death in the garden

the garden at home has just lost one of its tallest and brightest residents - a pandanus amaryllifolius. this beauty is thought to have its origins in the Polynesian islands but is seen all through tropical coastlines, mostly in swampy mangrove ecosystems but also in sandy, riverine inland woods. i loved having this plant in my garden. its 'junglee' look was evocative of  the wild untamed that contrasts with my all-too blah routine. this is not a plant i'd recommend to a gardener who needs to compulsively prune or shape things, who likes to control and confine her wards. the aerial roots spread generously to support  and prop up the plant. the plant's trunk itself starts a few feet above the ground and branches wildly. the walking stick palm (or screwpine palm) is known to reach over 70 feet in height. the thalamboo formation of its leaves is strikingly architectural and tropical.

any hand wringing and grief at the death of a much cherished plant may possibly raise a few eyebrows among the non-gardening community. as a not-so-secret non-foodie it came as a revelation to me that just as food is much more than nourishment for the body, so too are plants much more than aesthetic lovelies in the garden. both stir memories of comfort, good times and happy associations. my pandanus was once a towering presence in the garden, gently reminding the assorted children who played here about the consequences of careless ball tossing, serving regularly as a sanctuary to many a nimble cat chased by the mad canine squad at home, and reminding me of childhood games around it's ancestors in my uncle's sprawling garden in thoothukudi. just as one (apparently) eats with one's eyes, so too has the beautiful form of this plant moved me to sketch and paint many a portrait showing its lovely sprawl and untamable roots. and most of all, just as food does, the pandanus was a reminder that there is no pure local- no us and them, if i may. 

RIP pandanus plant - you've gone and left a gap in my world- literally.

Fabulous February

summer's here - and i'm not  for that. i am never ready for six months of dry searing heat, interminable dust, phantom water supply, a tired looking garden and for toiling under a relentless Death star. plants like ixora, oleander, bamboo, alamanda, that don't mind a bit of sun, all do very well and seem to actually enjoy the scorching, masochistic 50 shades of light and heat. other anti-sun heliophobic creatures (including myself) like ferns, heliconia, philadendrons, crinums - we just pout and suffer till the mothership does its thing around the great ball of fire and restores our favorite seasons - monsoon and winter. the past few months of cooler temps after a wee bit of rain was lovely for the garden (and this gardener's disposition). the relatively mild sunshine, generous watering, cool nights and gentle breezy days kept the garden somewhat green and "normal". (in my mind i must garden somewhere where the daffodils flutter and dance in the breeze) yet all things must pass and now its February.

it's the eve of summer - i tell myself that there's watermelon, soon to come mango and lots of al fresco dining outdoors (along with what appears to be every mosquito on the planet) baggy shorts, cold juice and an impressive arsenal of cuss words will be my accessories for enduring the desert- like arid, conditions at home. the garden will have to suffer in silence however - show its resilience and patience with the unkind seasons in the sun. for now however, in the very last days of pre-summer, the garden is a beautiful mix of colours - plenty of falling leaves, new buds, fruit and a variety of flowers.

heliconia

eranthymum

 hibiscus

portulaca

join the dots

Who doesn’t remember or know of a master craftsman - not le Faberge of the egg- making variety- but masters of less esoteric craft ? I refer to those such as an electrician who does a perfect job every time,  a spelling-bee contestant, an aunt whose rasam is akin to ambrosia, a neighbour who speaks fluent mandarin, a gran who could crochet a bridal sheet without referring to a pattern book, a friend who could parallel park in the most impossible of slots. These are examples of expertise and micromastery  that are within reach for most of us but do we give them the importance they deserve?

Conventionally, “success in life” is defined by money, status and by others’ estimation of us. We are coaxed into doing the same task (school curriculum, work profile) over and over again- which may neither make us successful nor happy. This sort of success tends to glaringly elude (spare?) most of humanity which often leads to negative feelings about ourselves and our mundane lives. To me that’s putting all your self-worth eggs in one risky basket.

