Be Inspired

My view is of the garden as I work on the corrections of my book, and from my point, I am keeping an eye on the black birds that are attracted to the patch that I worked on yesterday, so I’ve placed some old bread away from the patch which seems to be doing the trick!

I've finally planted a few bulbs in my garden. I've got sweat peas in a hanging basket and a small watering can, a hydrangea in a large pot and a penstemon in another; this is so I can take them with me when I move out. I’ve also planted three rows of gladioli, and now is the most awful part….standing guard and hoping they grow! I love a beautiful garden, images of the garden at Monk’s house have remained with me, with it’s fantastic dahlia’s standing tall and running along the paths. Charleston garden has left a fantastic impact also, and I hope to aim for such a garden when I have a larger one. In the meanwhile, a lovely picnic bench has been ordered for those sunny afternoons.

For me, a garden full of nature and beautiful plants, are inspiring when it come to my art, as I watch a bird fly down and enjoy the garden, my thoughts linger upon they’re wings for a moment and take flight with them. From much enjoyment, comes good work, it is essential when the chance is available. If I didn’t have the garden, I would have beautiful plants indoors which I do have also.

It’s always about feeding the eyes and in turn, feeding the mind.

Monks House garden

Charleston Garden

Chareston garden

Charleston garden

The Real Van Gogh; The Artist and His Letters- at the Royal Academy of Arts

For the entire summer, my sister and I harped on about how we had to see the Vincent Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts, and finally on Saturday, the second to last day of this fantastic exhibition, we managed to get our wits about us and joined the queue to see his work and letters.

The rooms were packed with elbows and hot bustling bodies as we wedged our way into the gaps between people, we were thankful for being small. Grabbing my sister's bag I held onto her as she dragged me more carelessly then I could manage, up to the glassed cases where Van Gogh's letters to his brother and friends cold be found. We watched as his penmanship change from a carefully calculated and precise script to a more erratic one as time went on.

We didn't see the "mad artist," in fact we saw the portrait of an artist trying to develop his style and interpret the world around him. His artistic development was incredible to see as we walked from room to room. Once in a while, I’d nudge my sister and say " look at that tree, you can see the beginnings," it was the beginning of the swirls and the Van Gogh we know today.

The mood was saddened as we walked to the last room where a letter to his brother was found, unfinished on the body of Vincent Van Gogh when he had shot himself in the stomach. The writing was more controlled, as though he had felt some sort of calm as soon as he knew what he was going to do.

The thought that he had only sold one painting in his lifetime, played on my mind. It felt like the joke was on the world at the time as crowds piled in paying steep prices to have a look at his letters and paintings. If only he had known that his pain and trouble would pay off, not in his lifetime, but the next, but what would he have really thought?

Lewes to Plumpton

When the weather is beautiful and my mind needs clearing for the work in hand, there is nothing like taking one's self to the countryside which is what Mr Cranmer and I did yesterday. We made our way to Lewes, Sussex to walk along the South Down's way. We know the town quite well now as we've been a few times, it's somwehere I like to go to feel closer to the steps of Virgina Woolf.

The land, rolling hills and hidden tracks offer the mind to wonder beyond the body. As you push your legs, your body falls into auto pilot as the mind is free to do as it pleases. Listening to the winds among the chalk hills carried my imagination to heights that I forgot could be achieved as we walked along in the heat, talking about nothing and everything and settling down for a sandwich to re-fuel and continue onwards. Later when we trampled our way to the next town, Plumpton, our thirst and need for the facilities delivered us to the 'Half Moon' pub which was cosy on the inside and sun fueled on the outside as friends and families met up for sunday supper. The atmosphere was so welcoming that Mr Cranmer thought how wonderful it would be to live out there.

This morning my thoughts returned to Virginia as I settled down to work once more, and I had a strong desire to hear her voice, and so I'd like to share it with you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8czs8v6PuI

Cyprus Part Three

Cyprus│These Walls Talk
Part Three

(Published in Avrupa newpaper)
 
If you relax and lie on your back, the current could take you all the way to Egypt, the soldiers use to do it,” my father said as he taught my sister and I the magic of being able to make oneself unaware of the body’s need to touch the sea floor and drift with the waves. Among all of our visits on the land, we spent a lot of time enjoying the beautiful salt water which varied from beach to beach. Famagusta’s water’s offered us beautiful silk waters which came with water bugs which seemed to enjoy feasting upon one’s flesh, but they were forgiven. Salamis waters were beautiful accept for the sharp rocks that remained there from the old city. The delicious water that was said to heal all ailments lapped up around us, taking a hold that one did not want to let go of, but of course, one has to leave the water at some point.

