Gathering Shells, Gathering Calm

The waves gently flow
                from the sea
                        to the beach,

        and then back
                    to the sea,
        flushing the sand,
                pebbles,
                        shells
on the way.



                        And now
                the sea shimmers gently,
        carrying a calming,

peaceful whisper
                comes from its waves.



Once it flow gently
                        to the beach,
                then come back
        to the sea water.

Once, by once,
                        waving slowly
                                and whisper.



Feeling blissful
                and at peace,
        I bask in the gentle,
soothing breeze

                and the whispering
        of the soft wind,
whilst searching
                for the tiny shells.

 

From The Quiet Drawer 

When the Dream Drawer Opens Into the Sky

    where simple lines and soft shapes offer space to slow and breathe

 

     — 

      Stress soften; it slowly fades to a whisper.

     A quiet moment settles in.

    Escape into a peaceful misty dream. 

 

    Like leaves drifting on water,

    Like clouds passing by,

    Gliding quietly across an open sky.

    Like Nature play quiet rhythm,

    In the forest, in the plants, in the soft wind.

 

    Feel a gentle sense of ease and wander 

    Through simple lines and soft shapes,

    that hover,

    Offering space

    To breathe.

 

    Aga 

 

 

     

 

 

A Drawer of Randomness – Ink and Blended Words

This cupboard opens into a piece of art and randomness of cut-out words,  that are learning to speak.

 

I use to learn how to write poems and essays as my form of creative expression. I try to find words, metaphors, and phrases from various sources. From illustrated magazines about nature and places to all kinds of books that inspire me—I delve into them to find meaning or use words in a different way. I try to create my own expression through new combinations of words. 

It’s a kind of collage, but made of words rather than cut-out images.

At first, I simply tried playing with words in my notebook, and I even asked my child for her opinion; initially, her reaction was that the text had no grammar or meaning. My first thought was that this was precisely my message and that it was good, motivating criticism that encouraged me to keep trying.

Below is one of my collages, created from excerpts from the lyrics of well-known songs and magazines with cartoons.

Notebook with well known song and magazines

Later, I created a poem from cut-out words, piecing together meaning from fragments rescued from scraps, old, discarded schoolwork, and forgotten pages. At first glance, it may seem to lack form or meaning, but I tried to rearrange the words into a new poem and it didn’t turn out the way I wanted, so I left it as it is.

She adored him.

That shape drawing there

Imagination aired memories.

 

Reflect, passion, sense.

Morning, these doves showing self.

The images about love.

They love!

 

 Elsewhere the time goes,

Truly create dream.

That the river

A feminine portrait

Gantry for form

Gamut we know

Makes are imaging. 

My creation as the acrylic with random words sticked to the frame. The acrylic remained silent until the old sheets of paper spoke through me. On the frame, the cut-out words arranged themselves into a poem I hadn’t planned—I merely recognised it.

Image of acrylic and with glued words on the frame 

The inner world of a woman’s love, which lives in her mind but is never spoken aloud. Memories and imagination intertwine, and nature becomes emotional symbolism—doves, river, morning, peace, purity, flow. Together, they form a feminine creative expression, a portrait, but I leave the deeper meaning for you to discover.

And somewhere deep at the bottom of this art, a secret mark stays only for the cupboard.

I tried make a longer form from a taken phrases and words and wrote an essay in poetic tone.

Flow of time

At the corner of the old antiquarian shop in rustical shape an elderly lady  is sitting on a small stool and table plenty of things and belongings. Someone passing by from time to time and with warm smile, leaving to her all the things that are not needed any more. At the table is a large invitation; hand written, enlarged and sound a bit candidly: 

Here you’ll find items ready for a new home, including a delightful  treasures. Look on the table and  the mix of bits and bobs you didn’t know you needed. If you want more, I’m just here to help you and no carrier pigeons needed! Come along and take your time.

Nobody knows, that outside of normal selling duties, the lady is a famous pigeon breeder. She loves mark pigeons` existence everywhere. She even has a long, green cardigan with embedded pigeons, a purple hat with pigeons, and on dark  green backpack`s pocket is of course a little pair of sweetly kissing pigeons. 

At the table there are sorts of kind of a delightful collection of second hand children’s and young adult books. They once sparked a joy and imagination. The other bits and bobs are old golden coloured jewellery with stones, long dresses, velvety embroidered with butterflies cloak someone once wore, tiny evening bags, happy toys, fancy costumes for masquerades, old wooden trinkets, table dinner sets with sweet vintage designed tureen for soups and roses painted tea cups with a porcelain tea pot.

