At some point in 2020, I lost my way. The turmoil went to my head and to my heart and I froze. Thankfully, though, the compost pile beckoned. The colors, textures and yes, the pungent odors kept things real and reminded me of the beauty of it all. I am grateful for extended time with my family and with my thoughts. Light emerged on the other side of dark, and we just kept showing up for each other. The dailiness of watermelon & houseplants that needed trimming invited calm in the midst of brewing storms. And I voted. We voted. Hope. And the Christmas Cactus bloomed at Thanksgiving as it does every year. And we finally bid farewell to my mother-in-law's pressed leaves and rhyming dictionary she used to write holiday poems. It was
a messy, smelly and uncomfortable year, but it will be impossible to forget 2020 and the good that will emerge from the all of it.
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A single small plant, a gift in 2003, grows for 17 years, blooming regularly just before Thanksgiving, as if feeling our longing for color, just as the days darken and trees stand baren. It was a gift from my mother-in-law, its abundance reflecting her deep love for the keeping & caring of all kinds of plants. During this time of Thanksgiving, I am grateful for her and for this pink cactus. For me, photographing the spent blooms has also been an invitation to see the beauty embodied in decay, especially during the past 3 years, when she has been in decline. Last week, the pink blossoms lay beside stale bread & a banana peal. 3 years ago, those blossoms lay on fresh snow, mixed with spent leaves & flowers. I doubt Pam ever imagined the powerful impact that small plant with its pink blossoms would have on me. It was this image from 2017 that inspired me to begin sharing my work in new ways, including making a set of greeting cards with a variety of images from that year. This
first 'dried flowers' photograph is part of my original "Compost Composition" greeting card collection. There is still a limited supply available, which I hope to get out into the world. Please express your gratitude for the US Post Office by writing cards to those you love. Rumor has it that these images make people feel good. Here's a link. A dress worn to a party in 1984, re-imagined & transformed, becoming muse & metaphor in 2019. With text from Walt Whitman's poem, This Compost & embroidered ferns traced from actual ferns in my garden, it took over a year, for the dress and the woman to emerge - smiling. Always smiling. "I am terrified at the earth," but I drink my demitasse and smile. Really? Is that all? What an incongruous sham! But am I allowed to show fear or anger? Do I even know what these emotions feel like? And if I can't show them when no one is looking, will I ever be able to be real? I've buried them for so long, always hiding behind that smile. Don't get me wrong. I've only recently understood how beautiful it is. But just as the demitasse is a curious distraction, so is a smile a fabulous cover. It
was only after these exploratory photo shoots in Maine that I started to go deeper. If I am going to re-imagine my relationship to everything and everyone, including myself, I'll need to accept that it won't always be pretty. It's the light... ...and the shapes. It's the mesmerizing interplay of water & wind... ...and the ongoing invitation to get lost in the moment while falling in love with the wonder of it all. Sometimes I have to get lost in order to find what I need. How
are you getting lost these days? Common Milkweed is really not so common. The pods, like a bird's beak, or perhaps an alligator's head, add texture to the early Fall garden. Who knew that all kinds of bugs, in addition to the well-known Monarch Butterfly, appreciate the seeds. Is this one searching for food, finding material for a nest, or just playing in the lacy fibers? Just up the hill, more pods open, their silky seeds seductively swaying, inviting me & my camera to play. These Swamp Milkweed, planted for the first time this year, reminded me of the Monkshood I planted for the first time earlier this summer. Their deep purple flowers, shaped like the cowl of an actual monk's hood, captivated me, as they, too, danced in the late afternoon light. You can imagine my surprise when I learned that every part of the Monkshood plant, also known as Wolfsbane, is highly toxic - - & I had planted it by our terrace, right next to where we sit! Of course I quickly moved it to a more remote spot. It seems I mistook Monkshood for Mugwort, a totally different plant, but one with an equally odd name beginning with "M." Mugwort, which I had thought was a weed, is actually a well-known medicinal! These plants got me thinking. I make so many assumptions about plants & people. Milkweed is quirky, but valuable for insects and fiber artists; Mugwort might be considered a weed, but it's capable of calming nerves; And Monkshood, named for people who serve & protect is poisonous. What is a gal to do? Every year, it seems, putting the garden 'to bed' inspires reflection. This season, for example, I experienced the impact boundaries have on the flow of energy as well as the value of plant placement to ensure safety. What's next? I have a hunch I'll be digging into the power of assumptions not just in the garden but also in the rest of my life. There are just so many beautiful plants & people to behold. What will you explore about yourself this winter?
