Tag Archives: wordpress

Under construction!

A little notification pops up reminding me that it’s now a year since I started this journey of blogging and sharing with WordPress.

A year that seems to have flown by too quickly. There’s a mountain of digital images still waiting to surface on this site, to be set free from the constraints of the file explorer system in which they live.

In a year this site has gone from something I thought no one would read or even find, to now gaining¬†it’s own little (but not any less important) following and momentum. A big, and not cheesy thank you to everyone who has stopped to say hello, look or encourage the site along.

It’s also a year in which, as typical as life does, life has thrown a curve ball. The purest of intentions of sharing daily might not have been met just yet, and there’s been one sulky face at whenever real life has pulled me away from what I really love to do. No matter the distance of the curve ball, or the strength of it’s force as it plunders through what was known, deep down I still want to photograph everything, pretty and not so pretty. Write a lot, with the words just leaping out of my finger tips, yet my most recent tapping patterns have not been shared for now at least, for the less than rainbows emotions.

Let’s put a new foot forward to the next year on here, and start by saying you will find this site under the construction of the fairies again today. Plenty to upload, although if you can’t wait for everything to be finished, the Facebook page has got some sneak peeks of what’s been achieved around everything called life.

Thank you again for reading the ramblings, and viewing those snaps and clicks. Looking forward to greeting more of you to the site in this next year, and discovering more of your own pages too.

For now, it’s time for a cuppa break before the work fairies set in. ūüôā

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.

Advertisements

Solitude in unison

via Photo Challenge: Solitude

fist
Solitude fight Photography by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces, 2017.

 

It’s the thoughts in the middle of the night, it’s the overwhelming desire to do everything right. Solitude is the place that no one wants to admit that they know, the place we don’t admit to wanting to go.

What could I do to make this right, to give the children the best start in life? What will become of their futures and dreams, could they be affected by the current laws, retypes, and government teams?

Will they still receive the best education, the healthcare, the rights of a woman? Will they know where to turn, that when we failed, we were still trying our best and letting both ends of the candle burn?

These are the hands that held a new born, that changed nappies before dawn. The solitude of the night feeds, the cuddles that no one else sees. The ‘mummy’ sentences that only get said in house, because grown they have too much to say it outside aloud.

The hands that signed the consent forms, that wiped tears from eyes. Fingers that typed looking for answers to know what to do. The signs of age starting to show, not on my face, but on my hands well. The chipped nail varnish where the cleaning came first, the cooking, the hand holding, the early morning starts.

The solitude in unison, for every parent will know this feeling. The oxymoron of going through parenthood trying your best, wondering what if. When indeed there’s thousands, millions out there, going through the same thing. The question may be different, but when it’s trying to protect your offspring, to help them shine, then it’s all really the same thing… Solitude in unison, it’s a parent thing.

hand
‘Take my hand.’ Photography by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces. 2017.

Photography and words by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces, 2017.

In response to the Photo Challenge : Unison from February 2017.

Daily Prompt: Moody – and why to love it!

via Daily Prompt: Moody

Moody : Adjective – (of a person) given to unpredictable moods, especially sudden bouts of gloominess or sullenness.

  • Given an impression of melancholy or mystery. (Oxford dictionaries.)

‘That moody person over there’. ‘They are so moody.’ ‘Her time of the month, so she’s moody!’ Moody, always a negative describing word of ones’ character. Someone doesn’t like your mood, your not joyful enough, and suddenly, bam! You’re moody. The female cycle seems attached to this term, because if we should we all skip around at cramps and the such.

Why should moody be a negative?

Would we rather be robots, synthetic lives, and not show any emotion ever. Not the good, the bad, or the ugly? Perhaps, we would prefer someone to save face, to bottle up emotions inside, creating internal turmoil, because then it would not tint the perfected world around us.

To think, to feel, to act on our emotions, is all part and parcel of being human. No one, and I mean no one is happy with everything, all day, every day, for the whole of their lives. Even those that have learnt the art of thankfulness, of being grateful, perhaps even praying or meditating on the good in their lives, can not pretend there’s not a time when an emotion that’s not jolly surfaces.

It’s in all of us. The reaction to a bill, the world news, that one day when we have bit our tongue for sometime, but now it’s a volcano ready to boil over. The day you thought would never end, the weekend that couldn’t come soon enough. Pen marks, but not on the paper, again. Repeated words, because the listener didn’t actively listen.

