Woah! Recent posts are great.

Hi Guys!  Wanted to share my recent posts on my new website and encourage you to follow that site.  If you are like me and don’t check your email often, feel free to follow my Facebook page here https://www.facebook.com/yvonnezepedastudio/.

Color of the Year Inspired by Nature

This nature girl is ecstatic about the colors that Pantone, the Color Institute has chosen for this years palette!  The official Spring and Summer color……..see more below.

http://hercrackedhalo.com/color-year-inspired-nature/

Momma was Always dancing

That broom was her best suitor on Sunday mornings.  After Dad would leave to run errands, we could hear her humming to herself all her favorite Conjunto, Norteño and Tejano tunes. Daddy didn’t dance………see more below.

http://hercrackedhalo.com/momma-was-always-dancing/

To the Fuckers who don’t say Happy Mother’s day to their Wives

To all the dipshit fuckers out there who don’t say Happy Mother’s Day to their wives, because they claim that their wife is not their mother. I get it.  She didn’t give birth to you.  She didn’t……….see more below.

http://hercrackedhalo.com/fuckers-dont-say-happy-mothers-day-wives/

Thanks for reading and hope you will follow along on Facebook.  Much love and joy.

Yvonne

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Smiling Pups Contest

Is there ANYONE  who doesn’t love when a dog smiles?  Contest Time! Submit a picture of your “Smiling Pup” to #drawmysmilingpup on Instagram. One lucky winner’s pup will be drawn in pencil, and the owner gets a FREE PRINT of the drawing. Rules: follow me on Instagram @hercrackedhalo, like this post (on Instagram), tag 1 or more friends (on Instagram) and of course don’t forget to upload your adorable smiling pup . The contest runs for 7 days starting now. Best of luck! dog-contest

Today She Owns This Shit

Wrapped in scorched hope, the gifts are entrusted upon a new-born human girl. Everything good and bad about the storekeeper fit nicely in the marred hands of the merchant handing over the box of goodies of her new life. How much of it is accepted into her DNA? How much of who she is, truly is her own authentic identity?

She thanks him for the good. At a very young age, being able to draw and write beyond her years was astonishing to say the least. Her strength in character and loyalty are unwavering. The fact that she can cook better than most cookbook queens is also a huge plus.

She curses him for the bad. Inside the same perfectly wrapped box of strength and loyalty, sits the ugly offering of un-forgiveness and stubborn-ness. Also bestowed upon her is his “premium souvenir” that sits on her nightstand and greets her at 3am most nights with panic attacks and nightmares.  And the last offertory is the sweet “rite of passage” NOT to become an alcoholic.  A trait passed down through the last 3 generations, or as far as we can remember.

So, through the production line of quality controlled products that come out of the experiences in this life, she’s gotten really good at dodging bullets and avoiding obliteration of the physical self. Aware of her flaws, her mind fights against them daily. Her fighting causes her to have more of his “triple threat cocktail” of panic, alcoholism and un-forgiveness. Not Today!

Today, she owns this shit. Opens the box. Fixates on the gifts. Peers through it with that same “scorched hope” given to her in the beginning.  This time with gentler hands.  She Owns It.

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What did “art” ever do to Trump?

I can hear the slam of the blade on the chopping block! What did “art” ever do to Trump! How can anyone dislike art and the many advantages and benefits it has? Its reported that our new President will be cutting out entirely the National Endowment for the Arts (N.E.A) and the National Endowment for the Humanities (N.E.H.).  My day job is working in the Curatorial department at The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston.  The MFAH is funded partly by these two organizations.  I’ve held my position for 10 years and wonder what or where I would go after this?  Its a very scary and real thing, knowing that if the Museum doesn’t have funding, that cuts would need to be made and hundred of us would lose our jobs.  I think about Trump’s dilemma (which I whole-heartedly support) of trying to fix the budget, but it’s just completely absurd to think that the cuts for the arts would do anything to fix the deficit. We are talking about a measly .016 percent of the total U.S. budget that would benefit from the cutting of these organizations.

I’ve occasionally fantasized about being a full-time artist or writer and what would that be like? Would I be able to support myself and pay my bills if I didn’t have a full-time job? And if at all, I would have access to affordable insurance to continue to get my much needed monthly medications?  I think about all the programs that receive funding for afterschool programs in the arts, music, theatre, etc. for our school age children and how those will also be cut.  I think about every museum and cultural center, small and large that will go away. Then I have nightmares about our children learning only academics, science, engineering, logistics and POLITICS; like little stressed-out robots. And I wonder if not being able to nurture their creative side, as we’ve always been able to do…… will that change them as humans?  Would it make them less compassionate and empathetic?  The answers to these questions may come too late.

