Thursday, December 28, 2017
No matter what light you are in, or not, hang on.
But it is more than that. I feel like I'm about to start my best work, my most important work. I think my painting, writing and photography have evolved so much in the past years. I am always most satisfied with the current work, but still, I think some of my best work has come out in the past two years.
I have some news to share but am waiting a few days to share it. I'm very excited about it, a new project that is juicy, emotive and just what I need to start the new year. I'm horrible at keeping in exciting news, so it will be days, maybe hours, before I say it online.
Back many years ago, when I was single, and had a broken heart, I hung to many little teachings of Nature. I looked to Nature for almost everything really, and I still find it my greatest teacher, companion and partner in the dance of the higher ground. Back then, when I was living in my homeland of Minnesota, I'd watch the winter snows get deeper and deeper, amused as the chipmunks dug and dug to find their middens or dig up nuts. I'd think of all the roots resting under those banks of snow. It was so symbolic of my yearning for new things-we can't see what is percolating under the ground, the little seeds that fell from Autumn tired flowers rest under the dirt and snow. And in Spring, they appear. You don't know exactly where they will pop up, or when, but they always do. The hope of life is we don't know what is percolating, and might present itself any moment, or any day. So hang on, no matter what light you are in, or not, hang on.
The gardens are a place of hope, and a teaching of the cycle of life. There is exuberance and renewal in the spring crocus or tulip first seen after the long winter, and summer is like the teenager who never thinks she'll grow old. Autumn brings us wisdom knowing what is ahead and some melancholy, but also great beauty in the drying leaves like the wrinkled skin of our elders. And winter...it lets us rest but also plan. For some, winter is the end of the road. The frail tree or creature might not live to see spring. But for me winter is restorative, creatively, and as a spirit.
My mother and father loved to garden, and they loved tulips. I planted a round mass of red tulips in the front yard last fall. I thought of them. I can see the mound from my office window-if you look closely to the right of the tree where the light is shining, you can see it too. I look out at it almost every day, not because I'm tired of winter, but just as a nod to Nature, to the higher power in me, to say,
"I know you are in there, and in spring you will be beautiful."