Green Habits
Spring in Kentucky
Spring in Kentucky is uncountable and unaccountable shades of green. The green garden and its splendor of flowers (and weeds!) beckons me. The burst of seeds popping propels me to my studio. The sense of something new emerging is everywhere. The enthusiasm of a new beginning accompanies a sense of loss. The wonderful gallery — run by a spectacular gallery owner — that I have been with for about 15 years is no more. I have no sense of what the future of my paintings will be or who I am painting for — but the touch of otherness that gathers around me while I hold my brush obliterates all concerns, at least for now, when I am in my studio.
In my last post I was talking about habit in the sense we are all familiar with — practice, custom, pattern, routine — and the delightful discovery that you can cross-pollinate this verb and ground it with a noun, and habit becomes something you can wear — a long, loose garment worn by a person of a religious order or congregation.
In the month since I wrote those words I am also considering how habit is something that needs renewal or it vanishes. When I return home from travel the habits left behind need to be re-planted: walking in the woods, gardening, going down to my studio. Other habits travel, and can be worn like a cloak: meditation, reading, pausing, opening — and some are portable like my Not a day without a line pocket sketchbook and the writing practice. Other habits, with time and age, leave whether I want them to or not.
Now I am considering the habit of reminding myself what the poets and prophets of all time affirm: that each one of us was given a gift even before birth, a “secret molecular lattice” (Kenneth Rexroth), that cannot be taken and does not expire. Your specific lattice, your particular pattern of genes, belongs to you and no one else, out of billions. Beneath this molecular configuration is your seed, acorn, gift — and recognition of this gift is a knowing that precedes all knowledge. When this kind of recognition happens, when the mystery in me responds to the mystery in you, this is communion. It satisfies a deep longing in makers, and all humans: to be seen for who we truly are. That word, communion, is connected to the mystery behind all creation, and goes back to the Latin word meaning mutual participation, a shared experience. Communion is too big a word to tie to habit, but in my imagination it is connected with my need to make a habit of reminding myself that I (in spite of all my failures and especially when I am feeling like a failure), and each person I meet (regardless of my point of view), has a gift.
My recent experience of communion was with a bird. It happened when I was in the woods along Harrod’s Creek with my son — both of us with our binoculars, and Garrison with his telephoto lens camera. As we crossed over the bridge we came upon a female pileated woodpecker on the ground, pecking for insects on a dead log. After a short moment she flew off, but it was thrilling to get such a rare close-up view. Three times we hiked and then returned to the same log, and on the third time, just like in all the stories, she posed for us while Garrison took photos. I don’t know how long I stood there watching, standing by the bridge under the slanted-leaf-light — until she woke me from this state of beholding, took a bow, and flew off:
The Pileated woodpecker takes a bow | © Garrison Doctor
It’s easy to make a habit of one line or mark or letter or color or word in a day.
Not a day without a line | © Laurie Doctor Sketchbook
Spring also brings to mind the poet e e cummings. I will end this passage with a poem that many of you will recognize:
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
— e e cummings
Do you have a story about habit or communion? I’d love to hear from you.
I am delighted to introduce a dear friend, teacher, writer, painter, teller of stories and Yi Jing scholar, Laura Marshall. She continues to be a teacher to me. You can get just a glimpse of her intoxicating drawing, painting and writing here.
Angel © Laura Marshall