Things That Fill Me With Happiness (A List)

• A good book
• Cottages in the forest
• Crochet sweaters
• Empty journals waiting to be filled
• Enchanted princes
• European villages
• Flowers painted on the inside of teacups
• Hot chocolate
• Letters tied with ribbon
• Miyazaki movies
• Pearls
• Pintucks, lace, and ruffles
• Portrait miniatures
• Red-striped 18th century dresses
• Sunlight dappling on grass
• Taking pictures
• The spots on a fawn's back
• Unexpectedly finding some wonderful, longed-for item
• Waking up to snow
  

Photo by http://www.flickr.com/photos/31542097@N05/4282943775/

Aquarion by sweetdemoiselle featuring Paul Smith jewelry

Rediscovered Polyvore today, and inspired by the song "Omna Magni" from Sousei No Aquarion, came up with this piece.

Introducing, my Tumblr!

The Undiscovered Continent

http://theundiscoveredcontinent.tumblr.com/

They think he's lost on some horizon...

Enchanted

"[The child] does not despise real woods because he has read of enchanted woods: the reading makes all real woods a little enchanted."

- C. S. Lewis

Photo by http://prettypinkshoes.tumblr.com

To Become Part of It

"We do not want merely to see beauty... We want something else which can hardly be put into words-- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled the air and earth and water with gods and goddesses and nymphs and elves."

- C. S. Lewis

Photo by http://lolitas.se/

Sabrina Fair

by John Milton

Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save.

...

Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head
From thy coral-pav'n bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answered have.
Listen and save.

Photo by Courtney Hood

The Forest

When I was little, barely more than a baby, we lived in a house in the woods. It is the first house I actually remember, and just the slightest scent of woodsmoke takes me back there. I can recall the first time I saw it, the way the trees blurred along the roadside as we drove, noticing the flowers and the manzanita trees and the wooden sign painted with rabbits.


I remember the days spent making mud pies while my parents cleared the land for our yard, cutting out weeds and bushes and emptying the litter that had been dumped there, and later, after the clearing was done, our morning walks down the lane, or into the woods, where a little pond hid behind the trees and we found the doors of a rabbit's house.


I wonder if it was that experience that left me so fascinated by forests, why they figure so heavilly in my stories and the landscape of my mind, why I cannot follow the paths in the grass, or watch the sunlight dancing over the bark and leaves, or stare down a dark corridor of trees and not feel that something is waiting there, that at any moment something utterly unearthly might pass across my sight.


Or maybe it was the books I read as a child. So many of the old stories, Greek, Scandinavian, English, Native American, all teem with images of the forest, of ancient trees and lost children, secret paths and woodland spirits. Or maybe it is neither of these, but some near-forgotten primeval memory carried in my blood.


Ancestors of mine came from all over Europe, and all had their tales of the woods. My French trapper great-grandfather lived and hunted in the deepest forests of North America, and the Souix Indians from whom I am descended believed one of the most beautiful sights in the world was the sun coming through the trees.


Or perhaps it is older even than that. Perhaps all humans hold this inborn sense of awe, this communal knowledge, an awareness deeper than instinct, that somewhere in that darkness, beneath those arching branches, there is something alive, some ancient eye watching, some great heart beating, some hidden hand shrouding its secrets behind the mist and dappled sunlight.

#1 by http://www.flickr.com/people/algo/
#2 by http://www.flickr.com/people/45142573@N04/
#3 by http://www.flickr.com/people/uesser/
#4 by http://www.flickr.com/people/nachosan/
#5 by me
#6 by http://www.flickr.com/people/visbeek/
#7 by http://www.flickr.com/people/jpmartineau/

Once upon a time...

As a child Beauty and the Beast was one of my favorite movies. I watched it a thousand times or more.

The West Wing was one of those scenes that, young as I was, seared itself into my heart. Even before I could truly understand its depth, or what it was about it that moved me so much, I was fascinated.

Even now I cannot watch it without trembling inside.

Twelve

It has come to my attention that I now have 12 followers. As a way of saying "thank you", I've decided to post 12 of my favorite black and white photographs! Some are famous, some are relatively obsure, but they're all fantastically beautiful.

The ever-beautiful Mary Pickford.

The Cottingley Fairy Photographs.



Some gorgeous portraits by Cecil Beaton. I love how he makes alumium foil and cellophane look so soft and magical.