Embrace it, feel it, then do something with it. Give the mood, the moody you the time it needs. Acknowledge how it makes you feel, and why you’re feeling like this. Then do something with it. Use that built up tension to work out, complete that work deadline or bake that favourite cake. Splash the canvas with paint in the name of art, knowing the colours reflect what you have been feeling. Create something, do something about the situation.

Then pause.

When it’s all said and done, then you can start to let it go. Remember what is good instead, where you’ve been, and where you’ve got to go. What could you do to turn the mood into a positive, a motivation, rather than a doom?

I don’t believe moods, or being moody is bad. Everyone has emotions, whether they choose to accept that or not. It’s what you do with them with moody, that makes it count. I personally seem to write better (in my opinion), when something has rattled my cage. Something that’s given me a reason to create.

I want to say thank you to the moody you, for there’s never a rainbow without any rain, and you can’t appreciate the stars if you’ve never seen the dark. Turn the moody into another creative side of you.

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.

abstract1
‘Moods in waves.’ Photography and edit by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces. 2016.

Sacred question, was she worth it?

via Daily Prompt: Sacred

Was she worth it?

A short sharp sentence, with meaning beyond comprehension. Four little words driven together, almost crashing into and out of existence just by being summoned together. Was. She. Worth. It.¬†The question, the answer will depend on the reader, the asker and the answerer. Each as important as the next, and can’t be disregarded, neither played down.

The first assumes an accusing question, one where the answer is already known. That tit-for-tat rendezvous that you thought you could hide. Leaving what was sacred, what was secure, known, to go in search for excitement. The thrill of the chase, the something new. A fresh character you could create for yourself, amongst the mundane. They, the new one, will love you, for the new you. They don’t know your past, or your full present. Two worlds carved out in the running up to this question. Each one to be kept apart, divided, secluded, contained. Yet, you revelled in dipping toes into both worlds, and that’s where the lines started to fade. We get closer to her question, anticipating it now, hearing it echo within us, before she’s even spoke a word. Both worlds now so consuming, you forget where one ends, and the other remains. Stories and memories shared leave bitter confusion to both sides, as you start to forget who said what, where and when. Her ears pricked up, when you remarked candidly about that time when, for it wasn’t her memory you was replaying. With a heavy heart, evidence in hand, she asks you the question. ‘Was she worth it?’ It’s ringing with begging undertones, something, anything to justify this new world exploration. You could tell her it was only once, you were drunk, or real off a list of reasons why you did it. Nine out of ten of those reasons will be reasons why the asker wasn’t worth staying sacred for. She will cry hot tears of fiery fury, as she recalls how worthless she is to you, so she must be to everyone, anyone.¬†For the answer to,

‘Was she worth it?’

Had never been spoke aloud. It would be a defining moment, but not here or today. No, today would be a day of deals, contracts, offers. Clinical, with self-esteem shattering undertones. A price was set, pre-determined in her head. She know her worth, needed to know her worth. Key board warrior typing with passion and fury, everyone presumed she was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. To the contrary, her needs for basic survival, to give, to love, to care for her pact, she was instead a sheep in wolf’s clothing. The world was not hers for the taking, it was knowing when to speak, when not to, and when to rattle cages. She would become a yes girl, loosing the argumentative streak. When a job was lost, the employer was never blamed. Internally, she quizzed herself, do I need to be thinner, lighter, taller, prettier. Those that made the deals, temporarily burnt away the rejections. The clan spoke often of prices, rates, prices for skin revealed. Being a muse to their shutters and clicks, not once could anyone reaffirm the sacred question,

‘Was she worth it?’

Was she worth saving from herself? Was the problem indeed inside her head, and not perceived as obvious as day is to night to everyone else. Perhaps, there was no problem, and it had been created amongst the memories, the to-do’s, the bills to pay. Recalling the times those sacred words had not been said before, unanswered questions strewn about her life. Her very existence, almost non-existent to the world at large.¬†Could she be capable, deserving of being loved? Who would want to love her, to never leave her, to cherish what she could bring? Why, oh why, was she even here, created, what was the purpose again. Eyelids heavy from self-questioning, a heavy heart from yearning for it to be said. The ‘I love you’, ‘I want you’, ‘I need you’ ‘s, echoing in the silence once again. Screaming inside of her, the romantic, the female and feminine form is demanding the answer that no one up ’til now will give. To tell her heart that she’s amazing, the one, a thank you for the little things done. Thankful to have met her, to know her, to be there with her. But there’s no answer. Not a ring, nor a chime. No one pips up, yelling it will be okay. Her soul tattered, worn, where once there had been a cup full of future’s, you and I’s, together’s, forever’s. Alone, not even she could answer,

‘Was she worth it?’

