As a child, you are pretty much expected to incorporate sparkles in your creations at some point. The simple beauty of them is utterly delightful and children are free to explore sparkles as a medium to extreme limits along with pipe-cleaners and finger-paints. I confess to coating many a colouring page in a thick layer of glitter glue. Definitely more of a Betsey Johnson at that point than a Coco Chanel.

Adoring sparkles when you are an adult is awkward. Including glitter in serious works of art is commonly perceived as absurd. Apparently, glitter is not a worthwhile artistic medium.

Let me put this to you – in some of the most sacred places in the world, mosaics encrust the walls and ceilings of the interiors of the entire structure. This creates an ‘otherworldly, ethereal’ effect by, you guessed it, glittering and sparkling. Gold and gemstones are used right along side glass, cement, and whatever else the artisans had handy. Does the material used give the artistic expression worth, or is it the overall effect? Is it a combination of both?

Given that, is it fair or reasonable to dismiss glitter as an artistic medium?

In my unending crusade to master every craft out there (note the tongue in cheek), I am always unconsciously on the lookout for great deals on supplies of all kinds. I cannot tell you how excited I was to find three, yes three, full jars of Martha Stewart Fine Glitter in various shades of blue in the clearance section at Michaels last week.

The seals had apparently been broken as evidenced by the stray specks of colour dusting the surface of the lids. I am still curious as to how this happened. Was it as simple as using them for a demo and then selling them at a discount? Was it as deranged as someone getting their sparkle fix by digging a finger in through the tiny spout and snorting it when no one was looking? I’m sure I’ll never know.

I took this find as a sign and also succumbed to using my fifty percent off coupon on the 24 pack of Martha Stewart Essential Colors Glitter. I refuse to pay forty dollars for glitter, no matter how gloriously beautiful. Twenty dollars, though, was perhaps not so unreasonable… although that’s debatable.

R knows exactly which items I will beeline towards when entering a store. I asked him once why he had laughed with glee when I spotted a shirt halfway towards the back of a store and headed straight towards it. He pointed out that I will always head towards the most sparkly item in a store first. I was literally shocked to discover that he was right. He understood this about me so well that, around the same time, he even bought me a pack of glitter glues. True love indeed.

The simple fact of the matter is, sparkles make me happy. I confess this to the world, slightly embarrassed at the simplicity of this statement. I think that’s one of the reasons I like stars so much. We’re all of us stardust anyway, and that is kind of like being made of glitter. Knowing that makes me happy too.

I am unspeakably delighted that B loves sparkles too. As soon as she saw my new acquisitions, she stretched out her little hands towards my blue jars, eyes wide and focused, and said, “Ah holdat?” [I hold that?] She was so careful with them, holding them individually and rolling them between her hands. She examined each one and decided she liked the Lapis Lazuli one the best.

I cannot wait to share my love of creating with her and G. I will teach them to use whatever is available and to have confidence doing so. I will teach them look at the potential of the materials they have access to and to not be confined by unreasonable perceptions of what others consider an appropriate creative medium.

I hope that by doing this, in some small way, this will help to give them self confidence in other ways too. To not let themselves be defined by others, but to decide who they are and to have confidence doing so.

Maybe they will use glitter as adults too.

On our way to the Vic West YMCA playground, I saw these beautiful lilacs in their lush glory. I asked B if they smelled good and she scrunched up her nose about six inches from them, exhaling vigorously and nodded. She promptly went to play with some small rocks in a neighbour’s driveway.

A bright-eyed woman with a silver crewcut and the most amazing turquoise eyeshadow came into view as we walked by the barbershop on the corner of Raynor Avenue and Craigflower. She reminded me of Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. B had her cloud boots and blue bucket and G was nestled in his carrier on my front. The woman approached us, smiling, and her eyes softened when she peered down at G’s sleeping face. She exclaimed, “two months?! ” when I told her how old he was. He is quite hearty for a 2 month old baby. She proudly informed me that she is expecting her first great-grandchild in September. I congratulated her, her enthusiasm drawing me in. She walked off jauntily around the corner, earrings swinging.

B’s sharp eyes spied, of all things, a child’s tiny exercise bike in front of Sailor Jack. She was so curious and excited about it that we stopped so she could sit on it. It had thick cork pads carefully zap-strapped to the pedals to make it easier for little feet to reach. Though it was slightly too big for her, B was delighted by it and she came back to it several times as we looked at all the large toys parked in front of the shop.

