hope is the growth underfoot, cutting paths through this forest heart, the coral lace stem, the spun scent of tulip tree refreshed in a closed eye kiss under a hesitant rain.

And this secret garden heart where the lupine bloom, unseen, where masterpiece is a fallen tear caught between a salty lip, the sound of feet meeting soil, where production has no residence, where imagination plants her seeds under the faithful foot of discovery.

And he finds me again, with a hug he forgot to give me at home, arms pulled around neck, the tiny hairs under a swung ponytail caught between button and sleeve.

“It’s getting dark.”

"Yes. It's getting dark."

But there is always tomorrow.

There is always a tomorrow inside your secret garden heart.

Around

The pulse of a kitchen,
Around dinnertime.
The plate scraping music, full,
The strawberry print caught on ceramic floors.

A round, yellow daisy eye,
Staring into the tea stained sky.
The wink, the gesture unsure,
Her head bowing to a sea of field and grass.

The sky, just around the corner,
The sweet kiss of a new eve,
Unfolding pastel recollections,
Sitting bones on water's edge.

A round petal surrender,
Bent wrinkles of possession,
Line pockets wet with lit wonder.
Fingertips dipped in soil crushed.

His fingers curled,
Around the smooth arch of stone,
The folded grasp of treasure,
Released into deep river mines.

The stretched ache of love,
wrapped gently,
Around one fragile egg.
And the hand reaching past regret.

A slowed heartbeat,
Against the chest of stream,
And you, wrapped sweetly,
Around the bend of time.

His mouth, a round push for freedom,
A smile of breath,
Set loose tied wings,
These flutters of hope released.

And the wind, as she wraps herself
Around the clouds of yesterday,
Pulling heaven closer,
To these earthy soil hearts in bloom.

A brave candle wandering,
The smooth dip of light,
And a round wishful eye whispers,
"I love you too."

A round helium cheek,
Against newborn grass,
The coiled tail search
For homes of ruin and repair.

His arms, tight around my neck,
Pulling his face into mine,
The condensation of breath and word,
On eye, nose, lid. Heart.

A round swollen bug bite,
Under a scratch of tangled nails,
The mother's call,
Caught on shaken leaf footpaths.

The rush of quiet sunlight,
Just before the leap,
And his wings, outstretched,
spin around, and around, and 

Around.

Boy Mama

When my hands were smaller, I tied a satin ribbon around the neck of my gray stained cat. There was the moment the knot was tied, when his silken coat slipped from my hands, the reach to pull him back, to loosen the tug. And his feet like whispers over cracked summer grass, his small head tilting, trying to relieve the tension from the ribbon still dangling. And the tight pull of a girl's need to love, wrapped recklessly around neck, the noose of a caretaker's will.

I watched his tail curl around the peeling bark of the river birch hung crooked above a spread of periwinkle and fern. And the swell of guilt and fear, the rise and run past gardens wide to release a ribbon pulled too tight.

I remember the way the sun found me between the trees, cheeks wet with worry. The shadow of a cat, tail still twirling, winding between path and thorn. And a girl left holding her heart, the deep knee bend on soft autumn leaves and the waking cry of one small cat calling for home. 

There was a circle of gray fur, small dots of black paw piled over ear and the gentle cut of a scissor's blade. And one satin ribbon coiled on sand, the electric twirl of relief around a small girl's calf.

Home. You're home.

She met me at the creek just as the sun became a soft shade of sherbet. His smile reaching for his ears, eyes dipped in pools of blue sky wonder.

And he let me hold his finger. The tender place where earth meets hand, where heart holds on, where fear finds safety in palm and vein. 

And she whispered, "Come." 
A cloud of safety met by open mouth run, boots too big stumble, sun gathered in deep neck caution and breath risen.

"Come."

Hello Boy Mama. I see you.
I see you with dirt under nail, knees pressed deep into the sponge of an afternoon rain soaked ground, the smudge of earth and sand painted just below one eye.

The hours with foot pressed on hardwood floor, the gentle tilt of rocking chair, his eyes open, tracing each curve of your face, staring into the eyes of girl turned woman turned mama. And the hold just before the sun softens the shade, just before the light clears your memory of sleep.

So you hold his hand softly, letting his heart wander between leaps and misstepped splash, over ledge and deep hole curiosities.