The sacred, special sound of a child tiptoeing towards your room. A breath held as you wait for the request, an explanation to why their bed is yet to see them sleep tonight, as softly as a baby. ‘Mummy, I just want to cuddle you.’ The blow of the question, that question,¬†being unanswered softens. A smile takes her face by surprise, for when you’re wrapped up in the questions, the possible answers, the tangled web of life, smiles come with rarity these days.¬†How can you say no to that? They cuddled, perhaps she needed the cuddle more than the child. Maybe the child sensed her longing, wishing to be held. Or, maybe, more likely she had seen the tears that had flowed at the times she had tried to hide it not so well. The child began to recall a memory the mother had buried deep somewhere underneath the present, motherhood and homework. She, now with purpose in her voice tells the young ears listening that she will never leave them, will always be there, no matter what. Wanting the conviction of the answer to sound as certain as the answer, no differing here or grey areas to be left untold. An innocent tear leapt from the eyes of the child, followed promptly by the words, ‘Mummy, don’t worry these are happy tears, because you¬†just said I would never lose you.’ The bitter day resurfaces again, to when she did think she would lose her, she, mother. It was that defining moment, when she could then answer,

Was she worth it?’

Her heart beating with gratitude, with love, but with a fierce protective overtone, she knew the answer. She was worth it. She was worthy to be alive, to have a purpose, to have feelings, thoughts, dreams, just like any other human in the worlds we have created. The sacred question, only four words long, had been answered. Not by another person, an object, an interview, or a job. Nor by a poll, quiz, or by opinion or vote. What she had given was life, created by union, was life. Something although created billions of times over, would not be the exact same recipe as the child who stood before her today. The one she held in her own arms, or repeated¬†that word ‘mummy’ hundreds of times in one day.¬†She was the hand to hold, the smile to the tears, the food to the plate. Her voice was of reason, of answers to questions not yet explored. She was their safety net, a carer, but perhaps most importantly, their mother. Was she worth loving? Yes, but not everyone would, or could. Was she worth the fight, the long haul? Only to those worth going the distance to find out, but right now it didn’t matter. One day they might see what they’ve been missing, and in that time she would have created her own world once over all over again. Her, with her own passion, her love, her children. A smile on her face as she awoke, and a tear rolled down his cheek as he remembered, clicked to answer to that sacred question,

She was worth it.

The sacred question now burning his tongue, could he make it up, show she was the one,

¬†‘Was he too late?’..

Written by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces, in response to Daily Prompt : Sacred.

Photography and edit by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces, 2016.

Photo Challenge: Magic – Child belief

via Photo Challenge: Magic

In our house, Father Christmas does indeed exist, so do the magical flying reindeers, elves that can report back to Santa, the tooth fairy, ghosts and angels…

Not forgetting, there are real unicorns, and last but not least the Easter bunny. We have it all, hook, line and sinker.

Perhaps the best magic though, is watching a child’s personality coming to life. See below an image, not great in photographic terms, but of a dress stood upon a mannequin.

girl-dress
‘The dream dress.’ Photography by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces, 2016.

It’s a dress one of my children created, on their own. Their idea, their design, their practical skills. A Spider-Man dress so I am told, when not photographically edited that stands in red and black bold. It now takes pride of place on the side, with the token sign telling us she only wants one gold coin. The magic of self-believe and dreams, is that we now have multiples of these things. Each one apparently needs a separate box, to be labelled up, ready to sell.

I hope the magic is never lost, and that one day she may get her own doll clothing shop.

Onto more magical things, here a few more images that represent the magic from our home –

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.

All photography within this post have been taken and edited by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces, within 2016.

Daily Prompt: Scorched – About the girl.

via Daily Prompt: Scorched

How many times does one have to touch the flame, to know it will scorch, burn, and not fade away…

Not burnt, but scorched as I try to recall, the times when common sense, head and knowledge should have prevailed. Scorched is such a ‘told you so’ word, it’s that ‘ha-ha’ moment when someone else learns of how you got burnt, stitched up, again.

It starts with a girl, who had nearly always dreamt about being married, the white dress, children, the ring. The Girl Talk and Sugar magazines where you did the boyfriend quizzes, the primary school dances where you stood at the side when everyone else slow dances….

