March, 2010
AFTER MY 28-DAY sabbatical in February, I slowly am reentering the world. I feel no pressure to do much of anything really. I believe it’s important to honor that sense of emptiness, a pleasant state and quite a shift from my typical go-do lifestyle.
I called my retreat “28 Snow Days in a Row” in hopes of seeing some white flakes. Boy, did that turn out to be true. We had a total accumulation of 16 inches. During the height of the storm I bundled up in gloves, hat and Greg's green rubber boots to build a comical snowman in our front yard. I gave him a bulbous nose, charcoal eyes and carved an ear-to-ear grin into his face. The mailman honked and gave me a thumbs-up as he drove by. I guess I got the USPS seal of approval.
I thought I would spend most of my retreat days reading or writing. Much to my surprise, I woke up each day feeling an urge to pick up my paint brush. After more than a year hiatus, paint I did. It has been quite freeing and great fun.
Posted on this page are my 3 newest paintings. My favorite is the portrait I did of my 4-year-old granddaughter, Jayla. The challenge with painting children is rendering their soft, round features. Too much shading or too sharp an edge and they look too old. Although I’ve done pencil sketches of them, this was my first portrait in acrylic (on a 24x30 canvas, to boot). The painting is an overdue gift for my daughter.
The warm weather this week was like a siren’s song, calling me outside to clear away the winter debris from my gardens. This past fall, Greg bought me hundreds of bulbs—crocus, tulips and daffodils. When I wasn’t able to get them planted, I stored the bags in the garage until the weather turned cold, then moved them to the basement.
Earlier this week, my friend Mica offered the wise advice of freezing them for several weeks to assure their dormancy. I immediately ran downstairs and retrieved the box from the dark, cool corner where I had stored it. My jaw dropped when I looked inside. The bulbs were covered with white sprouts. Mica (who is from Holland and an expert on all things bulbs and tulips) said, “You must put them in the ground right away.” She assured me the bulbs will bloom next year and, with a little luck, might even bloom this spring. She had me at "might bloom."
I grabbed my trowel and gloves and began digging at the rear of our yard where the grass meets the woods. A stacked-stone bed encircling several trees now holds fifty tulip bulbs. Crocus bulbs found a home near the back door. It was a lot of planting—as my blistered palms will attest to. Once the rain stops I'll plant the daffodils.
Upon hearing of my sprouting bulbs, my friend Laura shared these insightful words: "Crocuses....simply beautiful signs of promise, don't you think? Blooming in a dark corner of the basement, there is something to think on there. What else of loveliness is blooming in our dark corners? What else needs to be brought out and nurtured in the earth? It's worth an entire journal entry, or an essay ..."
Something to think on, indeed. Hmm ...
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Granddaughter Jayla (age 4)
24x30, acrylic on canvas
Omo Tribe: Boy with Twig
48x36, acrylic on canvas
Grace, in green
30x40, acrylic on canvas
The Lion the Wind and Mariah
Written and co-illustrated by Kathie Martin Ossege
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