The lady who is in charge of all the things, moving around the table and traying to put them in the most great light, like an invitation to see these pretty little things. 

A couple of streets from the lady`s stall is an outdoor moving theatre. The audience gathering in glorious, summer afternoon`s sunshine  and is immersed in the medieval tons of the music. Next is a play in style of dell`arte, pantaloons, sketches and standup comedy. The audience nearly rolling in the chairs and aisles, while the theatre troupe snag the pirates shanties and performing swashbuckling actions on the high seas on the stage .

Then, the time aired, when the people looking for flamboyant amateurs with theatrical tricks, that are playing elaborative pranks on their guests. The strolling players performing a dashing endless knights jousting and one of the cast is playing even pinafore for the guests.

On that day a children are trying to earn some coins with handmade lemonades by selling it and serving straight away from the glass jugs. Only good watchers can see the children hiding behind the theatrical curtain and somewhere between the narrowed streets close to the performance.

This quiet day is like an easel kept the landscape of the quiet village town, where dragonflies gently flying above the banks of the freshwater stream of the river.

When walking the same, peaceful path along the town, a summer flowers blooming around in a calming rhythm of the slow airy wind– Nigellas, Peonies, Roses, Marigolds, Violas and Poppies.  Butterflies fluttering with colourful wings and touching the scent of sweet peas that flowers climbing around a low, wooden poles.

A darker time of the evening is bringing a nocturnal birds chorus. and a miles away  are gentle bells of very old clock from tower. It is sounding a bit of nostalgia and passage of time.

The bell from the tower is echoing its own, almost silent melody: 

Bong,

 

                      Bong,

 

Bong,

 

bong 

                          bong

                                                                             

The bell`s rhythm is slowing  and calming tone as the last ,,g’’ would disappearing. 

The fireflies are glimmering with vivid shining.

And then is a gentle, sweet, delicate voice. It is singing about walking the same path and capturing the light, endless sky and the life of the little town. This sweet voice is awaking the dawn. When closing the eyes for a moment, there is a feeling of a dreamy, surprising world.

Around are still the slow shining lanterns.

Someone cannot sleep, but it is a slow new beginning.

The soft light is breaking the line far over, as if a heavens slowly open before the dawn sun. 

 

In the end, the randomness stays—waiting for a word that drifts in softly, almost unseen.

 

The Drawer of Pressed Flowers

A couple of small pressed‑flower frames made from leftover petals, old notebook paper, and quick doodles — simple studio experiments that turned into finished pieces.

Pressed rose`s leaves and doodled flower  

Inside are two small frames that started as simple studio tests. Pressed roses and leaves arranged on an old schoolbook page, with a quick doodled flower added to see how the line would sit next to the real petals. Next to it, a smaller frame with white flowers — more about composition than sentiment, just placing shapes until they worked.

White flower mini frame 

Nothing dramatic, nothing precious. Just small experiments with petals, paper, and the urge to make something out of what was left from a bouquet.

Today’s Small Story of Sunshine in the Field

A small story, a daily noticing from a day that felt like a quiet breath.

We walked to the fields to see the horses, grazing in the nearby fields and in the late sunshine. The farmer had let them wander freely, and we stood there for a while, watching their calm rhythm, even reached out to touch their soft coats. My children told me they needed this — a little space to breathe, to rest, to be together without hurry.

On the way home, we heard a grasshopper played its song like a tiny instrument. My daughter said they scare her, so later I made a quick sketch, hoping to show her the gentleness I see in them, the small beauty tucked inside, the way even small creatures can surprise us.

 

 

Sketch of a tiny grasshopper from the walk in the filed.

 

A small moment of calm and joy, a quiet breath with my children — one of those tiny noticing that shape our days.

A drawer of memory, quietly opened — a moment with my children I want to keep.

 

The Drawer of Silence — Inside is Roses Artwork

The cupboard stood quietly in the late afternoon light, its old wooden surface glowing with the colours I once painted onto it. When I opened the drawer that felt heavier than the rest, the air shifted — soft, familiar, like stepping into a memory I didn’t know I had been missing.

Inside lay my old sketchbook. The one I carried everywhere two years ago. The one that held small moments I didn’t want to lose.