I know I am not always what I seem. What about you? A worm or some other bug took a few bites out of these apples. Question for the day: Do I hide or celebrate these 'ugly fruit'? I'm increasingly done with perfection of any kind, so here's what emerged. I say, "welcome sweet creatures. There's plenty to go around." It made me think: Who really said that a bite of an apple leads to banishment? What an absurd story. Apples provide essential nourishment for the body, mind, heart & soul. And our particular tree, a gift from my in-laws in 2014, bends but does not break with time. What does it take to be so flexible? What does it understand & what can it teach me? While I 'compost' the issues -- race, political discord, economic disparity and, yes, that nagging issue, Climate Change, it feeds on living mulches, provides perches for birds & in spring is a beautiful focal point in the garden. It seems ironic that this year, with drought and psychic tension in the universe, it is more abundant than ever before. This portrait reveals a collection of apples from a much older tree that predates us by a few decades (on the left), and a few of our yummy Honeycrisp in a bowl made by my husband thirty years ago (right). I love how the soft light plays on these discarded cores and peels, their transformation from apple to delicious desserts & beautiful compost a lesson in mindfulness. While turning the apples into desserts, I remembered when our apple tree first produced five years ago. My sister and I harvested the entire crop of eight precious fruit to bring on a cross country road trip from New Hampshire to Idaho. We rationed those home grown Honeyscrip, allowing ourselves one a day -- each bite, a precious gift. We experienced joy and a powerful sense of abundance even though there was scarcity -- Only one apple a day. As we drove across North Dakota & into Montana, we ate the final apples, savoring their crispy juiciness. This year, there's drought. The leaves are sickly. My gratitude is intense, but subdued. Will this more fragile tree break from the weight of it all? Did I care enough? My relationship with this tree is ancient, and I know it's too late for regrets. Between wheelbarrows full of mulch I stop and eat an apple. "Don't worry," it seems to say. "I am strong and so are you." No. No Smoking. No Parking. Positively No Parking. And definitely no bad behavior, because cameras are recording even me, meandering around empty back allies in Hanover, NH on this cold day in May. There are cracks in the sidewalk... and bricks everywhere provide structure. Yellows seem particularly pronounced, warnings inspiring discomfort, until I look down & see these leaves emerge from the grate... and this tree in a small garden in the midst of it all, and the word Please. Please.