The park was moot. She was on the swing for about two minutes and then directly into the wood chips and sand pit. She spent the entire time excavating, ignoring the playground’s amenities entirely. We ‘casually’ bypassed the exercise bike on the way home, taking a slightly different route back via the tennis courts and public garden.

A large German Shepherd dog terrorized B from behind a fence on the way home as we walked by the school. I was reminded of when I was six and a terrier did the same thing to me every day as I walked home from school. It would charge me as I fled in terror past its house.

B covered her face with her hands, eyes peeking through her fingers. “I ‘cared Mommy,” she whispered. She shook as I held her and comforted her. I felt anger boiling in the back of my head for her being in the same situation as I was so many years ago. I calmly tried to tell her that the dog was protecting his property and that we have to be careful with dogs we don’t know.

I’m going to take the advice of the terrorizing terrier’s owner and stand my ground and speak firmly to the German Shepherd the next time it barks at us. I need to show B how to be confident around large dogs so they know who is boss. She is so tiny. That dog must be absolutely enormous to her. My poor baby. (Grrrr, fret, fume, resist urge to kick snarling dog in nose…)

Note: I am not prone to violence and I would never harm an animal unless it was attacking me or someone else. I mean, I feel guilty squishing mosquitoes I find flying around my house. I try to chase them outside. The point of the above passage is that anything scaring my children provokes extremely protective feelings in me that are somewhat shocking in their intensity.

The interaction between the creator (their tastes and interests) and their understanding of the person receiving the gift is a delicate balance. You risk your enthusiasm for a project overwhelming the personality of the gift, creating something that is totally wrong for the recipient. I personally have gotten so involved in the technique of a project that all practicality and style went straight out the window!

Journals, diaries, and notebooks make great gifts. They can be an extension of the giver, providing an ear to listen and a comforting presence when needed. They reinforce the fact that what the writer says is important, worth recording, and that their creativity is worth investing in. At their best, writing in them can be like an enthusiastic discussion or brainstorm session between the giver and receiver, any time, any day. Imagine being able to be there for a friend whenever they needed it, wherever they are!

They provide a reminder that even mundane daily events, recorded as grocery lists, to do lists, and appointments, are an important part of life too. I’ve looked over a grocery list recorded in my journal and been able to remember a great dinner that I was able to prepare and share with my family. Each journal page is a snapshot of life told from the recipient’s perspective. It’s an amazing gift, being able to look back over those scribbles and remember exactly who you were at that time and space and to see how you’ve changed and grown since then, even if all you’re looking at is a friend’s phone number, a sketched map, or… a grocery list.

I wanted the people receiving these journals to feel uplifted when they looked at them, so I used a bright, gentle wash technique for the canvas covers. I also used colours that I felt reflected the personality of each person. I’m often amazed at how much joy a blast of lovely colour can bring to me and I wanted in some way to pass that on to them.

The soft cover of each journal makes each of them feel like a living organism – soft and pliable on the outside with a more structured, yet still moldable interior. Being a very tactile person, I am thrilled that they are art that you can touch. Art that isn’t restricted to a wall or a glass display case, being caressed only by eyes. Art that can move with you, that you can bend and continue to contribute to. Interactive, collaborative, organic art. Not only that, but they are original art; one of a kind – like each person receiving them.

Journals have always held a mysterious potential for me. I think that’s why I used to have such trouble writing in them. I always felt like I had this block of perfect alabaster in front of me while my inexperienced hands awkwardly held a heavy mallet and a very sharp chisel. I didn’t know where to begin. I didn’t want to hold the tools wrong and with one strike mess everything up. I wanted every stroke to count, but I was afraid of what my writing might reveal. I was afraid of the permanence of writing in pen, but I wrote things in calligraphy, thinking that my words would hold more weight if written in fancy letters in green or black ink. I ripped out many a page of my early journals, harming the integrity of the binding, turning them into wobbly, thin little things.

I now write in pencil. I forcefully write my name and address in black felt pen in the front of all my journals. I claim them and make them mine. I scribble in them, and, only if I feel like it do I practice my calligraphy in them. I do not rip out pages no matter what I’ve written on them. My journals are now worn and unashamedly full of mundane tasks, but they’re also bursting with creativity, records of friends, and important events in my life. Best of all, their spines are straight and strong.