I lifted it gently, feeling the softened edges, the way time had rounded the corners. The cupboard seemed to breathe with me, as if relieved I had finally returned for what it had been keeping safe.

I opened the sketchbook, and the pages whispered as they turned — unfinished lines, quiet beginnings, thoughts that simply waited in the scent of ink and summer.

And then I found it.

The roses.

Pen drawing of the roses and poem in opened sketchbook 

Drawn in pen, simple and honest, leaning toward the sun as if they remembered the warmth of that day. The petals curved softly, the stems swayed with a breeze I could almost feel again. It was a sketch made quickly, but with attention — the kind of attention that only happens when the world is still.

Beneath it, in my own handwriting:

Sunny day today

A delicate roses dancing with the wind

Sweet silence

Reading it again felt like stepping back into that moment — the quiet and calm air, the golden sunlight lingers on my hands, the way the roses moved gently without needing to be seen.

The cupboard seemed to smile in its wooden way, as if it were humming my poem back to me.

It had kept this drawing, this poem, this small piece of my past self — not hidden, just waiting for the right time to return.

I closed the sketchbook, holding it for a moment before placing it back inside the drawer. Some memories don’t ask to be displayed. Some simply want to be revisited, softly, like this one.

When I slid the drawer shut, the cupboard felt as if whispering:

“You’ve always known how to listen to quiet things.”

Sometimes the things we create in silence return to us, when we need them most. A sketch, a few lines of ink, a moment we once captured without knowing why — they wait patiently in the drawers of our lives. Maybe this is a reminder to open those drawers from time to time, to revisit the small pieces of ourselves we left behind.

Opening the Cupboard

Lately I’ve been thinking about the way this blog has grown — how it has held my small stories, my sketches, my quiet moments, and the things I notice when life slows down enough for me to see them. Art in Cupboard has always felt like a place where I tuck away pieces of myself, the way someone might keep tiny notes, ideas, fragments or drawings in a drawer they open only when the room is still. This blog is an old wooden cupboard, mismatched, and painted in my own colours of surprises.  Its surface holds fingerprints of years, brushstrokes of moods, and the soft shine of being touched often.

 

And somewhere along the way, I realised that this cupboard of mine has many drawers.

Some open into memories.

Some open into stories.

Some open into art.

Some open into reflections or fragments or the small, ordinary moments with my children.

Some will hold sketches.

Some will hold thoughts.

Some will hold the soft beginnings of ideas.

Some open into randomness — the kind of thoughts that arrive uninvited and stay anyway.

So I’ve decided to let my posts follow that rhythm. Not a strict a system — just a gentle way of noticing where each piece belongs. Each post will be like opening a drawer and seeing what waits inside. Some drawers will hold finished things, some will hold beginnings, and some will hold the quiet in‑between.

I want the cupboard to feel like a home for the things that matter — the thoughts, the emotions, the art, the ideas that shape the way I move through the world. Every drawer holds a part of me — not tidy, not matching, but true. This cupboard is not a brand, not a business, not a performance. It is simply the place where my creative life lives.

And yesterday, I opened the first drawer — the Drawer of Silence — and found my old sketchbook waiting for me. It felt like the right beginning.

There will be more drawers to open. More small things to find. More pieces of life to place gently inside.

For now, I’m simply glad to begin.

 

 

 

Making a Summer Collage Together: A Small Moment of Creative Life

Creating art with my daughter has become one of those small rituals that quietly shape our creative life at home. This summer, we decided to make a collage using scraps of old magazines, newspapers, and even the backs of school worksheets — simple materials that often spark the most meaningful ideas.

Starting With What We Had
We gathered a pile of old papers, drawings, and cut‑outs, then opened a fresh page in our scrapbook. I arranged a few pieces to give us a starting point, and my daughter immediately added her own ideas. These early steps always remind me how everyday materials can become part of a slow, intentional creative practice.


Here’s one of the early spreads from our project:

Open scrapbook showing a photo of a person running in a grassy field, decorated with paper cut‑outs, features hand‑drawn sketches of a backpack, camera, tent, tree, and small objects.

At first, the collage leaned heavily into black‑and‑white textures—newspaper print, pencil sketches, and monochrome patterns. But once we added splashes of colour, everything shifted.

Adding Colour and Imagination
As we layered more drawings and cut‑outs, the pages began to feel like a little adventure of their own — part memory, part imagination. This is the part of creative living I love most: watching something simple turn into something expressive.

