‘Enough for me to die on her earth be buried in her to melt and vanish into her soil then sprout forth as a flower played with by a child from my country. Enough for me to remain in my country’s embrace to be in her close as a hand
Very rainy days lately. Spring feels like winter. Soggy soil sticks to boots. Carried inside. Making soup with Baby Bok Choy and Enoki mushrooms. Liquid calm. Silly fantasies of safety. Tears coming down cheeks, going nowhere. Heightened sensitiv
Sunday Chill
Do you feel it too? This place, along with 🧑‍ðŸĶē📖, and others? How saddening it became? For us all and for our expression of freedom to not be shown to those it was originally intended to be shown? As it once was. The separations that are force
Abandonments of the best kind Entering the euphoria of gardening season. Hours of magnificent effort, labor, the grand rest, the understanding of possible desired simplicity, the noticing of comforts. The learning of nature, and through it, our cha
Two views. One, seen on a bathroom floor of a restaurant, under artificial light. Behind a locked door. Second, breathed in, from a garden chair, while reclining in the back, by the creek, for the first time this year. In the open night. Taki
~ Self-containment ~ Shinji - - She teaches many things while she’s asleep. And when she gets the zoomies.
New on orlyavineri.substack.com to read and listen to this morning: Between Land and Sea
What’s left of your dawn, of your rebirth, of your name, of your absence, of your roots, of your seat, of your past, of your childhood, of your end, of your body, of your farewell, of your exodus? - Mohammed Moussa
I thought I was done teaching Passport To Journal a few years ago, but when I am asked to teach it again, I don’t say no. So here it is, this Fall, at Art & Soul, in Portland, Oregon. Info and registration via my site at orlyavineri.com
Standing among ruins and Banana Slugs, in Chimacum, WA, a long while ago. Witnessing the gone, or more so, the remains. In awe of what time does without human’s consent. That sunken barn and her external delicious pinks. Her chartreuses. Her se
It’s instinctive in a certain kind of painting...It’s like a nervous system. It’s not described, it’s happening. The feeling is going on with the task. The line is the feeling, from a soft thing, a dreamy thing, to something h
. ~ Almost ~ Some of the things in this almost whole piece: Very green blobs, almost round, almost floating, almost festive, almost breaking free, almost making it. Underneath them, almost words. A very pale blue background on the bottom left,
Hey, mixed media people. Painting, drawing, stitching, bundling, transferring, scribbling, texturing, book making, people. Let’s WRITE too! It’s National Poetry Writing Month. A whole entire month. And utterly unintentionally, smack i
This Boy, Ilan On orlyavineri.substack.com this morning ðŸĪŽðŸŒ·ðŸĪŽ
Yes, an out of the ordinary post from me this afternoon, in honor of an out of the ordinary day, as my extraordinary and beautiful son became Dr. Ilan Palacios Avineri. I am unashamedly, obviously, a super proud mama. So, there. ðŸĪŽðŸ–ĪðŸĪŽ
. . ~ Spring cleaning ~ Light & liberation. A celebration with thornless Yellow Lady Banks Rose. With green. With Passover, Nowruz, Diwali, and the rest of us.
Let me peer out at the world through your lens. (Maybe I’ll shudder, or gasp, or tilt my head in a question.) Let me see how your blue is my turquoise and my orange is your gold. Suddenly binary stars, we have startling gravity. Let’s com
. . Blues at the edge of the Sahara: Leather Indigo Yarn Paper Rust Wood Clay Straw All were once something else. Before we came Before we ‘took’ Before we ‘used’ Before we ‘showed up’ And showed off.