I wanted to give that encouragement. I wanted to let the people receiving these journals know that they are unique and colourful and wonderful, that what they say is important, that what they do is important, that I care about what they say and do, and that their life is a work of art.

Look at the colour of this. The texture. The shine and translucency of it. Do you want to touch it? Can you imagine fabric like this? A hat? What about a web page incorporating these colours?

Look at how soft the light is. It’s the endless hush of the West Coast seashore. Blue-grey and clear with infinite detail. Simple, quiet light for an expanse so powerful.

This crab was killed for food. I have hidden the wound.

Look at the red ruffle of its shell. How the lip of it curves up like a shallow wave, echoing the world it lived in. See it in the water? How it moved and danced along the shore? How bright it is now against the greys of the sand and rocks.

I have read beach glass described as the only gemstone made by man and shaped by nature.

                   
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Look at how nature has arranged every detail. I was fortunate enough to photograph these things exactly as I found them. It’s amazing much beauty there is in unexpected places. This is what I see when I go outside. This is what I seek.

Now and then, the camera gods give me a sign. Today it was a drop of water hitting the burgeoning clematis outside my glass door. The way the leaf shivered was like a rippling chime echoing through my mind telling me that I should observe some quiet wonders the outdoor world always offers. With that need pulling me through the morning, I herded my children into a state of relative outing-readiness and fled the house before the countdown precipitated by diaper-cleanliness and belly-emptiness forced me back indoors.

Walking observantly through our wet neighbourhood with my little daughter’s hand distractedly clutching one hand, my sleeping-son-in-stroller being managed with some difficulty by the other, I was able to snap detail photos of many of the luscious spring flowers we passed. Working our way down to the Songhees waterfront trail, I named the plants and flowers I recognized and pointed out the colours of the ones I did not. The biggest hit for B, however, was the enormous yellow (‘lellow’) helicopter that passed close overhead, making a wide loop before landing at the Coast Guard station across the harbour.

                   
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Upon arriving at the beach by the gazebo and awkwardly making our way down the stairs backwards with the unwieldy stroller, B promptly overflowed her boots in the frigid ocean water. Then she slipped and fell up to her armpits in the same. She laughed and grinned at me with glee. I was so shocked that she wasn’t crying with discomfort and wet surprise that I forgot to be dismayed at the cleanup and logistics her impromptu polar dip would cost.

Two groups of people stopped and smiled and laughed delightedly as she busily worked away on her excavation and exploration projects. I smiled with them, marveling at the joy the simple antics of little kids can bring people.

I took photos of beach detritus and chose pieces of sand-scoured glass to include in future jewelry projects until she had enough of excavating muddy sand from one pile to another. Her strong little hands had grown numb and sore with the cold and she quietly told me that she had an owie and would like to go home. This took some consideration. How was I going to transfer my freezing little girl home in the cold air for several blocks?

I gently tried to clean most of the sand off her hands and face with a wet wipe. This elicited grimaces of discomfort from her and I explained that when hands get too cold they really hurt. Also, tossing sand in the air and catching it with your face can make your eyes hurt. Also, salty sand in your diaper can hurt. Hopefully those lessons will stick.

I put my two month G in the Ergo carrier on the front and put a base blanket down in the stroller for B. She was then was stripped to her diaper as quickly as I could, stuffed in the stroller, feet bunched up with no skin exposed, then covered with the other two blankets.

She loved it. She said she was ‘wrapped like a baby’ the same way she does when I haul her out of the tub. I asked her if she was warm enough, and she grinned and nodded, “mmm-hmm!”

Making our way back, I snapped a few more shots that I had regretted missing on the way there, getting several odd looks from joggers as I crouched over this flower or that. Several smiles at my swaddled girl from the same – what can I say? I just can’t compete with those big blue eyes.

Upon making it home, she was stripped, soaped, showered, swathed, snacked, and sleeping all within a VERY short period of time. G was pretty much blissfully oblivious to events at this point, as his current favourite locale is on me somewhere. Note that all clean-up events occurred with him strapped snugly to my chest. Yes, I am bragging.

And so, the sopping, sandy clothes, and the boots needing multiple rinses with scalding water and the three days of blasting with the fan are truly a small price to pay for such a perfect outing. Trying to take the zen bowl verses the car pileup paradigm seriously. And succeeding. Yay me!