A weed seed.
Transplanted to the BC Peace Country,
from another continent, from urban to rural.
Now, rooted deeply these past 30 years and some
in this plot of land that I vow to steward gently
so near the fertile waters of Charlie Lake
Seated in my living room, hands envelope a mug of steaming garden tea
eyes roam, searching through three panes of Argon filled glass
in all four directions,
for the evidence of a creature, weather, or
perhaps the tale of an newly unfurling leaf, a bloom
listening for the footfall of a friend, a much beloved neighbour perhaps
Or I procrastinate, never quite able to envision the finished piece
a brewing creation, a refashioning, a way of seeing,
wanting to birth, but not quite
undisciplined, lacking courage
it is always a journey with an ephemeral destination, fluid
recently becoming enamoured by the Artistry of painting with wool in all dimensions
or squeezing a signature from botanicals, prints that will long, outlive their floral Northern Season debut.
Each Media so sensual
Now striving to meld the two into Artistic Wooly Botanicals, somehow, someway, sometime.
the crunch of gravel marking the arrival of local Artists, mentors, who colour my Studio
with congenial chatter, grave debate, gentle critiquing, encouragement, raucous laughter
all of us enveloped in a concentrated act of creating, expressing
alone but together: Flying Colours Artists Association
Stepping out my door.
Breathing the nuanced flavour of each moment.
a reassuring rhythm of routines, so comforting.
Outside my door is distraction and attraction
I: a temporary interloper, stepping into an unruly garden,
Into a Boreal Forest trail, a meadow and the stream bed
I guard them, to honour native spirits
I stand still, forgetting to breath
inhaling deeply, the forested air,
air too often reeking of exhaust, tainted smoke, carelessness
I stand still
to listen, to peer, to ponder, to rest.
Here, I live. Here, I consider. Here, I create, recreate.
Revised March 2021