In this last segment on Cyprus, I would like to share a story which touched me deeply and it is the story of the great Canbulat Pasha. We had spent a lot of time within the beautiful city walls of Famagusta, walking through the markets and looking at the beautiful mosques, and we eventually found our way into the Canbulat museum within the walls of the city itself. I had read about the great Canbulat Pasha from my trusty guidebook and to say that I was in utter bewilderment and awe when I read these lines is filtering down the truth to say the least, “During the historic siege of Famagusta by the Turks in 1571, the Venetians had placed a special machine at the narrow entrance of the Arsenal, south of the Customs House. This machine had a wheel covered with knives that cut to pieces many a Turk who tried to force his way through the entrance. General Djamboulat Bey, one of the bravest Turkish generals, decided to destroy this machine. He dashed his white steed straight at the machine and put it out of action at the cost of his on life…There grew a fig tree from his grave.”

As I stood under the bronze statue of Cambulat Pasha, mounted upon his trusty steed, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the thoughts of this incredibly brave man. I could hear his heart beat faster as he suddenly knew what he was going to do, and I could suddenly hear his thoughts. This was a strange phenomenon for me, we all hear of battles and brave men, but this particular story stayed firm and strong with me.

As we walked outside and around the city walls, my mother pointed out to us the spot where she had dropped her school books as a child and how she had to run all the way around to pick them up. We heard many stories about these walls; father looked forward to showing us the cannon balls which remained wedged deep within the stone, but it was difficult to see from the angle we were at. “We can drive down there,” he pointed, where the trees grew and where a moat would have flowed. “Down there, are you sure?” my sister and I hesitated at the thought of going to the place which had unfortunately become a suicide hotspot.

We made our way to the bottom and started at the base of the walls. Our hearts pounded as our car drove on the uneven dirt track, trees spreading their limbs over our car, forcing us to close our windows in haste. Were we doing the right thing? Was the question on all of our minds as we noticed the sun slowly dip. Once we were past the narrow entrance and crowded trees, the path opened up and suddenly we were encompassed by the overwhelming walls. Unbelievably large rocks lay about near the walls, reminding us of the inconceivable sublime essence of nature which made us feel so utterly small. We were the only car down there, and it began to feel more terrifying; thoughts of battles, death and spirits began to evade our minds as the light dimmed more. “Be careful it’s so narrow” my mother held onto the dash board peering at the dips and sharp stone, we didn’t have a spare tyre and it was only a matter of ten minutes when we’d be plunged into complete darkness. My sister and I jumped out of the car to take a picture, as seen above; we took one each, too afraid to remain outside of the car more than needed. We shook in sheer awe, as the path grew dimmer and the stones became larger. Small windows and entrances looked out of the walls like black eyes, making the hairs on our arms stand on their ends. It wasn’t a surprise that we breathed out a sigh of relief as we drove to the exit. “Can we do that in the daylight next time,” I put my hand on my father’s shoulder, voicing the collective thought, “oh that was nothing,” my father responded, forever the brave Turk!

We returned, exhilarated telling our family what we had done, and they were strangely shocked, telling us of the recent suicides and one of the spots where a woman had threw herself off the wall, a spot where my sister and father had climbed to earlier that day.

The next day, in the broad daylight with the sun offering us hope and security once again, we returned to the walls so that father could show us where the wheel of knives would have been, as I stood there I closed my eyes once more, contemplating and offering my own little prayer to the great Canbulat Pasha and hoped that I could take from the walls and ground I stood upon, a mere ounce of such bravery.

©Zehra Mustafa

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The Bell by Iris Murdoch

Cyprus- Part Two

Cyprus│ Freedom to Learn
Part Two

(published in "Avrupa" newspaper)

From a young age, I recall my father telling my sister & I, all my friends and their parents and any other human that we made contact with, that all you had to do was kick your foot in the sand and you would unearth a piece of pottery. He was right. The island’s rich history awaits man on all levels, weather it is in glass case holding Ajax’s horse, or the Castle walls of Famagusta designed by Leonardo da Vinci where Othello’s tower can be found, wherever one looked, history seeped and ran in torrents. One of our first adventures took us to Alasia/ Tuzla in Famagusta, where a Bronze Age settlement still lies. The settlement dates back to 1650-1050 BC.

We drove through the gates where a small brick building lay from which we were to purchase our tickets to enter the settlement, after parking the car under the shade of a lone tree, my father explained that he had brought his children to teach them the history of the Island that he is so very proud of. The sweet elderly men in the office looked over to us, smiled and gave our father a nod; money would not be wanted, and tickets were not needed, just respect and knowledge in exchange. We proceed on foot, with our back packs carrying luke- warm water, sun block, cameras and the trusty book on Cyprus that father had for many years, the bags caused fantastic sweat patches upon our backs, but we were happy with our hats on our heads and thankful for our feet not tiring as we continued. Grabbing large sticks, we beat gently tapped the ground to ward of any snakes or reptiles that may be lingering, one can not be too careful.