But a ‘life of success’ is truly possible for nearly all.  When we nurture small and specific pockets of skill and knowledge (that may or may not feed our core  interests) we develop a system of acquiring expertise and of feeling accomplished.  we could choose any skill that interests us, stirs our curiosity- be it knotting a tie – making delicious pickle – writing haiku – doing a motorcycle wheelie – identifying constellations – solving math theorems – or the Sunday crossword – doing card tricks- reading Heidegger- growing  corn – repairing old watches – learning the foxtrot – baking bread - mixing a cocktail - so long as we experience the joy of learning, of improving and hopefully of mastery. Psychologist Csikszentmihalyi talks of being in the flow – where we are so engrossed in what we are doing that we do not notice the passage of time. If these acts of micromastery can get us into our flow – we can change our otherwise monotonous existence into live

Each pocket of excellence may (or may not) influence your next.  (Steve Jobs’ love of calligraphy, for instance, is said to have influenced his development of beautiful typography in the Mac). But the way we come to viewing the process of learning a skill, craft – will be essentially the same. We become fearless learners and our curiosity of new things is awakened. It is simply important to start- to learn- to find ways and means to improve- and to master a skill. When we join our own dots of micromastery,  a beautiful life of many accomplishments and successes will emerge.

So kill the TV and start your journey to being a master. 

Gardeners know all the dirt

One of the many things that is differentiates the practise of landscape architecture  from that of architecture is  the near impossibility of seeing planned result.  While architects frequently do see their designs  built and completed – landscape architects  seldom enjoy that perk.  Design involving plants, wood, rock  must always involve the  process of change, growth and aging, that buildings seldom do.  Weathering of brick and wood, growth of moss on stone, peeling-off of bark, change of foliage colour , fragrance from flowers and leaves, dappled shade from creepers on trellis beams, the chirp of birds drawn to berries on a tree  are all part of the landscape architect’s vision for the garden- but not part of the professional “yes-we’re-done- now” end. In professional landscape projects, the planting team typically works towards a “mature” look for the garden since most  clients insist on it  (and it looks good in our portfolio). Large shrubs, semi-grown tress, carpets of turf, planters filled with perennials  are all ingredients in the creation of an “instant-garden” (just add water).

But what a contrast this is to the making of my own home-garden .  Creating a garden  is truly a journey – a slow series of trials, errors, experiments.   This beautiful process will not be rushed, promises nothing, insists on patience and, as any gardener would vouch, is seldom finished.  Whether you are a grower of a single tomato plant on a balcony – or if you are lucky to have a larger garden with a tree or two, the act of gardening makes  you aware of the larger natural processes – water, weather, wind, wildlife(even if it’s only an occasional butterfly). The mere feel of a handful of crumbly, fragrant earth is such a visceral connect to the wild, untamed Gaia.

 Nurturing a garden has, for me, yielded a cornucopia of life’s lessons itself in a way no book or prophet could have.   Gardening (as life itself) is to be done gently, with patience. It  reminds us, constantly, that one is never in control, that pruning (be it of twigs and roots- or of people, ideas, habits) is beneficial to growth.  I  read somewhere that one must flourish where one is planted – I have found that to be  both literally and metaphorically untrue. Whether in a garden or in life sometimes transplantation (or change) is required to fare better.  Both teach us that change is essential and is all around us.

I write this as I enjoy the shade of the spathodea trees I planted two decades ago.  At various times they have served as goal posts for the kids’ games, partnered their forays into tree climbing and  arboreal  adventures,  now generously give us shade for our many “picnics”,   rustle softly at night beckoning  us outdoors for some enchanting  stargazing .    So many metaphors of my own life are reflected in this small patch of garden - slender saplings in a new home, first sprout a few leafy   branches, have many more snapped by wind and rain, grow back taller and stronger to produce  the most beautiful tulip-like flowers. Twenty years after - a beautiful canopy that is host to a myriad birds, squirrels, insects.  Now, when I watch their most recent visitors – a couple of crow-chicks, with their watchful mother nearby, tentatively venture out of their nests – and explore the beautiful (and beastly) world around them – my heart with pleasure fills...

it's a sucus out there

Most brown-thumbed gardeners would love to manage

Plants that seldom wilt,  rot or do the garden any damage

Sansevieria, sedum, aeonium and cacti

They are easy to grow - yes- that’s a known fact-i

Peperomia, echeveria, kalanchoe and string of pearl

Whatever more beauties would you wish to gift  a girl?

