Julie Wong - BLOG -

walka walka walka

flowers in buckets, west hillhurst

Things have been crazily busy lately - putting in a few 14-15 hour days at school (deadline coming up)... sneaking in a few hours at the studio whenever I can (which is more than you might think!)... and collapsing into bed every night ex-haus-ted but happy....

To tell you the truth, I can't remember the last time in my life that I was working so hard and feeling so happy.  Every day is a good day, in one way or another.  I don't know if I've ever felt so peaceful and productive, and balanced.

The other night when I got off the bus, the man walking in front of me did a little jump, and his arm shot up to touch a gnarled branch hanging low over the sidewalk.  This small act of joy was so simple, but so contagious.  It reminded me of something I don't think about often enough - we all have the power to inspire happiness in others.

I've been walking a lot, trying to keep my body healthy, after days spent sitting hunched over a microscope (dissecting things), or over a flame (making things).  No matter what has happened during the day, walking lets my mind wander, and reminds me to take time to breathe, to let my spirit wring itself out so that I can absorb what I see as I move along.  Things underfoot.  Things in the sky.  Things across the street.  Things in cars as they zoom past.

I notice the smallest details... tiny exuberances and gestures of daily life... and they make me smile.  A little girl's bouncy curls.  The crunch of gravel under my shoes as I trek across a playground - between the swing set and a metal frog on a giant spring.  The red glow of a heater in the bus shelter on a cool evening - the kind where you pull your sweater a little tighter around you.

Looking up, I see a pink, purple, grey sky, and the moon glows white on blue.  I think it's going to rain.

GLASS BITES

I'm about to show the bloody side of adventures in glass beadmaking, so if you're squeamish, maybe skip this one.

My evening field trip to the ER right before Christmas...

In my studio, frantically trying to make beads before I left for the holiday, a bit frazzled, I reached down to put something in the trash, and met with a rod of glass

{sporting a very sharp end}

casually standing up in a storage bin.

Not much blood, and oddly, no pain.

Eventually I broke through the shock long enough to call my sister to
rescue me.  Thankfully, she answered right away.

As I waited I had time to inspect the wound... a huge, crooked slash,
cutting through skin, fat, and juuuuust missing the tendons below.

hours waiting in emergency for someone to sew me up
and 6 stitches later... good as new.

well, almost.

beware, glass bites.

please be careful in your studios.

OUR GREATEST FEAR

"Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,

but that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, handsome, talented, and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?"

- MARIANNE WILLIAMSON

cafe s'il vous plait

a thick, cozy bowl of tomato barley soup

a crumbly slice of golden cornbread

a plastic cup, full of root beer soda and chips of ice

white plate, black edge, strawberry rhubarb pie, pink inside

Joy to the World

 
coat and purse, St. Clair Hotel, Vancouver

I am a family of one.

Well, sort of. I have two wonderful {delightfully exuberant} parents, two incredible younger sisters {beautiful women!} their partners, and a handful of aunties, cousins, uncles, and various adopted tribe-mates. I've never, ever lacked for love.

As of recently, I find myself, for the most part, walking the world alone. There is no one through which I filter my daily interactions, my weekly accomplishments, my yearly schemes. Me falling into the world, in love with the world, headlong, wind blowing my face, whipping my hair, as I travel carefully, carelessly.

There are certain moments, certain transitions, certain stretches of time that define us, that remind us of who we are.

This is my first christmas away from home. 28 years old. Is this a selfish retreat? Am I plunging a meat skewer straight through my mother's heart?

Not at all. Well, ok. Maybe a little bit. A toothpick, maybe. She assures me that despite being a little bit sad {it's different when you're a mum} she wants me to have fun on my travels, to laugh, to enjoy, to absorb it all.

So I do, I will.

I ran along the beach this morning, grey horizon, water lapping by little dogs skipping up on the seawall... couples, families, seagull sounds, broken shells and chips of waterlogged wood, trampled into the sand. Water, water, water... and I am at peace.