Your first boy entry into motherhood, this whistle back home from front porch wanderings, motherhood.

And to be a boy mama, a mama with hands that reach past rock and vine, hands that dig for buried treasure assurances, a hand, still holding satin ribbons tied too tightly. 

Sometimes I follow them into the woods, these boys made of fur and sand and dust and skin. Sometimes I follow them into the woods and wish for the ribbons to be cut, for the moments when my need to make them my own went wrong, when my hands felt too tight around the boys they will be.

Because I will never know what the world looks like from behind the brown iris of boyhood, a breath shaped by the winds of a man.

I see you, Boy Mama. 

You are a heart caught in the vine of enrapture.
And his eyes, the only place to hold on.

Don't cry, Boy Mama.

You are beauty. An anchor held tight by knuckles and mud, crocodile tears and silent mouth screams.

You are love.
Made whole by scuffed knees bleeding and rubbed band-aid laid scars. The blood stains through denim, the ointment, vomit and stretch, the burn and the coil, the filament sheet of fear. Hold on.

And the call down dark hallways, the lego foot crawl, and the wakes of eruptions, mountain size despair. This mother alone waking to arms nestled in chin and chest and eye. Hush now worry. Settle down there fatigue. 
Boy Mama. Girl. Mother.

You are boy mama waking in nests newly shaped. These wings will carry you both, feathers piled high under heavy arms, your love made light by his soft whisper secrets.

And there are no mistakes, Boy Mama, just the birth of eyes open wide, the crescent of light between iris and lash, the death of fear, ceremonious burials of growth, each pattern of hold decomposing between blade of grass and ball of seed blown.

And she moves, this sweet mamahood, towards open creek laughter, to dark cloud reach, each wave of worry a soft kiss on sand, each mouth wrapped around the "i's" and "love's" and "you's."

And she does what she knows, sliding finger over raised voice, silencing years of soft hushes. The speed up, slow down race of toddlerhood pressed gently against her chest. To run and let go. To slow and hold tight, hair between fingers, twirl and fall. Hum. 

Sometimes this mamahood feels like a chase, watching the back of his head run fast into the woods of adolescence, every once in while, turning back long enough to see the deep woods inside his eyes, the ribbon pulled too tight again.

And the hand that opens, letting ribbons fall to a ground already stepped. The wrecked heart turn of the corner. And him, somewhere out there, lost between branch, the forest smiling, each titled leaf waving back their sing song assurances. I have him. He's safe. 

Don't forget, Boy Mama.

Let the swing find the sky. Sit close. Let your eyes smile wide. Find the banks of your river, this sailboat held close and let the cool water carry you downstream.

Past the shoelace tied hold, to islands where your kisses are the leaves of a forest once dark, and this,

The stumbled feather walk of a Boy Mama.

Something so small.

Sometimes the moon rests on his eyes.

The tiny part where the black hole pupil meets the languid sea of green iris, where pinholes of hurt have leaked tears.

There is the scar under his right eye,
where the cracked plastic met his skin with fall and tumble. 

The dew and mist of tears held back, curled fingers and the smell of cotton ball antiseptic. 

There is the place where cut skin has been joined back together, where the finger runs wobbly over bump and scrape.

And the parked car stall alongside abandoned roads of failure. 

The open field of knees kissed in yellow petal, calves tucked in with sheets of green vein and web. 

The sun carving out the hollow places hidden under bent face and stem.

And the scar, 

disappearing like a seed on the back of the wind. 

An Opening

There is an opening.

The beating pause between motion,

The valve of heartbeat repeating.

 

This time is an echo,

The space between surface and root,

Just before hand breaks ground.

 

And the sandy soil softens each wound.

 

The sound of a seagull bringing me back,

Back to the open sand of time and space,

Lulling my hand over calm waters,

Her sweet wing open to the sky.

 

And it feels like stagnant water.

 

There is the first page of open journal,

A hand moving the hair

Over these window eyes,

The curtain still hung.

 

And his feet,

His small boy feet, 

Running past frozen horse rocking,

grocery store lighting.

 

A mother, handling money,

smiling arched eyes,

as the cashier’s hands move in story,

And with them her open mouth laughter.