Inspire Others?

Pre-2016 being an inspiration to others was an honorable and celebrated trait to have.  Creative entrepreneurs have always had free reign to draw, paint, make music and write stories to share ideas and opinions and give the audience “meat” to ponder on……good or bad, to your liking or not.  Because of how terrible 2016 was in our world, in so many ways (I won’t go into detail) people used their musical, literary and visual voices to express themselves in sometimes the worst ways……inspiring and giving permission for the audience to “then” turn around and express “themselves” and keep the movement of hate running in full force.  I know, I can hear some of you screaming at me “FREEDOM OF SPEECH!” and I’ll admit that a few times I created a piece that sneered hateful rhetoric and then immediately turned around and ripped it up.  I didn’t wanna be a part of that.  And here we are? 2017.  Lets see how we can inspire others this year.  Lets try and be a part of the solution and not the problem.  Soooooo…..I have something sweet to share with you guys.  Here is one of my coloring pages I created. And it was colored-in by 3 different people.  I love how each of them were INSPIRED in their own way.  Blessings all year long.

What’s New In My World.

Hi All.  Happy Holidays. I hope you are enjoying the weather and not trying to kill people as you shop for Holiday gifts ;). I’m doing most of my shopping online!  Anyway, I wanted to invite you all to visit my new store with Shopify.  Its called “Her Cracked Halo”.  It’s fairly new and a little empty, but soon it will be filled with lots of goodies.  On the horizon are my own poetry and short story books, my own designed coloring books, fashionable clothing and accessories with my designs, etc.  Feel free to check it out and share.  https://her-cracked-halo.myshopify.com/ .  Also, along with the shop, I’ve opened up a Facebook group, also called Her Cracked Halo.  Feel free to join and share the group. I will be on Facebook LIVE next Thursday with a FREE Christmas gift giveaway. https://www.facebook.com/groups/209758842767538/   Much love and many blessings to you all.

hch-cracked-printful

For my Witchy Friends.

Happy Halloween y Felix Día de los Muertos! So….I was a strange child.  I dealt with bizarre happenings that were more on the para-normal side.  I worried my parents sick with the things I would tell them I saw and what I felt.  So much that they had me run through a battery of sleep studies and test to make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating or just plain crazy.  The doctor told them that I was suffering from night terrors, but he couldn’t quite tell them why I was having occurrences during the day.  Chalked it up to having a vivid imagination. As a child it can be frightening, until you realize there is nothing to fear.  Here’s a true story of one of my experiences I wrote back in 2003.  I found the printed copy of it in my trunk and it’s pretty damaged.  Sorry about that.  Enjoy.

Spirit Guide

1973 in my wooden twin bed, I’d drift off to sleep. The kind of sleep, that reaches in real deep.  Down, down, down I’d go.  Drowning out alcohol-reeked hollering heard from the first floor below.  In the depth of my slumber, my sleepy soul would awaken.  Eyes wide open and full of wonder.  My spirit gradually lifts away from my body.  Looking down over my cocoon, I’d hover above playfully.

No need to use the door. I’d float right through the roof.  And, sometimes I’d soar through the window or down the second floor staircase.  Most times, punching through wooden walls of the old house my family and I lived in.

That night, I’d attempt to fly past one more street block, than I’d done the night before. But, remember our promise to meet.  I swooped around in lightning speed, racing to the voice of the spirit guide calling me.  No matter the route I chose each night, I’d always arrive at the same spot beside you.  In my backyard we’d meet, on a round concrete picnic table with matching concrete seats.  Another visit the reason unknown to me?

Mostly, we’d sit in silence barely moving – feeling the breeze blow through us like leaves, taking with it each unsure feeling, of the havoc of my waken life. I’d watch as you sit so quiet and sullen, amazed how you comforted me with your silence.  We’d look up to the sky and watch the tree branches swaying back and forth, and we’d smile at the simplest things…..a bird flying by or the rustle of the trees.  I remember you speaking from time to time, but I don’t remember the words.