Alasia, as seen in the picture I took above, and everywhere else we had visited, to my sister and my bewilderment were not tapered off by wires and barriers; the site was open to us too walk and look into anywhere we wished. This freedom was exciting as we walked along old crumbling steps and peered into urns where bones may be found; the only point we had any reservations over such freedom was when we came across the settlement’s palace’s well which was rather deep and terrifying to peer into. One could see remnants of the straight streets which once cut into each other at right angles. During expeditions carried out by the British in 1896, gold, ivory and painted pottery and tombs were discovered to belong to the Mycenaean period which later led to being referred to as the ‘richest Mycenaean cemetery in Cyprus.’ As we climbed and treaded carefully in the heat, the excitement was incredible, we bent over, looking deep into the ground, tracing the lives that had once inhabited the land. We could not comprehend how much more we had to learn. It was as though the earth was trying desperately to communicate with us, and it did. It continuously shared with us what had once been, never seizing to amaze us.

©Zehra Mustafa

Article Forty-Eight - Cyprus

Cyprus│ Land: Returning
Part One

(published in 'Avrupa' newspaper)

Love hath an island,

And I would be there;
Love hath an Island
And nurtureth there
For men the Delights
The beguilers of care
Cyprus, Love’s island;
And I would be there
At Paphos she dwelleth,
And I would be there.
At Paphos she dwelleth,
And wealth cometh there.
Afloat with the kisses
That Ocean doth bear
From the hundred streams
Like a shower unfurled
Of the Rainless River
Born out of the world;
There are the hil-sides
On earth most fair,
Pierian hill-sides,
And melody there,
The voice of the Nine,
Is borne on the air
Over the hill-sides,
For Heaven is there
With spirits divine
And shining of fire;
And there are the Graces,
And there is desire.

Euripides, Bacchai. (J.F.R)

My clearest memory of Cyprus before last year was when I was fifteen; memories that were fully charged by smells, sounds and sights. I remembered the smell of the Jasmine plant in the breeze at night and early in the morning as the sun rose. I recalled the refreshing walks at midnight whilst enjoying my cold dondurma as the island came to life again after the afternoon siesta. I remembered sitting with my sister outside the lahmajun shop whilst my grandfather bought our dinner, and resting outside with the family as neighbor’s passed by offering snippets of conversation.

Among the arid heat, the dry yellow and green land, there was always shade under an old tree and water not too far to swim in; these were the experiences that sustained me and stayed with me until I returned.

Our return was in September 2009 to Nicosia then Magosa. The land had changed; flats were being built in every conceivable plot but the people hadn’t changed. The figs tasted as beautiful as I remembered; the lemon season had ended so we drank mandarin juice as we sat in the shade under the vines talking and laughing at ease as we waited for a cool breeze to sweep past us. At first it felt as though everything was either going too fast or too slow, but somehow one was able to slot themselves into the rhythm. The beauty of Cyprus, did not lay only in the kindness of strangers when help was needed, or the beautiful mountains which rose up and out of the land, nor was it the beautiful food and glorious sun; it was the land entirely. From the land grew exotic life; hardy plants, made to endure the high temperatures and the unrelenting sun from which creatures dug their holes to burrow in until the earth had cooled.
The sun’s rays were immense as they penetrated the ground and every living organism which walked and swam upon it, but the body somehow adapted to it rapidly. As our minds and senses synchronize with the sun, we suddenly become aware of its importance. One finds that they rise with the sun and rest as it falls and in essence, it is as though you become one with nature itself and can feel the vibrations of the island’s heart beat.

Everything felt different; I remembered sitting still on my grandfather’s balcony, hiding from the shade and lifting my face to the sky, noting the different smells, I thought that it smelt like the colour yellow. As the sun set, I stood back in bewilderment at the sun’s colossal power descending into the earth, slowly at first, then rapidly. At night the moon was brighter and the craters clearer as I listened to the land come to life once more for one final instant before it too had to rest in preparation for the next day. Nicosia’s bustle in the morning and bustle at night hummed in my ears, along with the men that gathered to sit outside the florist to listen to music and play backgammon; it remained a hyper city until you felt’s its ease when you accidently awoke at three in the morning.

As I eased myself into a different life, I sat back and allowed the land to accept me; it wasn’t too difficult to accept it in turn. It was not hard to see that everything was attainable as long as one had compassion and a common understanding with the land that they felt humbled to walk upon, for it was a land fit for kings.

©Zehra Mustafa