Waiting For Rain....

"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 

wild abundance. 

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 

particular place.