As I looked down at my worn, hand-me-down pajamas, which were a size too small and missing a button, fourth one down, I noticed your clothes were so different than mine. You wore a plain, white, long, ankle-skirt wrapped by a white apron with occasional stains on it.  Your beige colored blouse with faded flowers was button-down with a scalloped collar.  You wore a bonnet, with pencil twisted white locks peeking out from underneath.

As you’d cradle my small hand in yours, I’d see all the wrinkles and feel how your hands shake. And, as you smile, your thin, small lips stay pressed tightly in between a very long nose and pointy chin.  I wondered if you had grandkids of your own.  I’d ask, “How old are you anyway?  90 or 100?”  I tell you my birthday is next week – “I’ll be seven.  I won’t have a party, but you can come anyway.”

When it was time to go you’d simply nod your head. Hesitantly, I’d traipse quickly forward, until up in the air I’d float.  Back to my room, into my body, asleep for the rest of the night.

I still don’t know who you were or why I felt no fear. I never questioned or asked why you were here.  I simply awaited each night, for a visit from my spirit guide who comforted my 6 year-old self.

Happy Halloween y Feliz Día de los Muertos.

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“For My Daughters”

How I want to protect you.  How I see the storm approaching and have to make split and painful decisions, whether or not to hold back the river for you allowing you to float through on the life jacket of joy and child-like innocence and peace.  Or let you slam right into it viciously, drowning in disbelief and shock.  And as you struggle and eventually float to the top of the other side of the river, I will be standing there waiting for you.  You both ask, “Mom, how are you so strong?”. Through my weathered eyes, wrinkles at the corners, I gleam at them and say “My Mother was on the other side of the river”. I love you.

“Rivers are Meant to be Shared”. Sequel to “Back to the River”.

She laughs every time she sees them. Fishermen who try to come too close to her spot on the river. Trying to throw her a line. “Look at him” she says to herself. “He doesn’t even have the right equipment. This is a rough, stony and choppy river. That line and bait is not made for this type of water”. They ask if she needs help…… “A pole, some line, some bait, some tips. It won’t cost her anything they say, just some conversation”. Over and over they try and she snaps back “do you see a tackle box with fishing supplies next to me!? I’m not fishing today.” Eventually, they stumble back to where they came from, tripping and slipping over giant rocks and left with broken fishing supplies. Then there are the guys trying to get to this side of the river with a boat.  No kidding! Ohhhh, these are the best.  She says “No, I don’t wanna know how big your boat is. And no, I don’t care how much it cost. And no, I don’t wanna go for a ride. What they don’t realize is that she’s already made her “river bed” and lay-ing in it….ALONE. No she’s not fishing. She, the stones, the river…..they’re all just fine. She’s only needs this little carved out spot that she’s been comfortable in, for a while.  One day…..the strange one comes along. He’s large and bald.  He’s barefoot, without a T-shirt and just wearing shorts. And he’s jumping from rock to rock in the middle of the river. Looks like he’s having fun. She’s curious, but really just wants to tell him to go find his own damn river. He jumps so carefully not to trip and fall and he seems to be coming closer to her.  She doesn’t see any fishing gear?  And she doesn’t see a boat or party of any kind?  Where did he come from and what does he want? She notices that there’s something hanging from his chest. As he gets closer, she notices that he has a brown and silver rosary hanging from his neck.  Stunned, she looks down at her own chest at her own “rosewood rosary” that hangs from her neck.  Finally after fighting the rough river and slippery rocks, he lands right in front of her.  He stares her down with hazel-green eyes and doesn’t say a word.  She’s nervous and doesn’t speak to him. He plops himself right next to her on the river bank. Just sitting silently, they watch the river.  Her gut tells her that she’s safe. Something very kind about him.  She says to herself……”I guess he can stay”.

**** To properly understand this story, you should read the first of this sequel.  Go to the Archive for January, 2015 to read “Stones Belong in the River” and then after that go to Archive for April, 2015, to read “Back to the River”.

Keeper of Nightmares

Her eyes jolt open between moonlight and sun-up. More nightmares. Her head still in the same spot on his shoulder where she drifted off to sleep several hours earlier. Her left hand in the middle of his chest peeking out from under his large warm hand. She takes a deep breath. With the first flush of morning light coming through the window, he is staring at her with soft brown/green eyes. He says, “your hand always twitches like crazy when you’re having nightmares. Sometimes I feel like waking you, but I don’t wanna startle you more”. He kisses the inside of her hand and she drifts back to sleep.