Boys will be delighted with the colubrine donkey’s tail

Or  the  useful astral aloe that grows without fail

The dazzlingly neon flowers of portulaca

These xerophytes conserve water through their limited stomata

Plant these hardy, sculptural sucus

Add some glorious summer sun, and watch the ruckus

Succulents are beautiful, bizarre and striking

Plant  a few - plant many, they’re bound to be to your liking

They hardly need much water and will grow anywhere-a

Plus your scrabble goes up  with words like  schlumbergera...

knock on wood

I was awakened rather rudely today at dawn
Though not by the neighbour’s babel-like horn
It wasn’t (for once) the grumpy gent who in his car would wait
Honking loudly for divinity to open his house gate

My eyes were wide open- I’d lost my soporific calm
I cursed long and loud this fiend in human form
Pressure rising, i strode out of the door
The noise seemed to come from near the lawn we never mow

Was it folks revving their engines for no mechanical reason?
(which I chalk to insanity due to heat of the season)
Or the clanking of pots on the kitchen counter and sink?
(that merely echoes my own custom of cooking-in-a–blink)

No- ‘t was but a tap tap on wood which was deafening me nearly
what blasted calamity had the day brought on so early?!
But away went the irritations of a confirmed misanthrope-r
When i discovered that the noise was a of headbanging woodpecker.

the end:)

you can check out anytime you like

Its been a while since our home became an empty nest, with both kids away at college. The new endless silence in the house, brought about a conspicuous lack of (ever-interrupted) conversation, of carefully drafted and patiently delivered speeches about the "uncool" mom, of eye-rolling and lip-curling sneers, absence of in-house tech support , a hiatus in my role as arbitrator of disputes pertaining to whose turn it would be walking the dogs, carrying the groceries from the car and other matters of gravitas . No further summons came from the school authorities over matters of disciple (or lack thereof) of the kids, the house master no longer needing to inform me that he was personally offended by the one choosing to look out of the window a good part of his school day.

I passed through the several mandatory stages of grief and heartache, but life did totter back to a stage of being comfortably numb. I purged the house of loads of electronics and toys, old clothes, discarded textbooks and peeling- off- the- wall posters and got on with making it a calmer and  (figuratively)quieter place. My own room was transformed to a sanctuary of sorts, with my art table set up for some mindful meditation, my bed calm and soothing with a neatly arranged stash of  books at hand. But even the dogs appeared bored with the same ol’ home and garden which now had the fun quotient of a vegan yoga retreat. it was therefore with great pleasure and relief that we welcomed the kids back for their holidays a few weeks ago.

I thought they had set out to becoming zoologists and engineers – to make the world a better place and all. It may be part of a grand plan not revealed to me yet but the two more closely resemble rock stars in their current habits than the altruistic scholars they set out to be. Not for them any walk around the garden with a magnifying glass and an encyclopedia of insects, or checking under the hood of the car or changing a wheel or two (engineers gonna engine?) . They stay up all hours of the night, sleep only at the sign of sunrise, either forego much-needed ablutions or reluctantly agree to my requests and drag in a chair and book while showering, announce that they’ve invited friends to stay over – indefinitely . Parental rules, routines and curfews are looked upon with a derisive eye-roll (“just chill no- as if you’re some weirdo warden”) Their laundry is taken care of, as are their phone balance and bank balance. Haircuts, nail cuts, a daily change of clothes, weekly change of bedlinen – things i thought shared dna would perpetuate are all looked on with indulgent disdain. My car is almost always “borrowed” –to drop off “random” friends – once, the entire football team post game – and casually returned with the frightening bouquet of smells involving that many unwashed persons of questionable bathing history. The zoologist –in- making meanwhile has usurped my work-laptop for her “study projects” – which feature rather new age zoological animals like hugh jackman. (“just chill ma- i need the laptop for my research project next semester”) – what research - habits of Hollywood wolverines?