Decorated scrapbook pages with added layers of colours and cut-outs of papers.

The colours made the whole collage feel bright, warm, and dreamlike—like the feeling of summer itself.

What the Process Gave Us
What surprised me most wasn’t the final artwork but the process. Sitting together, choosing shapes, discussing colours, and deciding what belonged where gave us a calm, shared focus.
It helped my daughter feel involved and confident, and it gave us both a moment of stillness in the middle of a busy season. These are the moments that build a creative life at home — slow, simple, and shared.

Sometimes creativity isn’t about the outcome — it’s about the connection it builds along the way.

The Quiet Art of Creative Living

A small handmade moment — a simple place for brushes, and a reminder that creativity lives in the everyday.

There is a kind of creativity that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with grand projects or perfect plans. It lives in the corners of the day — in the soft pile of fabric waiting on the sewing table, in the half‑read book resting on the arm of a chair, in the kettle warming on the stove for no reason other than comfort.

I’ve come to love these small creative moments. They don’t demand anything from me. They simply invite me to pause, to notice, to make something gentle with my hands or my thoughts. Sometimes it’s a few stitches. Sometimes it’s a sentence. Sometimes it’s nothing more than the quiet pleasure of arranging things on a table until they feel right.

Creativity, for me, is not a performance. It’s a way of being in the world. A way of paying attention. A way of saying: this moment matters, even if it’s small. It’s the slow rhythm of making something that doesn’t need to be perfect. It’s the comfort of familiar tools. It’s the feeling of being quietly absorbed in something simple and honest.

And maybe that’s enough — to let creativity be a soft thread running through the day, stitching together the ordinary pieces of life into something warm and meaningful.

If you’re reading this, I hope you find a small creative moment today. Something gentle. Something yours.

(If you ever want to explore this idea more deeply, you can ask me about creative life or quiet inspiration.)

Small Stories: Little Birds Nesting on Rooftops

Three small birds resting on the rooftop in soft blue watercolour — a quiet pause before the morning begins.

One morning, my neighbours paused beside me with a soft, almost hushed urgency, as though they were carrying a tiny secret meant to be shared gently. “Do you know you have little birds that hatched on your roof?” they said, almost in a whispering tone, as if the news itself might flutter away.

I didn’t. I hadn’t noticed a thing.

Later, my daughter came home with the same story, passed along by her friends — that nearly every house in the neighbourhood has its own hidden nest tucked beneath the tiles this spring. A  tiny lives above us, each one carrying its own tender, fleeting rhythm.

And once I knew, the world shifted.

In the early hours, when the sky is still in its hush, the little ones begin their calling — a quiet chorus rising into the pale morning. Their voices are thin but determined, a kind of shimmering insistence that pulls the parents back again and again with food, warmth, and purpose. Throughout the day, their soft winged rustling drifts down like a secret breeze, reminding me that life is always happening in layers, even when we forget to look up.

It made me think about how many stories move around us unnoticed — in the people we pass, the corners we hurry by, in the nature that continues its work whether we witness it or not. Sometimes it takes a neighbour’s comment, or a child’s observation, or simply a pause in our own rushing to reveal what has been quietly blooming beside us all along.

There is always something shimmering at the edge of our attention, waiting to be seen.

About a month later, just as the first nest fell silent and the fledglings slipped into their own small independence, the neighbourhood shifted again. Another nest — perhaps newly built, perhaps simply newly noticed — made itself known.

This time the calling was different. Sharper. Brighter. A little wilder around the edges.

These little birds, likely starlings, seem to live in a kind of joyful commotion. The adults sweep across the gardens in loose, lively groups, working the grass for bugs with a shared purpose that feels almost choreographed. And the young ones call with a different energy entirely — louder, more insistent, as if each voice is trying to gather the world a little closer.

It’s a new rhythm, but it folds itself into the days just as gently as the first. I find myself listening without meaning to, noticing the rise and fall of their tiny demands, the sudden hush when they are fed, the renewed chorus that follows. Another small story unfolding above the roofline, threading itself into the quiet moments of the morning.

And again, I’m reminded that life doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in waves — one soft chapter settling just as another begins, each with its own tone, its own urgency, its own small miracle.

May you notice one new rhythm around you today?

An illustrated blue bird perched on a paper‑crafted nest with a black bird hovering nearby, arranged on a cardboard sketchbook page to create a serene, nature‑inspired scene.

This moment belongs to my Small Stories thoughts.