 

And the hands,

beginning the hard climb,

Over stirrup and saddle,

his shoes tapping, anticipation and urge.

 

There were these years I couldn’t write about.

I couldn’t say them out loud.

Entire years.

Gone.

 

And once upon a time,

I let the words out,

And they ran and played,

In the sea of green blade childhood,

In the safety of a spring lit yard,

Illuminated in hope and caress.

 

Grass torn from the root,

Muddy paws staining jeans,

In jump and claw.

 

And sometimes it feels like I have created dungeons,

the place in my heart where these words remain locked.

 

And this window once closed,

for months and years,

And the saturated dust,

Settled in corner and sill.

 

This broken glass. Ready.

Split mountain motion.

The subtle rise,

Fingertip hold lifting.

 

The movement of air,

Over arms planked,

In forgotten reach,

Exposed.

 

The rise of hair on the skin.

This opening,

New breath into lungs,

Collapsed.

 

And the beat of the heart,

Once dormant,

Unfamiliar,

Now true.

 

Still.

 

Wet corner eyelashes,

Bridges reached,

The steady walk,

To begin.

 

Through and over.

Lift and held,

The seed released,

In milky petal.

 

And the song of the seagull,

Calling me home,

Past wood and beam attachments,

Her open sea freedom.

 

There is the hand,

On the back leaning,

The push and nudge,

Over concrete feet.

 

Stuck.

 

And the sun,

She comes and she goes.

 

And where will we go,

Through these open window moments,

Unhinged,

Shattered glass moments.

 

Someone is calling.

The seagull.

She waits.

Long Strides

There has been fatigue.

The kind of fatigue that takes a full day with it, quilt tacked to the bottom of my chin, feet entangled between sheet and sock. I read 178 pages of a new book and fought my eyelids as they dipped with renewal. And somewhere a wind chime broke the chilled silence.  Sweet yellow lab nestled in the curve between ankle and bent knee, lifting his head, three scratched nametags resting together, opening and closing, with a lost jingle found. The muffled voices of television under floors, a heated basketball game and the gentle tap of finger on my shoulder requesting a second, then a third bowl of sugary cereal. The long stretch of chair pulled across wooden floors, the opening and closing of sliding glass doors and the wind lifting the loose vent door outside the window, its metal hand clapping against square frame.

And like a breath in frozen air, the sky opening enough to let a glance of sunlight spread through linen curtains, bleaching the gray air with yellow rope light of spring and I reach my hand to pull me over opening crocus and mud laced fingers wrapped around toads.

And then she’s gone. Her spring light replaced with aluminum barrels of grey. The sky spread out like sheets of steel while several white snowflakes place commas between winter and spring.

This first spring light feels like rescue. The first deep breath after being submerged under water. And I am naked anticipation under frustration’s scratchy coat.

And it feels like the moment just before the light turns green and there is a slight shake of impatience and deep sigh search from left to right.

Lost season spring, where are you? 

Sweet boy had a doctor’s appointment in the city for a reluctant thyroid and little one wore his eighth birthday like a gold medallion, so we boarded a train and watched the windows collect thin trees, pregnant with green leaf landscapes.

And we found museums and long strides and new shades of gray.

Sometimes we fight the rest, the needed place of gradient hue where color fills between the lines, where black and white finds space to blend and the heart has time to fill again.

When we feel so small, so delicate in nature, placed in the crease of this large hand world, teetering between thumb and forever ring fingers.

Because sometimes it is hard to see through the black and white place of hard line perceptions where there is some kind of safety in the pages bound, secured with staple and nail. Where answers are fixed in permanent washes, where the soft eraser only smears. 

And these black and white places are taxing. The immovable lines of time, crushing possibility in its tight grip.

So we search for the grey space, where answers come in a watercolor spread, where worry is neither black nor white, where fear doesn't have his chance to define and report.

Because there, in the grey, lives the miracles, happening in the smudged grey imperfection, the thoughts that stand just before the blue sky light, the spring of hope.

Growth is walking past The Once Was into the open arms of Once Upon A Time. Letting the open road remain open, without the ink pen push of black certainty. 

And these strides are long, forced sometimes, past the black, into the white, where it feels safe to live in the storybook of control. There are tight calves and the ache of walking in circles, the torn tendons from bones ready to stretch through tight skin, reminiscing and neglecting the open path with her sharp turns.