One word, simple & inviting. Threats disappear. No more cold and fear. Just one word. Please. Earlier today I shared my story in an empty AVA studio with my work, Casey Carpenter and his cameras. It was raining & cold, but the light was lovely & the space welcoming, as always. I am here, I thought, in community. At last. The day began with a 6am Zoom call with Natalie Isaacs, the founder of 1 Million Women. With 1000 people from around the globe I joined the conversation. We shared joy in each other's company & inspired each other to feel the collective power of our individual actions. It was the perfect way to close out Earth Month 2020, as was this summary of actions completed by the Upper Valley Climate Action 2020 team in this year's Earth Day Ecochallenge. 34 of us showed up and did a bunch of cool stuff. We were among more than 10,000 people & were 1 of 818 teams. Yay us! But now I'm struggling with a sense of inadequacy I've felt all month, a feeling that emerged, I think, because I was being measured. What am I to do, I wonder, with the joy of being in community making a difference for people & the planet and the simultaneous strange anxiety that that participation creates? For me, it means it's time to go to the compost, and see if, once again, it can help me make sense of our world. On Earth Day it was fresh snow & a few days later it was a bunch of flying insects among the shredded COVID-19 behavior guidelines sent by our President. Hot and cold; Inspired & anxious. Is that what I will remember about Earth Month 2020? Measurable data, whether from an ecochallenge or a global health crisis, is real & understandable. When it comes to climate, I feel good that I have done something to increase biodiversity or decrease waste; When it comes to health, I feel proud that I have helped flatten the curve. But it feels like that objectivity actually denies me the visceral realities of being human... ...like the joy of arranging silky colorful fabrics into a 'collage' or the deliciousness of these treats from Umpleby's, where I collected compost earlier today & purchased this weekly "Stay-At-Home" 'pick-me-up.' As I ate these treats, I reflected on this collective need to 'be counted,' whether in the economy, in an Ecochallenge, or in this global crisis. Might this slowing down invite us to think more deeply about this connection between individuals and the collective, whether on Zoom or in our kitchens? And in the process, might we also consider the differences between what is actually counted and what actually matters? If I counted everything that mattered, I would no longer be living - - I would be a counter, not a person. It would be weird. I fumbled my way through the EcoChallenge, just as I feel like I am fumbling through this COVID-19 situation. Flexibility and forgiveness of self and others seem vital, especially when dealing with variable weather and emotional fluctuations during a global pandemic! But as the story I told this morning reveals (you'll have to stay tuned for the actual video), powerful things happen when we honor moments of tension & discord. I'm coming to understand not just in my head, but deep in my heart, that reconciliation with self in relation to climate is possible, but only when in community, whether that community is a bunch of plants or garbage or really cool people at a place like AVA. To learn more about this cool storytelling stuff, check out Casey Carpenter's work and stay tuned for whatever comes next. Please
be vigilant, stay safe & be well. You and I are not alone and we are definitely in this together. The sun rises and sets, oblivious to us & our endless admiration. So today we express gratitude to and honor that sun and all that makes our lives possible, including the food we eat & the fibers we wear. The sun & the earth do not have a say however, and must take whatever we give. Roads, for example, curve in relation to the topography, but still there are roads. We impose again and again. But from a hot air balloon on this particular morning, in this particular place, it was a stunning, as are the gardens that emerge in old mines & around old homes. The shapes and colors captivate & each photograph honors the play of light on the textures & forms that we create. But these scenes are all about us & the imposition of our will. This love letter is to people & the planet because Earth Day is about our relationship. For me, it celebrates those quiet places where I find and nurture peace, not alone in the wild, but in domestic places, like in an intimate garden at home where I try to be in balance with the land on which I live. Are these solar panels, for example, a blight on the landscape, or a work of modern art? As a photographer, it's all about the relationship between light, form and function. As for me, it turns out I am happiest celebrating the natural world when in close proximity to structures of all kinds that allow us to live. I am, I guess, a domesticated naturalist. I admire how light & the sun generate power in panels & reflections on windshields. I love how that same sun sets on the ocean, creating reflections on water, food for animals & enjoyment for us. My pleasure in and gratitude for the natural world are immense. And in the fifty years since we first named a day in honor of the earth we humans have learned and accomplished a lot. We pay attention to air & water quality & we make time to reflect on our dynamic relationship... most of the time. Cheers! I love how there are bags decorated with flowers that become gifts from generation to generation and I love that we can travel to far away places to buy intricate textiles for our children to use & enjoy for generations to come. The fibers, dyes, and designs on table runners & bags come directly from the magical interplay of sunlight and the earth. It's stunning and I love the all of it. So even though it snowed this morning, later today, I'll be in my protected and nurturing herb garden planting some rhubarb, most of which we will eat and some of which may become a work of art. When I look at this rhubarb in the compost, I see the playful and colorful action of the discarded stems on the surface & the discolored coffee filters & mildewed orange rind hidden behind. 