Returning to Myself

I douse myself with bug spray and step out into the humid July air. Cicadas whir from somewhere in the trees and a hummingbird hovers at the feeder. The haze of smoke and humidity isn’t as bad as it was yesterday and even the mosquitoes seem less persistent.

This week I harvested and roasted my first eggplants and Matthias made his first batch of pesto. I finished two watercolor paintings of clematis (a plant that was here when we moved in and is glorious this year) and have been amassing a list of all the flowers I want to paint these coming months.

Hello, my friend, it’s good to be back in this space.

Taking a break from blogging was just part of my step back from the internet, unplugging so that I could fully inhabit my offline life again. The pull I felt last winter to join Lori for The Analog Life Project was a sign of how badly I needed to live and work away from screens, but it took me a while to realize how much of a break I needed. Getting offline and stepping back out into the world means that I’ve been fully experiencing the fleeting magic of everyday moments. Being present within them. Enjoying them in ways I haven’t for much too long.

Yesterday I wrote a draft of this post while sitting on my secret bench enveloped by an elderberry bush.

As I put pen to paper, chickadees called to one another in the branches above. I imagined they were talking to me, too.

This spring and early summer have been transformative. Somewhere along the line I strayed away from who I am and who I want to be. This time away has allowed me to return. It feels amazing. I’ve experienced so many insights and such a mix of emotions, much of which ended up within the many pages of my journals. I couldn’t begin to explain it all and I’ve realized that there’s no need.

My time away has allowed me to plant seeds for so many ideas and projects. All of them will take time to develop and grow. Like seeds tucked into the soil of my garden, creative projects don’t bloom overnight. Following nature’s lead and letting go of the impulse to rush is incredibly freeing.

The beginnings of my new gardens is the biggest project I’ve been tackling these past few months. It’s been my lifelong dream to create a homestead in the countryside surrounded by nature, and in some ways I still can’t believe it’s finally happening.

It’s been exciting and exhausting. Beautiful and frustrating. Joyful and thought-provoking.

The strangest thing happened once my garden was set up and planted. I thought I’d done everything right, but as time went by my plants were struggling. It had been a challenging spring. Rain. Cold. Then the beginnings of a drought followed by more rain. I started and bought seedlings long before the garden beds were finished and I knew some of the plants had spent too long under grow lights and in little pots. At first I imagined this explained the struggle. But as more time went by, I realized something else had to be going on. My plants surely should have adjusted.

So I tested the soil. And discovered my garden was starving. How soil described as being 30% compost could have almost no nitrogen and be low in phosphorus and potassium, too, is beyond me. But once I began to add amendments, things turned around.

I can’t help but see a parallel with my creative life. Instead of giving up in failure, I asked questions and made changes based on what I discovered. My garden and I both needed nourishment. Now, after some nurturing, we’re both beginning to flourish.

I have more to tell you — here on my blog, in my JoyLetters, in my classes and within the bounds of some other exciting projects, too — and I will, but I’m taking my time. To keep living in the offline world. To keep asking questions and figuring things out with my own two hands. To continue nourishing and nurturing. I’m committed to my choice not to rush. Creative seeds need time to grow on their own schedule.

These past few months I’ve also recommitted to my intention to instigate creativity and joy. For me and for you. The world needs our creativity and our joy. Now more than ever.

I’ll leave you with this thought before I go: if you sense that something isn’t right. In your life. In your garden. In your art. Take some time to figure out why. And then begin making changes to nurture growth. Even the littlest changes can make a big impact. It might not be as daunting as you imagine.

Until next time, I’m wishing you so much joy.