Bulbs and Bouquets

I woke up early on the grayest morning in November to dig 65 evenly-spaced holes – wintertime accommodations for the future bouquets of spring.

I cradled a satchel of assorted bulbs and, one by one, plopped each misshapen sphere into its designated space, covering the area with a cozy blanket of fallen leaves.

Blankets of snow would follow, and days would turn to weeks. I grew accustomed to the monochromatic backdrop of winter and could barely fathom the notion of a flower or blue skies and green, grassy hills,
but the snow switched to rain, and then sun, and green stems peeked through the soil after all.

The most ornate daffodil in my April garden was once a misshapen sphere that I cradled in my hands on a November morning. 

The most technically proficient painters once picked up a paintbrush for the very first time.

My heart belongs with the bulbs of spring because I find so many analogies to the creative process in each plant’s trajectory from seed
to flower
to meadow
to the bouquet left on a neighbor’s doorstep.

It’s a funny thing. It's not until that moment of holding a bouquet or gazing upon a recently finished painting that we are granted the gift of hindsight and can begin to see and understand the purpose of each step of our journey in relation to the finished product.

But what about when we must inhabit those “in-between moments” and endure the gaps of time that exist before we know what will come from our work? That period of time before we've gained trust in the process or even trust in ourselves?

I am in an “in-between moment” of my own creative process as I try to
e x p a n d
and learn and make mistakes
after years of painting in a way that made me cozy and comfortable.

I garden to remember that through the winds, the snows, and the coldest of winter days,
our creative pursuits will bloom, even if much work must initially begin beneath the surface.

Until next time, 

Stacey