A crack in the soft dark wood allows a gentle stream of light to enter. It illuminates a world that nobody sees both hidden and lost.Sat within cobwebs of long departed spiders sits a chest of strange treasure. The children weren't interested in the carefully placed threads that had fixed scuffed and sniffling tears or the gloves worn on the evening that brassy tones filled the hall whilst polished shoes tapped the night away. But the sounds have now ceased, the shoes have stopped and an unwanted air remains. All is still and unnaturally quiet in this peculiar place.
When people leave us their memories become stories and when stories don't get told they find their own way to exist...
With scampering feet and twitching noses they come to life. Busily they help one another create more living memories from the cottons and lace that were once so cherished.
Occasionally the hatch will get opened and a rush of air fills the space, the Mice of Lace disappear off into the dancing dust leaving behind a hint of nostalgia and the faint mouse like whistling of a brass band memory.
It is time to rest those weary bones on the earth and enjoy the peace of this magical place. This is a place I have known for a very long time and have gratefully been gifted the ability to recreate the creatures that reside here in wool, thread and words.
I really hope that my sculptures bring you joy and that my blog posts about
The Whispering Wild and my life within it inspire you to help open your heart to my wild and creative life.
Much love and magic xx