Ever the optimistic mother, i tried to bring some order into their frivolous young lives and asked for help in the kitchen. The Spinoza - reading engineer landed up somewhat quickly and without his customary arguments – but with the electric guitar and a playlist that may have soured the milk at home that day. There was no intention of flipping the chapatis with me – but an astonished “i’m helping you make your work chill no?”

The two adult-kids have brought back a crates of old books and files, unwashed clothing, gym thingees and guitar paraphernalia, more chargers and wires than NASA might possess, shoes that have been used and abused,. My reminders to them about clearing up some of this always has one answer “just chill no ma- i’ll do it tomorrow”. Fair enough – perhaps they miss their insouciant hostel lives – and so create a slice of that nonchalance here at home. But when they + most of their possessions + their many “cool” friends are a constant fixture in my room and on my bed – i’m not just chillin – i’m going cold thinking that it is true after all- you do checkout anytime you like but you don’t ever leave.

long may you run

running – as a sport, a recreation, is an immensely pleasurable thing to do.  all it requires are a pair of shoes, some quiet space and a love for being mindful  to your body.  it can be as competitive or relaxing as you wish.   you can be quite the brand ambassador for an ever growing variety of running gear (bum bags,  skorts,  fitness trainers ,  calf sleeves,  hydration belts,  layers of clothing,  anti-glare glasses, for a start)  or  you can be more of a  stick- to- the- basics type - where you pretty much only invest in a pair of appropriate shoes.   the magazine and media driven promotion of running is ironic given that it is essentially an activity we indulged in as a species since our time in the serengeti.

pictures of statuesque runners with trendy gear, casually coiffed hair, and happy group smiles and fist pumps portray the modern runner(s) on magazine covers and sports wear advertisements, with a subliminal  winning-is-everything  message.   an actual runner usually looks a lot less picturesque with sweaty hair, mismatched gym clothes, a flushed face and a look of satisfaction on “carpe”ing the diem as it were. both types however seem to get pleasure from hard work, discipline and the corporeal.

i’ve always been a bit of an outdoor person – my early childhood  saw me climb trees, often sleep outdoors gazing at the night sky, play every kind of sport and game.  i did run a few short races in school but i was never drawn to sprinting or to competitive organised running.  it was only during my late teens  that i entered the truly pleasurable world of running alone. no racing, no “opponent”, no stress, no sweat (figuratively anyway).  when i lived abroad  i  began running  along scenic trails through woods and grassy meadows,  through ice and snow country,(learnt to visually distinguish between run-able slippery to safe  types of ice) along small farms and creeks, along winding rivers, crashing waves and  unending stretches of country roads – i soaked in the sensory pleasures of  all things foreign - the richness in the variety of the terrain, of the woods, the groves of sycamores, of redwoods,  the distinct seasons,  the smells of grass in summer, the sticky richness of maple syrup being tapped, and the sight of placid  cows chewing away lazily- i even enjoyed the sight of fellow runners with their often futuristic looking apparel and accessories (women in head-to-toe spandex pushing  running buggies in the dead of winter was to me one of the most “foreign” sights ever). and i always loved the quiet. i neither craved for nor sought after a running group or companion– there was so much overwhelming beauty around – it required no extra sentiment of appreciation whatsoever.

