Dreaming Out From the Hearth // Louise Amelia Phelps
Everyone needs a den, a cave, a whatever-you-want-to-call-it. A place for dreaming: dreaming out and dreaming in both are important. Our internal dreaming is where many things begin, it’s important to know the tides of your dreams, to know the ripples on the surface, to know what dwells there, the stars that guide you.
Sometimes life calls us inward to our cave to nurture the kernels we have been blessed with, to sort challenge and strife from inspiration, to find inspiration in challenge. A place to create for our own healing and for silence. It is a time that needs protecting. This is not always easy to do but if you cast the terms of your time around yourself like a fortress of roses, only those who understand the language of flowers may pass. Great things happen within the shell of the nut and the heart the dwells in the tide of it all and if you spin the errant grains enough then they become something good, turning grit into grace.
“What fans the wordless embers of your longings and extends the reach of your heart?”
The need for self-care has gently thrown me at the feet of what I love and I have returned to my hearth, clearing the dust, setting things straight, fanning the embers, quietly, with only birdsong at my back. The Hearth. This was once the heart of the home, although we are no longer bound to collecting wood and water in the way we once were, we still need to know our hearth: what sustains and draws us, what nourishes our body and our spirit, what fans the wordless embers of our longings and extends the reach of our heart. Our hearth side, holds our sustenance, that which we share with humanity, warmth, comfort, food, but also that which is uniquely ours. Sometimes we need to return and provide that space for ourselves. It may be a physical location for some, a real hearthside, or a sofa arm with book and tea, or coffee shop and rainy window. We can make it where we are.
'red petals floating in water, turning the water bright blue.
This is pans of red clover, brambles and dock seeds.
A ceramic bowl holds dried red rose petals on a table surrounded by dried flowers and leaves.
And so I have returned to my hearthside, mending the circles that need closing, finding that they close themselves readily when they have a clear path. I have been thinking of this with my crafts, keeping the circles whole as I go, considering the roots of what I touch, refining materials where I can, keeping things close.
Foraged bramble tips line up, the tiny leaves unfurling.
This is a small cup of white clover flowers that I gathered from wasteland on the way through town. They make a brilliant yellow.
Yarn soaks in water before going into the dye pot, with sky blue borage flowers that had fallen in.
“In creating plant dyes I stick to the path of joy, care and
respectful passage through the landscape”
Honouring the seasonal festivals of the year for 22 years and Sacred Land Walking since 2006 infuses my practice (more coming about this later!). The plant materials I use are gathered in a certain way that connects first to the landscape in a responsive and respectful way. The shift this brings is palpable and in time you learn to feel it. This adds another deeper aspect to what I make. Consciously working with the forces that create my materials in a joyful and dimensional way adds in threads of belonging and love of place. All this is woven into my work, in small scale pieces, I love each one: bowls, bracelets and braids that sing of the season.
Twisted bunches of plant coloured yarn sit on a basket next to the corner of a loom.
Woven plant dyed bracelets in a line next to bunches of plant dyed yarn.
A bundle of braids draped over a basket with woven bracelets behind.
In creating plant dyes I stick to this path of joy, care and respectful passage through the landscape. Yesterday I gathered water from this beautiful stream. If you go gently so much more is revealed. The joy of nature spirits was all around, everything is a treasure and all a gift, (but not necessarily all for the taking!) it was incredible. I stayed with the stream until I was the water and knew that we are no more or less than the sound of water on stone. I asked the land to show me what was ready to use for dyeing and in time ruby hawthorn berries appeared as jewels hidden in the grasses, it was a playful game to collect them. The circles were whole, no fraying ends. I knew both myself and that area were better for it, for the land is the hearthside I will never leave and I will forever tend it.
A woodland stream where Louise gathers water sometimes. Light shines in the tinkling water.
Hawthorn berries nestle in the grasses.
Would you like to examine Phelp’s beautiful photographs in more depth?
Magical Women have exhibited her photography below for you to enjoy a rich and treasured experience of taking in Phelps’ art practice in more depth. Each image has a short text description written by the Artist.
Handspun fibre bundles arranged in a circle of different colours and shades of purples, violets, yellows and creams.
Handspun fibre bundles arranged in a circle of different colours of glistening golds, rich earthy and tree bark shimmering browns and greens.
Handspun fibre bundles arranged in a circle of different colours and shades of pastel and light greens, browns and glistening rich sands.
Red petals floating in water, turning the water bright blue.
This is pans of red clover, brambles and dock seeds.
A ceramic bowl holds dried red rose petals on a table surrounded by dried flowers and leaves.
Foraged bramble tips line up, the tiny leaves unfurling.
This is a small cup of white clover flowers that I gathered from wasteland on the way through town. They make a brilliant yellow.
Yarn soaks in water before going into the dye pot, with sky blue borage flowers that had fallen in.
Twisted bunches of plant coloured yarn sit on a basket next to the corner of a loom.
Woven plant dyed bracelets in a line next to bunches of plant dyed yarn.
A bundle of braids draped over a basket with woven bracelets behind.
Woven bracelets laid out in a line.
All images and words by Louise Amelia Phelps (Copyright)