Pink, white, yellow. And green. Always green.
If I could paint a picture of the queen anne’s lace, its delicate flowers. White orbs in the tall grass. The hillside and the way things bend over after the rain. If I could paint the quiet, but the bird song. The ever present bird song.
Pink thistle and the goldfinch that perches there. The budding of goldenrod. Multiplied. The start of yellow. Or yellow iron weed. Or mullein flowers. Black eyed susans. The green to yellow to orange to ripe of a tomato. The way the vines twist. Everything in nature likes to make art.
The bunny at the bottom of the hill, as June waits near me, as I look through my lens and see the stilled animal waiting just by the hedge, over the hedge. The tall things growing nearby and coloring the hillside. The distant view of the hillside. Always the hillside, and our own parted path through it.
It’s taken three years, but on the third year, everything comes to life. The peace of a place that is alive. Humming with energy as if it would register on a scale. The speckled eggs in the straw. The cluck of chickens. Shades of green. Always the shades of green.
I’ve been filming on my hi-8 the past three years. Gosh I dread going through all the footage and the many hours on there. But I know it will tell a story. Of how I used to dream, and now when I step outside, I can’t think of the future, because there is something here that’s present, that I don’t want to miss. Day dreaming, at last.
I am not certain about much. But this, this I am certain. We are doing something here. Something worthwhile. A sit down and listen. Witnessing the things that shift around us, as if an echo or in reply. Slowly, too. You could almost miss it.
The things that speak only when you’re quiet. Like the bird song. Or the cluck of a chicken. The buzz of a bee. Or something even quieter. The way that nature starts to come closer, a knock on your door, a gift left on your doorstep. As you slowly reawaken and let yourself again become nature too.
I am alone in the garden, but you can never be alone in the garden.
No accompanied images today. Most sit still in an undeveloped roll in the fridge. Or on my hi-8 cassettes on the shelf under the TV. Today, the image is the one that appears most strongly to you in your mind. Images and words. And words that make images. Let yourself run off with them.