to me running is like much like reading a book – best done alone, without much need for discussion, a time to slow down one’s thoughts, to pay attention to the world one runs in. it is an early morning clearing of cobwebs in the mind and a peaceful way to plan my day ahead. (the fact that somehow my day never goes as planned deters me never). i don’t ever plug-in  to  music when i run and choose instead to listen to the sounds of the morning - bird calls, the timeless trrring of the milkman’s bicycle.  often i simply enjoy the soothing sounds of  the soft  panting of my dogs running beside me and of my feet  landing on the ground in rhythmic  pace.  Thoreau was probably not a runner but i think he must have also felt the same way walking through the woods “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”

 

nowadays,  i run quite leisurely (sounds better than slow) in definitely non-scenic, urban surroundings. a few short stretches of road sans people and vehicles is as luxurious as i can wish for it to be.  yet it is as close to meditation and mindfulness as  i  get -  no distracting conversation,  bad moods to handle (or ignore),  definitely no picture taking to post on social media.  i neither measure nor care about my speed or distance or heart-rate but i do fret if i need to miss my unremarkable, non-scenic, often non-quiet  run in the morning.  running is primal and pleasurable.  as the writer murakami says  “I’ll be happy if running and i could grow old together “.

food on my mind

every family has its worthy  talents – some do math, some churn out doctors, some play music, some rule countries, some offer unsolicited advice, - a core strength is passed on in their DNA.  i come from a lineage of good eaters - we certainly know how to “put it away” as my uncle would say.  lead us to a buffet-trough and we’ll get to the stomach of the matter in no time.  not for us some glutinous  making -a –pig- of- yourself-ness.   we eat well.  that’s it.  food is fuel (and a little fat ) for the body and yes, a bit of comfort for the soul.  at home, food was always varied and plentiful- we shared it, we served it , we packed it for picnics and moonlight dinners on the terrace.  we were not allowed to ever complain about

what was on the table -  other conversation was however intrinsic to the meal experience - we talked about books and music, things we’d seen on trips,  who the most insane person in our extended family was (this could take a while- competition being tight in terms of quality and quantity- my mother insisted her family was a bit eccentric while my father’s was purely insane), how the principal (or warden) wanted to meet my parents (again) , who scraped the car door this time– you know regular family stuff.

but after i grew up, i  met plenty of non-family weirdoes and  i came to realise that there was a “World of Food”.  apparently people discussed what they ate for breakfast, what they’d like for lunch (not a simple- i would love to have beetroot vadai- but –  beetroot vadai the way latha made it in 1984 a week before it rained in coutrallam) and what they hoped was in store for their dinner.  people around me  traded recipes endlessly, bought books on food (preparation and presentation) organised get-togethers that focused on more  food  (when do we eat? being my only  bored and  telepathic contribution). soon there were food columns in the papers, blogs on the net and zombie foodies on the same planet as me. i was bombarded with “correct” information on Mexican or Italian food (mostly by people who wouldn’t be able to find Mexico or Italy on a map) the ingredients, their pronunciation, cooking techniques, culinary habits....how to pronounce croissant like a Parisian would (the same dorks however say vada instead of vadai the way a coimbatorean should)

  

food fascists took over the world unannounced – when i went out for lunch with one such, he shuddered when i added the bits of chilli-in-vinegar  to my Chinese soup and chose to “educate” me that it wouldn't be the authentic chinese way . WTF ? – my noshing legacy was from a father who never wasted time in reading (or even pretending to read) the menu at ANY restaurant – he would simply order sweet corn chicken soup and an impressive host of other goodies that were never made at home. no sensible maître d ever looked down his boring nose at him- maybe my father’s prodigious one man-all buffet talent bowled other lesser mortals over?

