The Wednesday Corner With Fycsene Shields

It is a few weeks now since I posted a Wednesday Corner, due to the spectacular crash of the hard drive on my computer. I apologise to all those who have been waiting patiently for me to post their pieces. I have a lot of catching up to do.

However, I have great pleasure in introducing you to artist and poet Fycsene Shields.  Many thanks, Fycsene for your lovely piece. I know that you have suffered tragedy, and it is to people like you who find their way through such dark times that many of us turn when we are in need.

 

How many times a week do you feel inspired?

By Fycsene Shields

Have you felt the pure and fulfilled satisfaction of creating something beautiful?

Not something which is useful, or which will sell, but something which, by looking at it, brings a feeling of pleasure? Magical words, which provoke emotions or a single image, immortalising a moment?

When my husband died last year, on returning from his funeral, when friends and family were gone home, I wandered the house, stunned at the fact that I would never again see or hear the person I had spent my entire adult life with.

Amidst isolation and an unknown future, I felt the overwhelming urge to draw. I trained as an artist and photographer, but hadn’t drawn for years. With three young children and a business to care for, I had no time for the luxury of gazing at the beauty of the world around us.

Incapable of much else at the time, I sat down and drew my daughter. I photographed the beauty of friends’ facial features, the skilled hands and lips of musicians, the graceful suppleness of yogis’ limbs, my favourite objects, found on the beach or on The Burren. I looked at the incredible landscape of West Clare and realised why my husband had travelled so far to be here, from the outback of Aboriginal Australia via the hustle of London, to a small stone cottage where he felt he could write.

Whilst drawing, I simmered with excitement, as the white paper sheets became populated by my favourite fossils, fruits, a wild flower, my children’s petite features ~ through my own small pencil strokes.

As I prepared to photograph an energetic yogi for her website, I was both nervous and excited. Like a child, trying something new and not knowing whether I could do it well.

A fossil pre-occupied me for days, its ancient form both hard as rock and soft as a small animal, as I replicated it with passion.

Those moments while I drew, moments snatched from juggling childcare and a business, while I photographed, while my brain kept conjuring up unsolicited images still yet to be created by me, were the moments when I experienced a rare feeling of happiness.

Catharsis.

Endorphins set free.

Rediscovery of ancient skills.

When we create something, be it writing, visual art, a dance, poetry or music; we are experiencing the moment. We are not re-living and regretting our mistakes of yesterday or suffering the apprehension of tomorrow’s unknowns.

We are immersed in the magic of composition. This is why art is used so effectively to treat victims of trauma.

What we compose will exist, self-contained , its only purpose to evoke the feelings of others.  Yet the creative process itself is the most magnificently satisfying feeling.

The unsolicited ideas for images still flood my brain daily. Now I understand why he brought me here, to County Clare.

Mantrika by Rikki Shields

My Last Memory
The rain clouds, knew
The red sun, climbed
Out of the blue sea

The living wind
Pushed the clouds away
Slowly the wind carried me up
The rock, my rock, my freedom
She broke the chain, of darkness

My memories, children, moonbirds
And songs
All day I walked, talked
Only they knew

As the red sun, was sinking
Into the green hills
For the last time

My rock? She bared all
I knew the feeling
What I saw?

The spirit of the rock
The golden moonbird, Yolla
Yolla, I wept with joy
And understood, as the secret
Tears fell, she makes me
Do this journey, for me
My people, and our earth

About Dr Niamh

When I was a little girl (a very, very long time ago), I used to love learning new, really big words like ‘discombobulate’. As I grew, my love of words grew too, until I loved them so much, I could not stop writing them down. One day, as I was scribbling a particular word, a very peculiar thing happened. The word shouted at me, “Stop! Don’t put me there!” As you can imagine, I was shocked and nearly fell off my chair. When I recovered somewhat, I said to the word, “Could you stop shouting, please? I am not used to it.” Can you guess what happened next? No! I thought not. The word said, “I might be small, but I will misbehave if you do not use me properly. I will not tell the story you would like me to tell. I will say something entirely different!” I dropped my pen. I hoped that by dropping my pen, the word would stop talking. Alas! It did not. It carried on chitterchobbling, even after the ink had dried. I was in a pickle. I could not allow my words to run away with my story, now could I? I don’t know about you, but when this sort of thing happens, there is only one thing left to do if you prefer not to spend your time arguing. “Very well,” said I. “I will do as you ask if you will just be quiet and allow me to concentrate.” Since that day, I have been paying special attention to every word I invite into my stories. After all, a story should say exactly what it means to say and not be led astray. With love from Dr. Niamh, Ph.D in Learning Through The Imagination and Founder of Dr Niamh Children's Books. www.drniamhchildrensbooks.com

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