Peace.

Joy to the world, and peace for all mankind.

A little lady {permed hair} marches along ahead of me, and under her breath, she mumbles, rambles en español. A little boy in a rainbow toque. Big man, wearing a leather jacket, fluffy white spaniel trots beside him on a leash.

As I keep my own beat, feet on the pavement, music swells over me - it is Christmas morning. I hear a choir, a congregation, and an organ, and it is so beautiful, this contradiction between my solo morning run and the swelling sounds of many voices, spilling out of stained glass windows, onto the street.

Police stand stiffly in front of the Loonie Store, a swath of blankets and possessions and two people with their heads bent down, {ashamed?}, their dog barking, shivering, railing against the sadness, the sweetness of it all.

My spirit moves, my spirit stills.

I realize... this is what my Christmas is really about - a celebration of spirit, a nod to the heart... A divine connection with the world.

I am a family of billions.

something wonderful

turquoise manhole

Crossing the street, downtown. Corner. Across from ArtCentral, where my studio awaits.

I share the sidewalk with people who have no homes to go to. They stay out late, in the chilly air. We're artists, all of us - artists of survival, artists of life.

Surrounded by my turquoise walls (which carry me away to the ocean, to the westcoast, to guatemala, to morocco, marrakesh...) I listen to sultry jazz tones, a Diana Krall CD that a long-time customer, supporter, friend, brought to my studio on Sunday ~ along with cookies, dark red crinkled cranberries and tinder-crisp almonds...

An email arrives ~ sweet Alisha wants to come and visit my studio, and writes,

"The beads look amazing.

Can't wait to see mine... I know I'm miss 56.. you're saving the best for last! I am so Excited. I feel like I'm waiting for a baby and I have to wait till it comes into the world...

Happy holidays to you."

And Diana Krall sings...

Gentle lamplight spills over my table as I look at the beads I have made these last few days. I smile, thinking about sending out little packets of glass joy and brightness into faraway lives... and I dream of the beads I will make, as the kiln warms up, clicking on, off, on, off...

At my feet... aboriginal dreamings... an unexpected gift showing up at my studio by surprise... gros bisous to Donni, fellow dreamer in Australia, {and her american co-conspirator?}...

I can squeeze in a few creative hours before I sleep - and then rest happily, lightly... knowing that I've made something today, something unpredictable, something wonderful...

A privileged life I lead. Privileged indeed.

as i lay me down to sleep

a warm place, telus convention centre

     "Je cherche à comprendre."
     -JACQUES MONOD

strong

hallway, dairy lane

Where does it come from, strength? Is it something we are given? Something we find. Or do we earn it. A badge of honor kind of thing.

I wonder. Can we be strong, bravely facing the wind, staring down monsters fearlessly? And fragile [curling up our variegated petals when frost descends].

Can experience wrap a kind of toughness around a gentle core? A stoic peacefulness, yielding to the hard things, gracefully. A sort of conscious defeat.

Just how strong am I. And how strong do I want to become?

to learn

gargoyle, University of Calgary

"What is the first business of one who practices philosophy? To get rid of self-conceit. For it is impossible for anyone to begin to learn that which he thinks he already knows."

-EPICTETUS

cherry blossom

cherry blossom candy

Something about the way she carried herself. Dignified, elegant... Shoulders pulled back, cane in hand.

Ready to face the world head on.

We waited together for the bus on a cool Sunday morning. I sat down on the long wood bench, in my fishnet tights, high heeled shoes, scarf thrown over my neck. She stood beside me, wearing navy blue stockings, a wool dress coat, and little black pumps with pointy toes. Hair? Coiffed just so. Dressed to kill at 80 years old.

I couldn't help but wonder. What did she look like at my age? Did she dance the night away, wearing silk stockings and beautiful shoes? Did she curl her hair and paint her lips red? Did she laugh with friends and smile a lot, inviting lines to appear at the corners of her eyes?

I bet she did.