 

so really all this talk of food in terms like "party in your mouth" (allowed only if you intend to be disgusting) "drool-worthy" (only if you’re a german shepherd) "succulent" (only if talking about a cousin of a cactus) "muddled flavours" (only if you’re referring to the spice girls) "notes of nuttiness" (only if talking about extended family)  "sinful" (only if you have stolen the slice of pie from your neighbour). yummy (only if you’re a 4-year old)  – gets to me.  if you really know the difference between every bloody grain, wine, berry, cheese and herb – you are probably just a nerd.  but don’t tell me if Mexicans eat their tacos with lime squeezed on them  or not. they probably don’t even  care about that considering they now  live next door to a sinful, muddled, nutty  party in the head wall-building despot.  and definitely don’t get me started on the other "healthful" food trip about whole grain-very berry - simple older folks knowing best and how shining is their homespun wisdom of

ye yore - my grandfather who lived to be healthy (but eccentric) 85 ate whatever fare was offered at his table- brain curry, liver curry,

blood curry (and when he tired of limb and  organ donors) partridge, prawn and crab in toto.  Peruvian millet on his leaf-plate?  a post prandial desert of acai berries for good health?   as unthinkable  as me asking anyone for a bloody recipe.

flights of fancy

i hate flying  in airplanes.  i hate it now and i hated it as a child- i would remind my parents of it by being sick on every flight trip they took me on.  during take-off: sick.  during landing : sick. cruising sans turbulence :sick.  airborne and  turbulent : sultana of  sick. i did survive all that and  emerge a swanky adult  who can be blasé about flying  and one who no longer  gets  green around the gills.   but, in truth, even now the night before a flight i am usually restless and  apprehensive of the forthcoming excitement. the next morning  will find me  a bit nervous -  i take many  a calming breath, buckle up, clutch my seat in what i think is an unnoticeable way,  grip the seat belt for extra assurance  and before i  know it i have been dropped off at the airport.

after a firm resolution to “take it all in stride” , i enter the terminal.  an ominous name for a building involving  travel.  the baggage check in is easy peasy and i give myself points for staying on course. (plus i am aware that my ride home would have driven off hastily and in relief)  the security check awaits and i know  i’ll breeze through having left my weapons cache at home.  the body pat-down is more intimate than any relationship-touching (of late) and i pointedly avoid  eye contact with the lithe and strapping young guard who has just felt and frisked my assorted bulges.   next is the  waiting lounge where there is a small sea of humanity, doing that thing that only humans do – checking their phones of course.  many multi-lingual (and mostly incomprehensible) announcements are made  for arrivals, departures, check-ins, late passengers and i get a whiff of a call for pre-boarding.  is that some Schrödinger thing where perhaps you board but you' ve not boarded? all too soon comes the call for the actual boarding of my flight  and the lucky mob  rushes to the transit bus all eager to be in the little box  that will soon be miles above the ground.

inside the flying palace my spirits aren’t much better – the stewards in their inhumanly neat uniforms and android hair make me feel like i’ve  nurtured  my fashion sense from the spin cycle of the washing machine.  but i do match their bored pasted- on smiles with one of my own!  i quickly scan the profiles of the seated passengers  and fervently hope that i am not going to be next to a parent with a toddler or baby- while i give the parent a sympathetic look i  know this isn’t going to go well.

 the spitting and spluttering baby will cry from take off to landing. (why not just be quietly sick like i used to?)  if there’s an older toddler there’s the added danger of speech involved and an incessant  volley of questions that the exhausted parent wisely pretends not to hear.  the next to- avoid kind of  passenger i hope not to sit near  is the rather oversized person who spills into the neighbouring seat. sitting next to this person means spending  a good portion of the trip with one’s elbows and knees clapped together – reminiscent of  long-distant slave trade transport of ye yore marked particularly by its lack of spaciousness. another challenging variety  i like to avoid is the newly married couple- easily distinguished by the new bride’s armload of bangles and with more mehendi ink than  tattoos on a sailor.  in tow is her adoring  and adored beau.  if you are part of their threesome (seating wise) they’ll give you a look of resentful dismay.  there’ll be some sprightly whispering  (mercifully to each other only) , feeding of stale and decidedly unerotic  airline food (mercifully to each other only)  and other  matrimonial  rituals which may  trigger off my  sickness in airplanes.  just kidding- i’m not the picky kind.

