Seeing Spring.
Green is indeed very green in nature.
Isn’t it strange that, sometimes, we only see how bad we’ve been feeling when we arrive at the same season a year forward? It amazes me that a year ago, I was thinking I’m doing fine, but when looking back now, I know I didn’t.
I barely noticed last years spring, even though I was sowing seeds like crazy.
I was sowing seeds like my life depended on them, over-committed, only to hold onto a feeling of … control, maybe? Of being able to witness, in my home, that everything is fine: seeds are sprouting, plants growing. As I immersed in flower seeds – way too many to grow on my balcony by the way – I also immersed in work, though not the creative kind of work that should build the ground layer of a creative business, not in a creative practice either. But rather in admin-like tasks, so much that when I stopped, I realised that I was feeling and acting like the assistant of a creative business owner, but not like an artist or writer. I was managing an artist and writer. One that didn’t create.
This time last year, I didn’t see spring. I made myself believe I did, tightly hold onto the assumption that when I just force myself into seeing the seasons, I can see them. Turns out you don’t, and I didn’t.
It was an exhausting time, last spring, last summer, last year. Watching your boss being tough AF through cancer treatment and then still watching her shrink, leave and die last April was a lot. Seedlings hold me, assistant-admin-tasks hold me, but not enough to see the season.
This year, this spring, I can’t believe how green, green is. I could touch every flower, tell her how grateful I am for her appearance. Even though my balcony got a solid spring clean, I don’t have windowsills bursting from seedlings this year. I was late with potting my dahlias and I should have sowed a bunch of zinnias and several natives I’d like to add by now, but I’m not in a hurry this year. I don’t need seeds to hold me. This season, the nature outside has me back.
After choosing to finally withstand blank canvas anxiety, I’m creative again and bought a brand-new set of soft pastels to celebrate. They challenge me, but in an enjoyable way. I’m in the realm of loose practice sketches right now, rather than making art, but that’s alright. You can’t make art without bad practice pieces. Yet, I paint. I’m the artist again, not an assistant. The writer is still lurking elsewhere most of the time, but I leave room for her. She’s coming back when she’s ready (like now).
I see spring this year and I’m happy to welcome her. It’s been such a long time since I took notice. The forest gets greener every day, the first swallows have returned this week, flowers bloom, we’ve got sunshine and puffy clouds. Birds chirp, busy building nests. I can’t wait for this year to unfold, taking it all in. And I will paint it all, with pencil, soft pastels or oils in my hands.
I see spring, with all it has to offer.
