"Marsh Pines", watercolor, 2008
Dark clouds slink by today - we are
waiting for rain. Its been over three weeks since we
have had a soaking storm. Last summer,
we had two months straight of pouring,
soaking, monsoons. It was miserable. This summer,
the land is parched, and I am watering more than
I ever have before. With heavy clay soil,
I almost never water, or rather, until this year.
The other night, the mosses sang themselves
green in celebration of a thunderstorm,
but today, they are back to brown,
and I am wandering about on my
mid-day garden stroll, hose in hand,
making sure that nothing dies while
waiting for the rain that is
suppose to come.
brown mosses waiting for rain
The resiliency of the plants is truly something.
The mosses look dead, but one rain
and they are vibrant and reaching and
as lush as a jungle canopy. Though the lack of
rain is hard on the plants, I can handle this
better than the monsoons of last
summer - as long as my well keeps flowing
and the farms keep harvesting....
Still working my way through a list of art-business
tasks, I feel myself a stranger to the studio,
and have written ORGANIZE STUDIO on my
calendar for tomorrow. Having cleared
years of paintings and portfolios from
my parents' basement in preparation
for their move, I have piles of old
work to sort and store. Getting back
into the studio, even to organize is a
way to re-connect and feel my work again.
"Cloud Shadow", watercolor, 2008
I know myself as a cyclical creator,
and with all the varied things I do,
I MUST be ok with this. Right now,
I am clearing the fields,
planting the seeds,
organizing the tools,
gathering my tribe.
And until I begin again - fully - in the studio,
I grow purple petunias that burst in abundance
from the window boxes, and find the perfect,
yellow-green pot for peach-colored blooms.
I eat my meals at one of the garden tables,
and look through the camera lens at the
structures, colors and patterns of
flowers, gathering information
for my fall classes, and understanding the
work of Georgia O'Keefe more and more.
Inside a petunia, a cathedral with stained glass,
and the uncurling Queen Anne's Lace reveals
its fractal form.
What was a bed of purple lupine gives way to a
tangle of fleabane, bee balm and black-eyed susan.
Year after year I intend to do something more
orderly with this garden bed. Though it never
seems to get done. And today, while wondering
if that rain will ever come, I am in loving appreciation
of the native plants that put up with just about
anything and fill in the holes with their
Its their refusal to be orderly that I love, I realize,
and that I can depend on them, even
in a drought. Wild and made for this