50 years of celebrating the earth & I think I, like many, continue to struggle to both enjoy the beauty of what we see while also embracing & actively working with the mess we have created just below the surface. And when at the Lebanon Landfill this morning, this funny little guy seemed to say "Happy Earth Day, Lyn. I'm in good hands here. These people know what they are doing. And when they burry me, I'll still be here 50 years from now." There he was, sticking out of the molded mountain of waste on which I stood, ensuring that I not forget. At the
end of the day, the sun will set, and the light and energy that gave me life will move on, whether I am here or not. I can, however, celebrate the beauty that surrounds us while also honoring the true impact of my life. Last week, I'd had enough. While attempting to make masks, my sewing machine jammed, a sure sign that it was time to stop, and when I tried to stitch the outline of a photograph of myself onto that silk dress I've been working on for a year, it was a mess. I was done. We'd been home together for almost a month and I was frazzled. So first I took myself for a walk and called my sister. Then, when I got home, I made pizza, got out some wine and shared my exhaustion. "What can we do?" my son asked. How cool is that? We then created a plan for who would cook which night; We talked about Mom's limits... and there are many. And, by the end of the meal we got it - We are definitely in this whole weird Covid-19 thing together. Even so, I still felt untethered on Easter, so went for another walk, but longer this time, and wondered if I would experience any signs to guide me, this being a mystical time and all...and sure enough... First, there was this VW hubcap just sitting on the railing. VW - Volkswagon - A car for People. OK. Got it. One reason this crisis is so hard to manage is that it impacts all of us, but some more than others. Actively helping those in need doesn't feel like enough. There it is, that nasty need to do more, always do more. Next, this rusted handrail, unloved and imperfect, but still able to provide support. To me its textures and shadows are captivating and reassuring. Perhaps this time is forcing me to confront my own perfect imperfections and celebrate this undeniable fact that I can't not see beauty even in worn out things. And then there was this green sandbag with its mate up the hill -- one a snake, the other a donut. They clearly serve a purpose, having something to do with water management, but there in the woods, coming up from the Connecticut River, they seemed so strange. The first bright green on this early spring day. At this point, my walk had become it's own kind of Easter Egg Hunt, but instead of colorful eggs, I found random objects, each of which felt like a sign, because I was on a search and there they were. This pink ribbon, so bright on the forest floor, but there, communicating something to someone, perhaps even to me -- Beware, I'm here - Don't trip? But instead, I got tripped up by these mysterious marks on the trees. Are they part of some game, or do they have great significance? The more strange markings I witnessed, the more amused I became. Here I was hoping for 'a sign' and I got way more than I bargained for. Is it true that Signs, of the mystical kind with a capital "S," are only as meaningful as we make them? Signs appear because we look for them when we need them. In this case, it seems, all these colorful signs were merely there to remind me that I am in control of how I interpret not just these markings, but this crazy time as well. And then, when I emerged from the woods and was on my way home, this green doggy poop bag was swinging in the wind on these bright red twigs. Really? Clearly this is a sign that sometimes there are just weird things blowing in the wind. Maybe
it's just that simple. I am being asked to co-exist not just with my immediate family, but with the all of it -- the mysteries & the uncomfortable realities of being human on a planet that is struggling to support us. In the midst of it all, I seek meaning and relevance. It's why I take photographs. It's why I share my work and my ideas on this blog. Because for me, it's spiritual. Just as there is power in the way compost emerges as nutrient rich soil, there is power in showing up & trying to make sense of ourselves and our circumstances, with all our abundant and colorful imperfections. |
Evelyn R. Swett
reframing the narrative in community and with myself, finding transformation and joy in the mess of it all Let's ReFrame!
is a somewhat regular 'viewsletter' that hopefully inspires joy & transformation. It will include links to recent blog posts & updates about my work. Oh, and I promise I won't share your information (that would be so uncool) and I don't actually do promotions, but that text is required. Archives
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