“I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.”– Claude Monet
I will never be a painter in the vein of Monet. I played with painting at certain junctures in my life discovering an inner child who marveled at the self expression available when I took a paintbrush in my hand and tried to render art. I am grateful for the pursuit. I will always remember the day I stood in a light filled room and put paint to canvas and giggled in the act. I was in my thirties. It was a memorable moment. The painting was so-so, but it was clear the child who came out that day wanted more of it.
I bought oil paints recently in hopes of recapturing that little girl again but I am more critical now than I was then so I am not sure I should dare. I do not move so quickly to this form of expression although I will never give up on it. For now I just stare at the paint and think some day. Gardening is another matter. It is a canvas too. A little bigger perhaps, but to me the imperfections don’t seem to stand out in quite the same way. The edges are not as distinct and the palette is constantly changing. I gladly go at it and the little girl comes to help too. She is good for me.
Nature is more forgiving than humans and unlike an oil painting is reinventing itself each minute. It would be good for us to pay heed to this fact and to consider that we are better creatures because of it. The garden reinventing itself is a reminder that we are forever being reborn.