The Romanov girls. There isn't a single portrait of them I don't love.

Lovely Lillian Gish.

Marie of Romania. There are so many beautiful portraits of her as a girl and a teenager, but I couldn't find many online.

I took the stars from my eyes and made a map...

I am so desperately in love with this song right now.

The Dull Flame of Desire

by Fyodor Tyutchev

I love your eyes, my dear.
Their splendid, sparkling fire
When suddenly you raise them so
To cast a swift, embracing glance
Like lightning flashing in the sky

But there's a charm that's greater still
When my love's eyes are lowered
When all is fired by passion's kiss
And through the downcast lashes
I see the dull flame of desire

Photo by Chadwick Tyler

On the Open Road

Ever since I was a child I've dreamed of packing up my meager possessions and setting off to see the world in a little gypsy caravan like Mr. Toad. It's been a while since I've been on a road trip, and lately I've been positively itching to be back "on the open road". So you can imagine how excited and delighted I am at the prospect of a month-long excursion across the USA and back again.


I'll be seeing so many wonderful things, Mammoth Cave, Yellowstone, Las Vegas, and so many different landscapes and climates! My family will be leaving on Tuesday (just three days, heavens!) and I will most likely be out of touch the whole time. I'll miss you all!

Then next month I should be back with many wonderful stories and pictures to share!


Until then, why not entertain yourself by checking out http://dubuhdudesigns.typepad.com/ the source of all the lovely images from this entry. There is so much creativity just per square inch there it's amazing, and I'm sure you'll find something to keep you amused.

Hope to see you again soon!

Can you imagine...

... walking through town, going about your business, and suddenly this song, and this scene appears before you? I don't know how I'd be able to leave.

A Two-Hearted Dream

"They say for every high there must be a low
And every sun ascending a lonesome moon will grow
Drive my heart, drive my heart, into the fire of a burning heart's desire
The only spells you'll be seeing, do you hear me coming in my blue dream
Lonely, lonely, lonely, his mother told me
The dream of love is a two-hearted dream
Lonely, lonely, lonely, his mother told me
The dream of love is a two-hearted dream..."

Lately when I close my eyes and open my mind, this song is all I hear.

Ellipse

Along with my upcoming month-long, continent-crossing vacation in September, the one thing I am most stoked about is the release of Imogen Heap's new album, Ellipse. Are any of you familiar with Imogen Heap? She is a brilliant songwriter/musician/singer from the UK, and was formerly part of the awesome band Frou Frou (best known for the utterly glorious song "Let Go".) Her music moves in this endless loop of gorgeous electronic sounds, classical instruments and heavenly vocals and her songs change from whimsical to haunting at a moment's notice. She writes, orchestrates and sings all her own music, and provides most of the sounds herself (whether it involves heading out the park and recording passing jayhawks, or banging on empty carpet tubes with CD cases.) She is ridiculously inspiring, insanely talented and her album Speak for Yourself is one of the few CD's I could take to a deserted island and never get tired of.


Although I've loved Frou Frou forever, it was only about a year and a half ago that I finally tracked down Imogen's solo work. (You could say this is kind of cheating, since coming so late to the party cut down hugely on time spent in impatient "omygosh, when is the new album coming" thumb-twiddling, while the rest of her fans had to wait through the last four years.) However, as she has been sharing tidbits from the new CD via Youtube for quite awhile, I did become very impatient, especially to finally hear the finished version of a little song called "Canvas". Thankfully her newest work is finally all wrapped-up and will finally be released this August. And I could not be more excited. So, I thought I would share some music videos with you ("Headlock" is just lovely, and "Come Here Boy" is one of her best known songs.) Also, a little trailer for her new album!

The Unicorn Maiden

Although I was never one of those girls who went through a "horse stage", I've always had a special place in my heart for unicorns. I've been drawn to them for their beauty, for their fragility and rarity, but most of all for their purity. As Marianna Mayer said "the unicorn is the only fabulous beast that does not seem to have been conceived out of human fears. In even the earliest references he is fierce yet good, selfless yet solitary, but always mysteriously beautiful."

I watched The Last Unicorn this week. I found parts of it strange, and a bit childish, but overall it was entertaining, thought-provoking, and very beautiful. How true its moral, that in order to really live, to fully embrace the joys and wonders of life, you must also welcome sorrow and pain. You cannot love without letting yourself be hurt, but if you live your life without loving, than yours is a shallow, selfish exhistance, and not worthy of being called a life at all.