This long stride journey with all of her cracks and falls.

Without follow-the-leader measuring sticks of comparison. 

And all of the space between the hard and the soft, the bridge of a clay heart still being shaped by these hands, these eyes so small.

And we are not these broken things, but the very freedom that pulls these broken pieces from the ground to shape this sculpture of strength, this steel force against gray sky waiting to be set free. 

So we walk the edge of something bigger than our small hearts can muster, just barely letting ourselves peer over the perimeter. Not ready to fully jump in, let ourselves be submerged in its grey, knowing that the light will find us again and cover our face in its glory.

Maybe there is no leap at all, but rather the long strides over and under bridges, where the water rises to meet us, where the entry into its lake is one with hands over head, slowly letting the grey surround us.

Toes. Ankles. Calves. Knees. Hips. Stomach. Heart.

Eyes.

And the perception, the thing once here, now gone. The very nature of worry and growth, the tightrope walkers balancing pole. This space between truth and imagination where creativity can unfold in on herself.

Sometimes I bump up against myself here.

And here, I can see past the grey.

"Let go."

A soft whisper curled around a dangling foot, belly smiling on grey earth.

There is no fruitless wandering. No failure in the aim. Just the open heart overlook. And small hand openings.

So, I'll dangle my leg off the bed and stay a little longer, let the sun fill the white linen curtain light and feel its glow, the warmth without burn, the attempt without fail.

The long stride into grey sky wonder.

Lately

Staring over cliffs of doubt.
Walking the fine line between belief and wonder.  
Dismantling dog piles of wrestling boys.
Wielding sword and armor over a rusty heart.
Adjusting my wings.
Practicing courage in dark caves of insecurity.
Taking deep breaths into the unknown.
Carving my initials onto papercut trees. 
Discovering grace in the begin again's and staring over's.
Finding Hope in pages newly born. 
Experiencing electrified bouts of giddy anticipation for small boy's birthdays.
Listening to this song. Over and over again. Paper shaking loud. Smitten.
Waiting on the edge of my seat for the new pages of spring.
Grieving the end of the snowy hibernation creativity of winter.
Staying seated in my studio chair when the day pulls with seductive distractions.
Delighted and grateful to be part of this and for her loveliness and support.
Experiencing the deep relief inhalation of doing the one thing I was made to do right now.
Cutting the first piece of painted paper for my second book.
Loosening the tight constraints of time and internal deadlines.
Accepting journey's invitation with faith and trust.

And then there was this....
Playing late last night as my eyes searched the ceiling tiles for daylight savings time's lost hour. A favorite film. Caught at the very right moment. A drink for my thirsty heart.

What has your heart been up to lately?
Wishing you much journey and soft strolled paths this week.
XO

Tidepool Eyes

The sky was a stretch of black ink as the plane lunged forward into her descent. He placed his small hand over the curved airplane window and pushed his face to the towering edge of sea and morning to be stones. He breathed a heavy sigh and spun circles into the steamed canvas. 

And there was the quiet space right before the plane touched its toe onto wet ground, like blank pages slightly torn from the spiral, the deep breath before anticipation's open gift.

He had a business meeting on Monday.

And four open book days to explore Seattle, the last cliff jump, hands over head into inspiration's deep hidden seas. 

And inspiration, she feels like a first kiss, full of anticipation and heart wing flutters. She opens her hands and pulls you over the fallen tree path. 

He said maybe this is what it feels like to live inside one of those electric train sets. The mossy floors beneath our feet and towering trees dangling over brick tunnels pulling us into its thick curiosity.

And it felt like a moving car, held by a child's hand, driving over the pages of someone else’s photo album, the memories laminated under dusty plastic jackets. A place in my heart that felt lived with out me there, the secret someone forgot to share.

There are places that feel like you have travelled somewhere midsentence, where the words have yet to catch up with the color, the smell , the ladders reaching into white planked clouds.

Where the last spoken word has already been said, where description is muted by pink streaked witness. And to sit there is to hear the words spoken from the mouth of beauty. Words spoken back to you in languages unwritten, spoken only in the gray mist hum and the desperate mountain hold, in beauty's soft foam kisses.

