and a painting.
There is a painting that hangs on a prominent wall in my home with a woman drifting, floating with the clouds over green-growing hills and down down without touching foot to ground clad in a billowing balloon of a dress tweeded with browns and greens and creams her fire-kissed hair streaming like a wisp of cloud above her—like a little gingered red flame flickering above her candled body, her expression one of someone who is contentedly caught in between two worlds as if in dream.
I came across a kindly man from the county Wicklow who described this part of land as 'the garden of Ireland' with a smile on face. I felt into these words deeply. A wild garden where trees are in abundance, all of the elements in free reign and growing things at every turn is worth a smile, is enough to make a man proud enough to gleam and glow when reminiscing what is home to him.
Similarly to when the wick of a candle runs low and the flame licks and dances and sparks in its most luminescent moments before it reaches bottom and flickers out, these hills captured in paint of Wicklow seem to embody and hold within them the same kind of near-descent-but-undying beauty of something that has been lit for a very long time and continues to sing its at-low-wick ignited songs.
Pieces of my own heart lie here where the beautiful and the old are still very much alive and in tact, threaded into the land and to the creatures and the people.
Here—floating just above the land of Wicklow and channeled into this space—is where I hope to continue to share my own dreams, for now in the forms of the wearable, from my garden of heart where they can be grasped and worn by you.