After finishing the movie, I was suddenly inspired to make a unicorn horn, or alicorn, for myself. I gathered together paper, silver trim, my glue gun and lots of glittery nail polish, and whipped one up that very evening. And here it is!

Song of the Sea

Lately there is a longing in my heart, in my bones, in my skin. I want the blue sky, and the wind, and the glittering expanse of the ocean. Once I lived on it, in a little boat on the Puget Sound that smelled of must and teak oil and Simple Green. I spent almost five years there, clambering over the decks, feeding the ducks, and geese and seagulls, sitting on the pier and dangling my legs in the water. My family moved away when I was eleven, and I haven't really thought about it since. But the last month I've been missing the water so much it's hard to describe.

I miss the wind-chime sound of the ropes hitting the masts, the soft crash of the waves beyond the breaker, the way the sun winked little diamonds on the water. I miss seeing darting schools of fish through the cloudy water, or glimpsing a cluster of seals, nothing but sleek grey heads in the distance.

I miss being underwater, the feel of it splashing on my skin, the way it made my hair float up in a cloud of softness. I miss the droplets that stuck to my eyelashes, and how the salt would stay on my clothes long after the water had dried.

I miss the ships passing through the harbor, each one with a name, and cargo and a history completely it's own. I miss the bright sails of the boats on summer day's, and the flags in the wind.




I miss collecting shells and stones along the rocky beaches, and trips out on the dinghy, trailing my fingers in the water, the sun beating down on me until my cheeks were pink and my knuckles dirty-brown. I miss the the seagulls crying, and the smell of salt and mold, watching the sunset splinter across the water and falling asleep to the gentle rocking of the waves.

I miss the sea.

#1, 5 and 10 by http://www.flickr.com/people/gingerlillytea/

#2 and 3 by http://www.flickr.com/people/maureendai/

#4 by http://www.flickr.com/people/lukesaagi/

#6 by http://www.flickr.com/people/yayaobx/
#7 by http://www.flickr.com/people/misterajc/

#8 by http://www.flickr.com/people/spacetrucker/
#9 by http://princessdaisylemonadelollypop.blogspot.com/

Rabbit Hole Day - Dreamland

Some know the secret of sleeping beautifully. They fade away draped over pale sheets like living art, lying still and vulnerable and soft as petals, hair swept around them in wavy halos. I am not one of these fortunate few. I sleep on my stomach like something knocked unconsious, messy-haired, groggy-eyed, lost in a forest of quilt squares and stuffed animals, a beached whale in blue pajamas. Yet despite this ordinary landscape, or perhaps even because of it, the landscape of my sleeping mind is a gilded fever-dream.



In the moments my eyelids close, my mind slips away, leaving my bed and flying to a world far more beautiful than this one. You all know this world, you have all seen its sky, though the stars may be different than the ones I see, depending on where on this imaginary globe you happen to have been dropped. Are there forests where you stray, or silvery fields, or deserts smooth as frosting on a cake? Does the air hum with birdsong and little golden orbs of summer light, or does the moon wink at you through trees strewn with lacy moss while cicadas and nightbirds serenade you?





The sounds of laughter stirr me from slumber. I wake in a grecian temple, in a bed of satin and velvet and tulle. In the moonlight I am pale as alabaster, fragile as porcelain, dressed in a cloud of dusty blue strung with pearls and embroidered with silver cobwebs. Silver leaves and milk-white feathers glimmer in my hair.





A troup of girls flutter into the room, and with sparkling smiles, they pull me to my feet and out into the moonlit evening. We drape ourselves with mists of white fur, fitting white muffs over our chilly hands as we climb together into silver sleighs. Dappled-gray horses pull us on through darkened trees, the moon above a glowing paper lantern in the canopy of stars.





We arrive at a crystal ballroom, swathed in pale tulle and white peacock feathers. The walls are mirrors, the ceiling the jewel-crusted inside of a geode. The orchestra plays on hurdy-gurdies and seraphims, soft melodies as whispery as sugar candy, and we dance like music-box ballerinas with boys made of marble. We spin in dervish circles, dizzy on sugar and champagne, until the first watery rays of sunlight spark across the silvery floor. The room dissolves in a mist of soft white and gold, and I wake to find myself myself again, messy-haired, groggy-eyed, a sleepy whale in blue pajamas.