It is the book savored before the end, so each word gets spread out over the tongue, staying there like a round candy melting, holding on to its sweet taste. Each page lined with mountain valley views, the raw smell of newborn tides, pulled back like a heavy blanket.

The tips of his fingers were numb. But he kept searching, the deep knee bend and curled back collector. He moved each hand over mahogany mussel and the barnacles, falling off like loose teeth, leaving holes for his fingers to mend with eager curiosity.

And there, the homeless shell, the arms of crabs still reaching past the hungry gull’s mouth. The starfish with her small R bend, the crab hidden beneath the curve of the shell, safe in shadow and sand.

And he told me when I cried I made tidepools under my eyes.

The place where all of these moments collect and wait for the waters to pull them back out into the sea.

And maybe the sun could find its reflection there between the brown and green plaid of your iris.

Because I want this to be our home. And the walls will be made of your skin, soft from the rub of beauty against this shore, and your grace, sweet boy, the mortar between mistake and redemption.

I still find this pain in small pockets, buried beneath flattened string and warm pennies. The tears that come with marvel, when the beauty shakes my heart so hard, a memory of her gone, the enormity of this small second with burnt edges, already gone before I can hold it.

And somewhere in those tidepool eyes, there are all of the moments I have forgotten, tied together with the remaining string of daylight, this needle and thread pull of connection, embrace and the loose fingers, the fallen scarf let go. 

And the tidepools, her beauty’s city destroyed and built in a day, the impermanent measure of this hold, the permanent measure of renewal.

And for those who have stood here, under beauty's open face, feet sunk and lifted with windowpane outlines. You, who have felt unique for this one moment, made special only by the witness of this beauty, too impossible to scream, held tight for one moment, where lifelines meet warm palms. 

And this beauty wants for nothing in return except for the love that radiates from the tidepools in our eyes, in all the places where reflections get caught, the places that hold deep wonder, the underwater life unseen, caught in slow motion stillness, opening and closing the thin anemone feathers of a whispered breath. 

The moment's eternal goodbye, the forever patient hello. There will never be another. This mustard outline of the sun, this teardrop shaped cloud holding onto its gray belly.

Each moment a hold of the breath and the inescapable letting go. Another fine wrinkle of skin over bone, the kite’s last dance over blue denim skies.

And sometimes it hurts more than others. This fraility, this fragile make of fingernails and cracked shells and the stern ocean air cracking whips over the sand.

The rock between toe and shoe, the open mouth anemone with her petals new with each morning spring. The observant pine, standing tall, the army of soldiers guarding the entrance to stillness.

They already know. This. This moment. She is precious.

I cannot own her or shape her or stand on her back to see what is in front or behind her. I can only marvel at her eyes, the beauty of this one single breath filled with windswept tears running towards the light.

So I will notice it all and set my heart free to marvel, catch each last breath for just this moment and leave the doors open wide for the deep exhalation. 

And when the warm golden light of the tilted moon becomes our last breath, the deep inhalation of our recollections, we will line them up like our treasured collections, placed high on glass shelves, staring out from their shadows, remembering this time set aside. 

Find me here.

It makes a heart bloom

I almost made it to the house without eating one single chocolate. Almost.

But there was the stoplight, the one that lasted two seconds too long and the open bag looming on the passenger seat and the wide mouth opening with Valentine chocolate pouring out.

Almost.

He sat upstairs and colored in his book while I cut the remaining paper and set the Valentines on each of the tables. I could hear his little feet, like soft paws, jump from the couch and the squeak of the wood under his heels. There was the telltale pull of the stool from the counter and I could almost hear his arm reach into the bag. 

There was the wrinkle of plastic. And the mighty rain against window spill of individually wrapped chocolates onto the floor.

Small feet running back to the chair, silent thud of chair feet on wood, and the thick pile of aluminum wrappers under one green velvet pillow.

Almost.

The tables were set, the red of the tulip opening just as the morning light crept over the counter. He held each Valentine in his hand and shook his head in seven year old boy disgust. Too much kissing on Valentine's day.

"Where's the chocolate?"

The boys are getting older. And Valentine's Day isn't a top priority for them. But it is for this mama of three boys, an opportunity to lay it on thick, all of the girliness I can muster in a house full of men.

