Yesterday, as I was backing out of the driveway, this clematis bloom caught my eye. The mother plant resides at the northwest corner of our backyard. Every passing dog pisses upon it and yet every May it blooms profusely without fail. Well, um, it's not May right now and by all appearances the mother plant is dormant ... except for this bloom and the tendril that spawned it.
I hadn't sketched anything in my sketchbook journal in almost six weeks. Sure, I've written in it. A lot. And I've adhered to and embedded in it the precious bits and symbolic pieces that make up the current puzzle of my life. But a sketchbook journal needs sketches, so I decided to What I am learning, every time that I put pen and brush to paper, is that what I try to capture will show me how to capture it ... and through that how will be revealed the why. The same can be said for photography, I suppose, but that's a much faster and more superficial flirtation. When I sketch something, I have to be willing to sit with it, study it and invest the time it takes to get to know it first, before it allows me to really see it and its essence. Once revealed, there is always a message for me there.
Today is my Chelsea-versary. Six years since her passing. For 18 years, she was my friend and familiar. I still wake up at night with space for her above my head. It gives me some comfort to know that Fred is with her now and yet their absence gives me paws, um, I mean pause.
For November, its gravitation pull inward, its anniversaries and essences ... I am so deeply grateful.
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