A moth fell on my drawing table and sent me off drawing insects, like last year’s seedpods, once clenched, had set me off to paint their release.
My children grew. I got divorced. Suddenly adrift, I set off to paint the diaphanous jelly, pulsing with the tides, in seas of cerulean blue comfort.
Then I fell into wonderment of the backbone, marveling at its ability to protect, flex and hold. Finding my own, I drew my way back to the firm footing of grace and dignity, vertebrae by vertebrae.
I slept in my gazebo, and awoke to a saucy little wren, and once again, I was off.
Walking beneath the flickering light of the massive maple, I am yellowed.
Branches, sinuous yet stately I feel their hold on the sky. I paint them.
I stroke the smoothness of bone white paper. A lover to graphite’s metallic slide, oil stick’s lipstick smear, the soft caress of a bamboo brush, while thick charcoal skitters, and stops. Strong. Sure.
A line of poetry will nag, a scream unstraps, a prayer will surge. I paint them all.
See-do. Sit-listen. Move-mark. In reverence for all that is powerful, beautiful, and poignant in our fragile, gorgeous, substantial world of nature, I become vessel.
As the cadmium pale green leaf unfurls through its husk, I unfold. With deep humility, immersed in the act of creating, lost to time and space, I am found.
I am nature.