Perhaps we should start with childhood memory flutters, where when I thought hanging around with those older than me in school was the best thing since sliced bread. Except it wasn’t for all that long, as I remember those year 6 boys and their method of ‘fun’. Yet I recall, being told it was my fault for wanting to hang around with them, so burnt I was.

We tiptoe towards adolescence, when being popular still reigned as a big achievement, a goal. The day when two boys knocked for me at home, I thought I was more popular. Happily I obliged as they asked me to the leisure centre, not questioning why they had never knocked before. We reached the pond, and at 13 with a heavy heart, I realised my fate. They weren’t friends, how silly was I not to learn from the first scorch those years ago, about people’s actions and that thing called gut instinct. A girl called Stacey was waiting there, with her friend, who’s name I can’t remember. The procession started with her taking off her coat, then handing her friend that big chain and those chunky rings. Whilst the boys and her friend stood watching she cornered me against a hedge by that peaceful pond that day, and used me like a punch bag. I walked home battered, bruised, and then having to admit to my mother, and grandparents what had happened. Perhaps the hospital visit was more absurd, as the nurses didn’t seem to be concerned about the rib, or the bruises that she’d left and dealt with it all matter of fact. Not long after she got me again, outside the school, with her sovereign ring. The boys never talked to me funnily enough, or knocked for me ever again.

At 14, being cocky once again, I was walking down the street with friends. Thinking my black, yellow and white dress was all the rage, I felt confident, almost fitting in. That very day, stood in that new dress, a ‘friend of a friend’ commented within ear shot, not afraid if I could hear, that I was a ‘paper bag job.’ What possessed that comment directed to someone under-age, I can’t fathom, but it did manage to shatter my confidence once again.

Some months later, once that confidence had tried to be raised, I met a man-child who placed a Haribo ring upon my ring finger. Whilst telling me we would grow up old, and live together, he took it upon himself to make this a family affair, and went onto fornicate with someone with whom I shared a family name.

At 15, the first boy to attempt to give me a¬†‘real’¬†engagement ring, announced we had broke up because I wouldn’t sleep with him. The ring got thrown out of the English class window to my friends’ amusement, yet I had to spend my entire GCSE English lessons in the same closed-up classroom with him and his ‘mates’.

Later on, someone to whom I thought I would be wed, had instead of insults, got inside my head. From not wearing make-up, to not allowed to buy skirts, it started off small, and got a lot worse. My duties were to cook and clean, to try give him a baby, and buy the latest Xbox games. Never a finger did he lift, except that day the chair flew towards me. The night that I went to leave, to find myself again after those years, he got his family in on the act, and his mother strangled me in front of him and his sister.

I rebounded, (well now I realise) to a guy who would flirt openly and behind my back. One who threatened to come after me, should I ever tell of his father’s little secret of looking at unclad child images that I found on the computer that day. Of course, my mouth would not be shut, and it was no surprise to me that I soon after left. Even if the shock wasn’t expected for him.

So how many times had I been scorched, how many times to return to the flame under the guise of love? Could it be that I’m a mere hopeless in love victim, and that these first attempts of being loved, would continue it’s path into my adulthood? Then again, maybe all these dowsed out fireworks were my fault, and I deserved every pain. The way I look, the way I talk, maybe I was too nice, too polite, too boring, too me….

Or maybe, just maybe these guys felt burnt. Burnt by the girl that wouldn’t agree to everything like a nodding dog. Melted by the girl who stood up for her self-beliefs, not to use the fairy tale wedding day dreams to sugar coat all events. Perhaps, they think of me time to time, to the one that would clean, cook, spend and love. Then again, who cares if they do or not.

A horrible way to learn along the way, although it’s possible it’s helped to shape who I am now. A little crisp around the edges, a little more out-spoken, but filled with so much more love. For where the flame failed, whether it’s them, I or both, it left space for years later for my wedding day. Second best, only to the days where our children entered the world. For our children, whom love unconditionally. The smiles the family unit all bring, make every burn, scorch, insignificant.

I sit here now, with a little one wrapped under one arm, a blanket, a dvd, a little sickness and a whole lot of love. So thank you, to the cremators, the burners, the incinerators. Just because she wasn’t perfect for you, doesn’t take away who she is, what she is, where she’s been, and where she’s going to go. ‘For why you were looking at the stars, you might just of lost the moon.’

You cremated the girl, she entered the world a woman, a mother, a wife.

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.

Weekend edits

The wintery weather is most certainly here, meaning more editing time in between wrapping up warm for those shots!

