I’ve only survived this month by tending to the gardens, writing poetry, taking photographs, sketching watercolors, and ambling on long walks in tree-lined parks, where crimson gold leaves comfort me under blankets of blue grey skies.
I took last month off from sharing a long essay, partly because the piece I’m working on carries a lot of grief inside of it; I’m writing it slowly. But the world keeps fracturing, and the only remedy I can find for a brittle future is to create art. Renowned stage actor Peter Page was right: art is not a window, but a mirror. It tells not about the horizon ahead of me, but about my own plumb line — my depth, my angles, my slants and tilts.
Here’s what I’ve been creating for the last few weeks.
This is November, as in climbing ivy and red sumac and deep brown flower heads latched onto naked berry branches, offering sanctuary to insects and birds ahead of winter’s scarcity.
From the archives: sage as a bouquet.
When outdoor gardens end, indoor plants begin. Pictured here: Thanksgiving cactus.
Every October I clip coleus stems from my container garden and root the stalks in water until long white roots emerge as thin tendrils floating downward. I pot up the cuttings and keep them alive under grow lights or near a large, sunny window. Their blossoms keep me company all winter long.
The only way I know how to decorate for fall: dried flowers and herbs.
If I leave blossoms on branches, like this vanilla strawberry hydrangea, then winter wildlife will have a place to shelter when temperatures dip below freezing.
This is a full circle moment: my flowers. My photography. My artwork.
News headlines tell me the world drains of color. Nature tells me a better story: rainbows live in tree leaves and river beds, storm clouds and migrating birds. I’ll subscribe to fleabane growing in the roadside ditch and a harvest moon shining in November’s night sky.
To purchase photos in this essay: Roots & Vines shop.
To purchase writing in this essay, subscribe! Stay tuned for a new subscription option coming January, 2025.
To share stories of where you find color in the world, leave me a comment.
See you at the end of this month for a new long-form essay.
-Betsy
Thank you, Betsy. Your writing is exquisite and ideas hopeful! Looking forward to your next entry here.
Beautiful read, and photos, as always. Have you ever wintered a geranium plant? I have this intense need to keep something alive. 🧡