And sometimes they surprise me. With their sweet words and open and shut Valentine cards made just for me. And the chocolate rimmed lip kisses and the flowers behind their backs. (Even if I am the one who bought them.)

Because it doesn't take a lot of effort to make this one mama heart happy. A couple pieces of chocolate and a few soft snuggles in front of the fire. Three little men and one tall Mr. And an afternoon with small hands making beautiful art. 

Shadowbox Valentine Cards

Materials:

1 sheet heavyweight paper (I used a large piece of watercolor paper)
Scissors
Hole Punch
1 strip of red ribbon (appx. 36")
Watercolor paints (we used gouache because I had a lot leftover in the studio and because it is so fun to say.) 
Colored pencils
Three small pieces of watercolor paper
    1-2"x 4"
    1-2"x 6"
    1-3" x 5" 
Ruler
Tracing Paper 
Glue Stick or hot glue 

To begin, cut your large piece of watercolor paper into a piece that is
10" x 22". Once the paper is cut, create folds every 7 inches. (a fold at 7", 14", and 21") You can use your ruler to apply pressure to the watercolor paper, as it can sometimes be a bit thick.

Cut a heart opening on the last box connected to the 1" fold. This will be the front of the box card. (Keep in mind this is only a three sided box.)

Once the heart is cut, pick up your paper and connect the ends. Punch a hole on the top and bottom for the ribbon. Be sure you are punching the hole through two layers. (the front and the back of the card.) This will hold the card together at the end.

Once you have your holes punched, lay the sheet out flat and trace your heart opening. Now create an outline that is approximately 1/4" wider than the opening. This heart will be the frame of your heart opening that will get glued to your card later.

Once you have the outline cut, go ahead and get your small pieces of paper cut too. You should have some watercolor paper left over from your big piece.

And now for the fun part. Begin with the interior of your box card. You will be painting just the two interior squares (not the square with the heart cut out). Create your background. Just the background. The students were making gardens so they made a grass and sky background, while some decided to make a seascape and did a sky and some water. Be creative. 

While the backgrounds dried, we made out interior components from the three pieces of cut paper. The short piece (2" x 4") will be set in the farthest part of the background, so the children made this a dark green grass. The long piece of paper (2" x 6") is the grass closest to the front so they used a lighter green for this grass. But, it is completely up to the artist. The children making the sea scenes, made varying colored waves which was beautiful too!

The last piece of cut paper (3" x 5") will be for the flowers (or a boat or even a shark! for the seascape scenes.) The children cut our flowers to be attached with glue to the front grass.

Once the pieces are dry, you can glue flowers to the grass. You can use a glue stick or a hot glue gun for a more permanent hold.

While these pieces are drying, go back to the big piece of paper and turn the landscape over. Paint the outside of the box card a desired color. We chose red, but pink would be lovely too.

One side note: Make sure your work area is dry when you flip your paper over or you will get paint on your landscape. 

And don't forget to paint your heart frame for the front! (Choose a contrasting color so it stands out.)

We also used oil pastels on the dry paint to add detail. So sweet:)

This is where I got pretty busy with assembling. Thank goodness for extra hands. (Thank you Mrs. Lowe!) So, not too many pictures. Once everything is dry, connect the punched holes and string a ribbon through the holes to secure the box. Fold 1" tabs on the grass pieces, and from the bottom, slide the grass/flowers inside the assembled box. Be sure to add your hot glue or glue stick to the tabs before sliding them inside.

Make appropriate adjustments to height and depth.

And wala!

Shadowbox Valentine Cards!

Your love....

It makes a heart bloom:) Happy Valentine's day!

Cold Feet

The leash was tangled around my ankle, his hat full of snow.

There was the frozen ball of gum left on the driver’s seat, warmed by the 50 minute car ride to the soccer game, turning into second layer skin, pink denim, just where the seam meets the pocket.

There was the puddle of conditioner left on the shower’s tiled floor. And this toe finding it in the numb morning light, and the trajectory slide into shower door walls.

There was the red face held in one wooden church pew. The warm tear rise inside his small eyes. He may or may not have used the word a-s-s, spelled out in small voice shake. Or maybe it was ASH or perhaps it was ASK. No, it was ASS. As in Jack and sometimes, well, sometimes, when the day is ripe with stubbed toes and disregarded turn signals, there is the other. He said ass, and no one was talking about donkeys or burrows or the necessity for brown furry animals who carry large packs on long journeys. Ass.