Tamron have also replied regarding the new lens mentioned in the last blog post. Turns out the lens stopped being manufactured in 1984, and the best guess they can give based on serial number, is that the lens was made in 1980! It’s a 300mm Tamron Auto lens and it’s managed to be dated based on the serial number, and the pattern used on the grip on the lens. Well for a confirmed vintage lens, I’m still happy with the results, and that it’s older than me!

So now that mystery is as solved as it can be, here’s a couple of new edits for the weekend.

Don’t forget if you see anything you like, we are happy to sell professionally printed images and canvases, just get in touch with your requirements.

Have a great weekend!

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.

(Photography shown here by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.)

Excess of H20!

Photo Challenge – H20 by Daily Post

Having just found the latest photo challenge from Daily Post on WordPress, I can only think it’s very relevant this month!

From the flooding of our home discovered a couple of weeks ago (more on the blog posts and in the photography sections about this) to the rainy weekends that inspired raindrop photography and most recently spider webs too.

So here’s my gallery of watery themed images taken by myself today, this week, and in this month. (All photography and editing by Rose-Sky Journey Pieces, 2016)

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.

Photo challenge of H20 by Daily Post on WordPress.

Oxymoron Silence

Daily Prompt – Silence

Silence – the way to describe there being a lack of sound, no noise, music, words or songs to be sung.

Silence for me, is memories of mixed emotions. It’s an oxymoron, for the silence can have different meanings, and sometimes the silence is needed. Whilst in others it is given.

It’s walking into the school hall late, and being able to hear a pin drop on the large wooden floors. Every face turns to see who creaked the door, the footsteps echoing as you walk towards a free seat.

It’s what we imagine when we go to sleep, the house sounds silence, not a noise, nor a peep. The electric appliances are all switched off, so silence must of been reached.

The one place that is not silent, ever, is in my head. The ideas whirling around it, twenty-four seven. The to-do lists for the day, and the next. Thoughts that stay in there shouted aloud, but never said. Songs I am singing along to myself, the hum or the rhyme taking over the mundane silence.

I was silent the first time I miscarried. I didn’t question the male doctor as he announced that the pregnancy was gone. Nor did I question the blood tests needed, or the return visit in a week’s time. Outside, I was stone, silent and cold. Inside, I was screaming. Reeling from the loss of what could have been, what should have been. When being repeatedly told I should be grateful to have one child, my mind kept shouting back that it should have been two. Yet, only my husband knows this, because the rest of the world saw silence. A barrier to stop showing the outside any form of weakness.

Silence was when inside I was counting to ten, at seeing the walls covered in pen. Our dear daughter had written ‘Happy Birthday Mummy’ on the walls, rather than on paper, or not at all. Smiling at the thought and logic, stamping down the need to remind her that pens belong on paper.

Silence, with it’s vague covering, was also my go to option when my step father died. I couldn’t possibly be weak when my mother and children were already struggling. So instead, I held it inside, hid the tears, and the impossible whys.

Whilst you hug me tight, there is not a sound in sight. But that hug speaks volume from the way you touch or why it was given. Even then, there is no silence within.

Not just the sad, and tragic events. Silence is when I create the best ideas. For I may not be talking, but I’ve just designed, a new project, an idea, a business line. Silence is when I secretly plan what Father Christmas will bring, to who, where and when. It does not mean that I’ve not heard, it’s a sign of my listening, the planning and sometimes ideas of the absurd.

Whilst writing this, the silence has been kept up. The sounds surrounding me, are only the tapping of the laptop keys. A background echo at the fantasy game that my husband chooses to play. But from me, there is no noise. The silence whilst I try to describe how I think.

For I never hear silence, whilst awake nor in my dreams. That’s not always as bad as it may seem.

This is my response to the Daily Prompt – Silence

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.

Daily Prompt: Together

via Daily Prompt: Together

Together.

That’s what we were, what we are.

Through rain, through sun shine. Whatever may prevail, we’re together.

Together is the roses that my husband will bring. Not on a set date, but just because.

It’s the cuddles in the middle of the night, someone to hold you tight.

The person strong enough to hold your mirror, able to reflect you and knows you sometimes all too well.

It’s remembering that favourite song. Their favourite meal cooked by you.

The one person who can see your smiles, because they can handle your tears.

Not a 3am, but a forever am.

Just like the roses, after years of ‘together’,

The edges may be worn,

The layers opened up and peeled away,

But, they’re still together,

and, us, well, we’re just the same.

 

Rose-Sky Journey Pieces.