One small bird on the old rooftop, lifting a bright note into the morning — my simple sketch of a daily miracle.

Small Beautiful Stories

Some days, the world feels full of small stories. A woman arranging flowers outside a shop. A child dragging a stick along a fence. A pigeon hopping with great seriousness across a pavement crack. A stranger smiling at something only they can hear.

None of these moments are big enough to be news. But they are big enough to stay with me.

When I walk — through a market, along a quiet street, past a row of houses with uneven windows — I feel as though the world is whispering. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just softly, as if to say: look, here is something you might like to notice.

And so I do. I notice the way light falls on a brick wall. The way two people lean toward each other when they talk. The way a leaf skims across the pavement like it has somewhere to be.

These tiny things become stories, not because they are dramatic, but because they are real. They remind me that life is made of moments we often walk past. They remind me that paying attention is a kind of love.

Small stories don’t need conclusions. They don’t need lessons. They don’t need to be anything other than what they are: brief, honest glimpses of the world being itself.

If you’re here, reading this, I hope you find a small story today — something quiet, something fleeting, something that makes you pause for just a moment.

(If you want to explore more, you can ask me about small stories or noticing.)
 

A Small Look at My Sewing Table and How Simple Hand-Sewn Details Can Bring New Life to Old Clothes

A quiet moment at my sewing table turns into a series of small, heartfelt projects — embroidered hens, tiny ladybird, rescued T‑shirts, and even stitched versions of my daughter’s drawings. These simple hand‑sewn details bring new life to old fabric and add a little joy to everyday clothes. 

A small look at my sewing table — where threads, fabric, and quiet ideas come together. Lately I’ve been stepping away from paper and into fabric, letting my hands wander in a different way. Sewing is slower than drawing, less predictable, and sometimes a little stubborn, but it has become a gentle part of my creative routine.

Stitching Hens and Finding Stories in Old T‑Shirts

 

Embroidery detail of two red hens on white fabric, creating a bright handmade patch on a black T‑shirt

 

One afternoon I cut a small piece of white fabric from my daughter’s old T‑shirt. It felt like giving the fabric a second life. With red thread, I embroidered tiny hens — the kind that run around farms with such personality that you can’t help but smile. When the pocket was finished, I stitched it onto my black T‑shirt. Suddenly the hens were running across my clothes, and it made the whole shirt feel alive.

Turning My Drawings Into Thread

 

Close‑up of a hand‑sewn design based on a pencil drawing of a girl, stitched in simple lines onto fabric

 

Another day I tried something more challenging: sewing one of my own drawings. I chose a girl with a playful ta‑da! pose. Translating a sketch into stitches is not as simple as it looks. I’m a self‑learner, and my drawing was full of little details that thread doesn’t always want to follow. But even with the imperfections, I loved the result. It is now on my t-shirt`s small pocket. Sewing is not the same as drawing in my sketchbook — it’s slower, more patient, and it forces me to simplify. Maybe that’s why I enjoy it.

 

Borrowing Inspiration From My Daughter

I also made a stitched version of one of my daughter’s drawings. I added a dog on a walk, and the whole scene became surprisingly eye‑catching. Of course, I had to ask her permission. At first she wasn’t sure — she is very protective of her ideas — but in the end she said, “OK, you used it and it looks fine.” A small victory for creative collaboration at home.

Hand‑sewn scene of a girl walking a dog, created from my daughter’s drawing and stitched onto a T‑shirt

Tiny Ladybird and Hidden Flower

 On another shirt, I stitched a tiny ladybird. It’s small and not very visible, but that’s exactly why I like it. A quiet detail, just for me.

Small embroidered ladybird stitched in red and black thread on a T‑shirt

And then there was my daughter`s the pink T‑shirt with the stubborn food stain. After several washes and a bit of frustration, I decided to hide the mark with a hand‑sewn flower. It’s not perfect, but my daughter loved it — and even grandma approved. That’s when I realised sewing can rescue clothes as much as decorate them.

 

Simple hand‑sewn flower embroidered onto a pink T‑shirt to cover a stain

 

Why I Keep Sewing

These little projects aren’t grand or polished, but they bring a kind of joy that drawing alone doesn’t. Sewing lets me repair, transform, and play. It turns old fabric into tiny stories. It gives me moments of calm, and sometimes a good laugh when things go wrong.

And maybe that’s the magic of it — simple stitches becoming something unexpected.