The Artist In His Garden

I’m at my sewing machine and see movement out my studio window.  Jon’s car circles around the birch, then disappears behind the lilac bush.

It’s after 12 noon and I’m hungry.  Now that’s Jon’s home I’ll make us lunch.  I boiled the last four eggs from the hens this morning, so all I have to do is chop some celery, cut up a scallion from the garden, and add a little Vegenaise to make egg salad.

I call Jon first to make sure he didn’t leave again. “I’m outside he says, I’ll be there in a minute.”

I know what that means.

He either bought a new plant for his garden and is going to plant it and/or he’s taking pictures of his flowers.

It means it will be more than a minute before he comes in.

I continue sewing.  A moment later I see Jon out my window. He’s taking pictures, pulling weeds, deadheading flowers.

It’s a passion, his photography and now his flowers.  Like writing, it has become what he does.

We give each other the space we need to be creative. Not that we don’t ever interrupt each other when we are working, but that we understand that some things can’t wait.  Like the sun lighting up a Begonia, listening to what a piece of art wants next, or a thought being typed.

Seeing Jon in his garden has become one of my joys because it brings him so much joy.

Yesterday Jon wrote on his blog about how the flowers are teaching him about himself. I’m not surprised, that’s what art, in any form, can do if we listen to it.