once seated next to my ideal fellow passenger - a taciturn newspaper reading-phone checking-eyes shut type, to whom it matters not what my good name is or where the devil i’m put up, who has neither new spouse  nor old infant, i buckle up. as the plane’s doors close my life flashes before my eyes.  in an abridged,  trailer- of- the- movie manner.  the safety presentation is not a bit reassuring as i worry if the stewards will help during an emergency or if they will refrain because that may  defile  their  uniforms.  i also wonder if i can “borrow” the neon-yellow life vest  ( placed under my seat) to  take home.....against federal regulations  with possible imprisonment the overhead voice drones on as if reading my mind.  i rule out any kidnapping of the little yellow vest. for now.

its time to take off  the pilot cheerily says and i try to breathe normally (is this my last time ever?) . i notice that a pretty bag (for any heave-ho) has been placed thoughtfully within reach. what more can a gal ask for? bring it on i say - all is well in the friendly skies.

affairs of the art

as a child one of the highlights of my new school year was the buying of new stationary and art supplies.  the no-frills geometry box, fountain pens and rulers were pleasing enough –  symbols of hope for a better and brighter year at school. but it was the standard issue water colour set and crayons that were so much more evocative  reminders of what school really had to be about- less math (a lot less),  more maps,  more diagrams pertaining to geography  and biology. and plenty of art.  renewed hope that at least here on the art teacher would permit my cityscape illustrations into the “scenery” category – where so far she had always marked them a zero and insisted on the DMK  inspired  rising sun and two mountains as the only acceptable depiction of scenery.

apart from ‘official’ art supplies, i was frequently  plied with special treats.  a parent or relative who had traveled abroad was often thoughtful enough to buy me some indulgent felt- pens,  tubes of acrylic paints and  assorted boxes of water colours bearing beautiful names, such as cerulean blue, dark puce, chartreuse and fandango pink, that i loved to repeatedly read aloud.  these paints were never used in my school drawing book keeping in mind the doggedly philistine attitude of the aforementioned arbiter of scenic art. i may have on occasion  spared a few daubs of this “foreign” paint  on a map of the oceans or diagram of the earth’s molten core but the bulk of it (all 5 ml) was for weekends of unbridled romps- watercolour posters, cards, bookmarks and endless pictures of trains, bridges, cars, skyscrapers (about five storeys i think) and other non approved components of  urban scenery.

years later in graduate school abroad i was lucky enough to have to buy more art supplies.  those were financially lean years and  i was likely to forfeit a topping on my pizza and make do with a plain cheese slice so i might  continue to splurge on art equipment – colour pencils (a green is not merely a green- it is either mint, chartreuse, shamrock, lime, persian, tea, teal, turquoise, jungle or forest green ) water colours in hitherto unexplored shades and (gasp) natural sable hair paint brushes.    my studies in landscape architecture, at this point, was a happy blend of two great loves- plants and painting.

just a few years later though, the professional practice of landscape architecture drifted away from the hand rendered and colourful presentation drawings to CAD sheets of a rather anemic and austere nature. my tech updated presentation drawings had all the personality and pizzazz of an amish prayer meeting.  the office was  deprived  of so much colour (literally) and  the pleasurable world of creating art drifted slowly away from my life .

after nearly two decades of ascetic “artlessness”, my daughter and fellow art lover  sam -who as her going away to college gift (leaving my world in only the bleakest shades of grey- pewter to lead) gave   me an adult colouring book .  i tentatively re-entered the realm of art although it was  a rather simplified version  with basic  colourpencils and a stay- within-the- lines approach.  but as months (and pages) progressed i was caught in the all too familiar tug of shading, blending and burnishing.   the ever unresolved questions  of  using black outlines or not,  of painting light to dark vs the opposite way, careful studied details vs  fleeting ephemeral impressions – taunted me to take the plunge once more. i sensibly yielded and  can now  be frequently found drifting around  the art supply store with a blissful yet covetous eye at many other media and possibilities.  

my art table, while not exactly groaning under the weight of the supplies,  is a paradoxical presence – it is my ever calming oasis at the end of too-long work day and is also the spring of much cheer and energy.