Prayer Beads Spring 2015

This collection can be purchased at


Mother of Pearl mala beads with sterling silver tassel

Mother of Pearl mala beads with sterling silver tassel
Click here to buy


Prehnite Mala with Ethiopian cross

Prehnite Mala with Ethiopian cross
Click here to buy

Amazonite Mala with sterling and apatite tassel

Amazonite Mala with sterling and apatite tassel
Click here to buy

Amazonite, Labradorite and Sterling Mala

Amazonite, Labradorite and Sterling Mala
Click here to buy

Faceted Moonstone Mala with Sterling Silver tassel

Faceted Moonstone Mala with Sterling Silver tassel
Click here to buy

300 for 300

Sometimes I feel so small, insignificant & invisible

A drop of water in an ocean readying itself, becoming a tsunami


Waylaid by a misconception(s) of matter(ing)

this wave your wave  of particles sweep me unwilling unwanting helpless into

becoming one with all that I reject

So fatuous for considering an offer my offer could quell the force your force determined to wreak havoc wrath revenge terror

SOMETIMES dreams grand illusions of believing belonging to Being something surpassing this this (Love lack of)

That dreams intentions & actions equate to an energy enough to thwart this  this (Love lack of) danger perceived

for real Love I feel in my heART comes to me

through me offering

an offering

my gift

my love

my trade

300 beads for 300 girls

One heart bead prays at a time


A Picture and a Poem

This column, A Picture and a Poem, that the NY Times publishes is one of my favorites.  Sometimes it inspires me, or calls out to something I’ve done that’s just sitting around, as this one did:

From NY Times:

Spring, a coy temptress in the Pulitzer Prizewinning poet Charles Simic’s ode to winter’s end, is imagined as a fallen Roman beauty by Italian artist Francesco Vezzoli.


Will you please hurry with your preparations?
We are freezing up north as you procrastinate
Like a rich lady with too many gorgeous outfits
To choose from, spending hours in front of
A mirror, trying them on and unable to decide,

While we trudge to the mailbox through wind
And snow, extract our unwilling fingers
From a glove to check if there’s a letter
From you, or just a bitty postcard, saying:
I’m leaving Carolina today, hurrying your way
With my new wardrobe of flowers and birds.

The tease! I bet she starts and forgets one of her
Hand-painted silk fans and has to go back,
While we stamp our feet and wipe our noses here,
Worrying the wood for the stove is running out,
The snow on the roof will bring the house down.


A version of this article appears in print on 03/09/2014, on page M2100 of the NewYork edition with the headline: Blossoms in the Snow.
And my imagining of spring, as inspired by all of the above – just for fun –IMG_0458

Saturday, December 14, 2013 “Best of the Best” Sullivan’s Island

Come on out for the 6th annual Sullivan’s Island’s

“Best of the Best” Artisans Fair.

And be prepared to go home with some

of the most talented art and crafts for miles around!

2pm – 7ish

Sullivan’s Island’s Island Club

Station 15

Admission Fee:  FREE!

Making it in Mustique

I’m over the moon!    Yesterday my Holiday Sparkle Collection got picked up by a shop on the island of Mustique.  Part of the Grenadine islands, Wikipedia describes it as being a hideaway island for “aristocrats, princesses, and rock stars.”   I can hardly believe it!

For more examples of my work, or to purchase: (click there)

IMG_0130IMG_0076 IMG_0077 IMG_0084 IMG_0070

Higher Powers

the perfect transparency

of my beautifully

lived life available

to all with free

wi-fi and a working currency

the goddess of exchange

the goddess justice

they are weighing

the immaterial

there are no more souls

to balance and damn

no heaven to acquit

no purgatory to rectify

debt and I have derived

myself from my parents

and all I took

unwitting in

my skin “alive

with mouths”

I fed for years

on bad air and lotions

modern potions

for capturing

what I wanted

o slave o me

self-traded along the oceans

of I want I want

but not to desire

is to die

or to reach


as the eastern

as they used to call them

sages said

~Maureen N. McLane, as found in NY Times Magazine: A Picture and a Poem