Head in hands.

The slapping sting of recollection, the dropped heart sigh of regret, the word still caught at the red light missed, his seven year old ears wide empty cups.

So we ran to the forest, to the place where mistakes grow like wet moss, the iridescent green shine of growth.

The broken root caught my boot just as my heel lifted, catching my foot in the snarl of frustration, pulling my knees to the snow, hands full of frozen leaves and shed bark.

So when the air met my face, I cried a little.

There was the tear that swells, “Help.”

And the day that has been given so many start overs it seems the page was never written at all, left blank to keep scratching out the words still tripping over themselves.

And if we can just find the birds again, the ones hiding deep in the open holes, asleep in winter, if we can stretch our legs and plant our feet in the footprints of others, in the places they have rendered once hard, now soft. 

My steps are fallen, shaky and wide. There were tears and soft caught smiles I smeared onto faces, sometimes with my feeble hands lifting each corner, until my heart finally falls hard enough to see these eyes staring back at me wishing for their own strength against the hard steps.

“I can do this.”

This hand, the one I need to hold is pushed away.  Because the steps for them are easy, the mad dash to the top while I lean back and trip again over my attempts to hold onto small boys growing tall past dunes and soft blue skies, majestic evenings and shadows longer than this one open day.

And the reminding, the churning, the untying of knots caught in roots and loose shoelace stumbles.

And it must be what I want, for these small smiles to find their own opening, the furrowed brow to find its own bend, the tear to find its own eye in its own time and the empty bucket hold of bad days, the trips and the way we sometimes pull each other over on the way down. 

And I keep searching for the secret door, the one that leads out of this day, but I keep walking past it, past the low vibration of apology, tenderness, honesty. Hope.

Maybe somewhere I’ll find his smile again, the wayward eye will come home, the hand will find mine again, we’ll share a story or two of his miraculous journey towards 14, and I will stand and hold the map, turning it upside down, then right, then left and wonder how we ever got so lost.

And a raised voice can feel like a quill, the fine tip imprint of hurt, the ink bleeding into eyes and hearts and hands that need the soft stroke of reassurances. I am sorry.

Let’s just hold on a minute longer and the hand that reaches to lift up, to pull the broken leg, the unraveled rope around bound hearts and ankles, the fears, the climb.

Catch me.

I’m falling.

And his smile, held up by his own heart, his own love and acceptance of a mama turned sideways by her own doing. And the grace these small smiles give even when the leash gets tangled, when my thinking finds it’s way around me, the white knuckle hold, by leashes of control and force.

Let go. Just let go.

Let the mountain hold you. Because you will never get your hands around the vast enormity of its strength, its heart, its need to lift us, to bring us closer to the sun when these feet grow cold.

Hold on.

Just set me free.

Arms spread over hills, fingers touching tops of trees, the lift over our miniscule world, the tiny roofed home, the furniture placed by hands squeezing inside three walls, too small. These mini houses filled with stories of open lids spilled, entire boxes of tissue stuffed into pockets turning dryers into snow globes. 

And I want to shake it off, this day, this hour, when all the cracks are showing, when the thin veneer of I’ve-got-it-all-togetherness snaps, like frozen twigs, when the shine is dulled, like the icy melt of frost on an oily feathered wing.

The temperature dropped. Locked arms and the sky, a sherbet orange, the last sweet taste of pale honesty.

When does the start over begin?

Ready, set, go.

Amend. Embrace. Skin torn. And healed.

The sun followed us home, lining a path where cobwebs had grown over time. And how can one day be so good and so bad all at once. And how can a heart be so sure and yet wrapped in the fine paper of doubt that burns brightest when the air is chilled.

He swung my hand even though I didn’t deserve it.

And sometimes I just don’t get it right. Most times. Almost all the time.

And then I do. And the day feels warmer, the trees hung lower, the birds much closer. His eyes wider and I walk through each door inside his open heart and wait to meet him there. Boots off, fire lit and the welcome mat of homemade hot chocolate and the sweet banana bread from a friend’s warm oven. 

And just when we find the trail back to the car, there will be another snowball down his back, the cry for revenge.

And the soft hued sting of cold feet.