Two steps forward (six steps back)

neighbourhood feverfew

Hello Dear Readers,

This past week was hard for a variety of reasons.However, last Sunday provided a bright spot - I had the chance to spend some time with my pal, Annie. We went to Söderberg near the meadows where I was treated to two cups of wonderful matcha and a vegan fruit and nut bar. Everything was lovely, we split our time between the outdoor seating with its collegiate vibes and the minimalist cafe's natural light filled interior. We had some laughs, took some photos, and had a right old blether.

I returned to my home to participate in a new ritual. For the last three Sundays, my mother and I have been holding each other accountable and focussing on making art. To quote Martha Stewart, "It's a good thing." Speaking of, I happened to watch a documentary this week on Martha that was strangely soothing.

On my side of the Atlantic, I worked on a small canvas painting while my mother worked on finishing up an abstracted mythical bird sculpture. My painting didn't quite come together as in previous weeks, but something showed up and that is good enough. I am glad my mother and I can encourage each other from a distance.

fire on the hills of yesterday

15x15cm/ 5.9x5.9” mixed media on canvas 2025 Megan Chapman

£45 & free UK 2nd class shipping

Besides painting, I managed a bit of genealogy. Genealogy is usually my rainy, dark season hobby so researching family ghosts in the summer is a solace seeking measure. I even went to the local library to access their database - mostly just for the change of scenery. My mother has been telling me some poetic stories about the family so it's at the forefront of my mind. I imagine these stories will be explored in a new series at some point.

This week also consisted of meetings, work, some classic avoidance techniques, frustration, tears, and strange dreams. A rare Chinese meal was ordered and delivered and an online community was joined and then promptly quit. A podcast was listened to and shared, and there was a tram journey into the city centre where I took a tourist photo of the castle on the rock watching over us all. At home she feels like a tourist.

A sadness seems to sit in my bones so careworn.
And tomorrow Scotland takes to the streets.
Keep fighting.

I kept all your letters

Sometimes I wonder if I should have a separate place to write things that aren't about art. I wonder if that would make it easier to always write "on time." But then if I was writing somewhere else there would be no exact time to do it and there would be nothing here on "Friday."

So here I am, not exactly wanting to write about art. There are two things I sort of want to write about. The first is that I picked through someone's flat moving remnants outside their building. They were kind enough to take a photo and share it online - a community offering before it would be taken to a charity shop. I picked up 2 bags of castoffs. I took photos of my haul and shared it with friends and family. I tallied up its retail value. I commented that it was obviously the possessions of a much younger woman but with the taste of my inner child. I even took a stack of her hot pink and yellow coloured paperbacks - 8 of them in the pile. And this is maybe where it ventures into art. The concept around methodically reading another person's books, void of choice - like a street assigned reading list.

I get a bit excited by limitations.

I get overwhelmed by all the choices at the grocery store or in shops. But, I love the treasures left on the street or in the racks of the charity shop. I love the fated aspect of it. I usually find exactly what I need and when I need it. I needed a boost and I got a second Christmas from her leaving offerings, complete with mustard yellow low top Converse All Stars exactly in my size. She wrote on the toes of both shoes, "life's too short to waste" in black pen. 

I noticed the faded mantra the next day. 

I feel like I have wasted my fair share of life but I also feel we are probably meant to or maybe there is no way to actually waste it. I hope that's the case. However it all works out, I was glad to receive her message.

So I am reading her books and living with her things and wishing her well on her move. 

The second thing I sort of wanted to write about was some local genealogy research I have been doing but I can't write about it poetically. Genealogy is mostly frustrating, with flashes of magic here and there - stories and family ghosts pulling me along into a puzzle of history and dumb luck. An hour becomes a whole day and I can't look away. It all points back to the tip of my new shoes. Am I wasting my life? Surely not.

I like to think the ancient family knows I am looking for them and that they are glad I am here. They are as curious about me as I am of them. 

They whisper, there is art in all of this.