The Art of Paying Attention (and very special calendars)
Right now the air smells like pine needles, warm in the sun. On the ground, an amber blanket where they’ve fallen. This last week has been glorious, October at its most beautiful. My garden is still going, but not for much longer. In my studio I’m working on a painting with inspiration cut from it. Dahlias, amaranth, basil*. Perhaps the last watercolor of the season with references in jars on my table.
I’m reminded of this time last year when I was painting dahlias as the season drew to a close.
I grew those dahlias from seed started in the basement of our house in town. That winter when I tucked seeds into soil and turned on grow lights, I didn’t know that in a couple of months we’d find our dream property. I didn’t know that plans for my garden would have to quickly change or that many of the plants I was starting would eventually be arranged in containers on a deck surrounded by tall cedars, curious deer and frolicking rabbits.
Those dahlias are on the cover of my 2027 Calendars.
I painted the first art for this calendar before I had a real garden at our new home. Not having a garden felt strange. As a lifelong gardener. And as a botanical artist whose garden has always inspired my art and fueled my creativity. Everything felt strange. Wonderful, yes, but strange, too. I was living in-between. No longer in my old life, but not yet fully in my new life, either. I was surprised by how long it took to begin to inhabit my changing identity. I’d fantasized about this new life for so long I think I naively imagined becoming a “new” version of my self would be as straightforward as changing my clothes.
Of course, it wasn’t.
To be honest, I’m still figuring things out. And this “new” version of myself, isn’t new at all.
We’ve since experienced an entire year at our new property. And now I do have a garden (not just containers on a deck). I’ve been able to observe all four seasons. I’m getting to know this place. I’m also beginning to put my own marks on the landscape and our home. It’s a very slow process. By necessity. But the slowness is also a good reminder.
Much of this year has been about watching. Observing. Paying attention. Although in some ways I’m impatient to get all of our projects done, I’m also learning (again) to let go, to slow down (even more), to prioritize presence over productivity.
Which brings me back to my 2027 Calendars.
This is the 14th calendar I’ve designed.** Each of my calendars tells a story. A story of a year. Of shifting seasons. Of art. Of inspiration. Of noticing beauty and feeling the wonder of nature’s magic. I started making art because of that wonder. I wanted to dwell in a place of beauty and magic. Discovering joy in paying attention, I wanted to share it. All these years later, so much has changed. But also, nothing has changed.
My 2027 Calendars tell the story of the seasons over the first year at our woodland homestead. The seasonal inspiration isn’t much different than any other year. In winter I painted houseplants.
My new home is filled with plants just as every home I’ve ever lived in has been filled with plants. March’s begonia, perhaps, is best at conveying this story. I’ve been growing this begonia for more years than I can count. I’ve shared cuttings with friends and family. I’ve restarted my plant with cuttings when the mother plant has gotten unwieldy. (And don’t tell, but the original cutting was stolen from a public conservatory!).
March’s begonia reminds me that I am the same person I’ve always been — even back before I’d picked up a paintbrush when I lived in an old brick apartment just up the hill from Cleveland’s Little Italy.
February’s painting is a little bit different. It tells the story of the in-between. Of not (yet) having a garden. Of dreaming about what garden might grow from the seeds of my imagination. I painted it for the Member’s Show at VIVA Gallery with the theme of February Blues.
Because at the time my garden was imaginary, I painted all of the flowers in different shades of blue. Blue was the literal color of the painting, but blue also captured a feeling as well. Feeling blue in general because it’s winter and no gardens are blooming. Feeling blue in a more personal way because I didn’t have a garden and wasn’t at all certain of my time frame for creating one. And yet, this painting doesn’t feel sad to me. The title is, A Gardener’s Winter Dreams. I didn’t feel sad when creating it. The process was a joy, a bit like studying seed catalogs and choosing what to grow.
The finished painting feels joyful, too. It tells the story of garden dreams, but also of finding joy no matter the situation.
And then there are the paintings of weeds and wildflowers. What is a weed? What is a wildflower? It all depends on your perspective. There are a lot of wildflowers on our property. Some that could rightfully be called weeds. I’ve chosen to find beauty in those wild flowers. When you truly look, they are beautiful. Again, it’s about paying attention.
When I’m paying attention, I discover magic.
One of the first flowers I saw bloom in the spring was a dandelion. As soon as I noticed it, I saw that a bee had noticed it first.
Joy can be found in the most ordinary things.
Was I even more excited by the Jack in the Pulpits I found in the woods? Maybe.
But no matter how small or how ordinary, each new discovery is a joy.
Virginia creeper suddenly visible through the autumn woods looks like the trees had donned sweaters as their leaves began to fall.
When I stop to pay attention I am fascinated by what I see.
After the arrival of frost, when nature was settling in for winter, the subtler beauties caught my eye. Goldenrod, beautiful in summer, was just as dazzling in fall and winter. Flowers turned to fluffy seeds. Green leaves replaced by a palette of beautiful neutrals, curled and twisted, frozen in time.
And then, of course, are the flowers. June’s clematis and July’s lilies were already here on our property. There wasn’t really a garden, just remnants.
From what I can tell, the gorgeous purple clematis must have once grown up a trellis against one pole of a clothesline. The only remaining pole is rusted. What was left of the trellis was splintered at the base of the plant. The summer we were moving I discovered a random pop of color in the middle of the grass. I tried to wrap the plant around the pole (and not run it over with the lawn mower). This year I gave it a bit more support. It was magnificent.
It inspired sketch after sketch and two paintings, including the one for June.
Day lilies grow here in a few different places. I’ve never really liked day lilies. The only times I’ve planted them in my gardens is when they’ve been given to me as divisions from other peoples’ gardens. I do love seeing them growing wild in swaths along country roads, and here they seem appropriate. A bit wild. A bit of a mystery.
Last year, I painted some of the dark orange lilies that grow on our septic mound and included them in the 2026 Calendar.
This year I was fascinated by the lighter orange flowers with rows of double petals and couldn’t resist painting them. Both paintings tell a story of finding beauty even in something I didn’t think I liked.
This has been a special year. In March I turned 50. In June Matthias and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. But what was most special to me was that it was the first full year at our woodland homestead. A year of discovery. Of learning (again) to slow down. Of paying attention and finding beauty… everywhere.
I hope my 2027 Calendars capture at least a bit of all of these stories. And I hope they awaken your stories, too. It’s one of the beautiful things about art. And about plants. They awaken our stories. Memories. Relationships. I always love talking with people about their relationships with plants. Childhood memories. Lifelong dreams. Art and plants create connections. With ourselves. With each other.
As I wrote on the back cover of the Calendars, I hope these paintings will be a reminder for YOU to keep paying attention to the wonders of our remarkable world and to keep dreaming your beautiful dreams.
I’m still working on both.
Thanks so much for your encouragement and support, my friends.
*A variety called Aromatto. Such a beautiful and fragrant plant! One of my favorite things in the garden this year. I’ll be sharing more about my garden favorites next month, stay tuned.
**I’ve often written about my calendars on my blog. Reflecting on past years’ designs, the learning curve of art-making and product design and production. My journey as an artist. This is, perhaps, the most thorough look.
