Pressed leaves - - so easy to collect & so simple to compost. National Geographic, not so much. Each year, eleven pounds of images from around the world. But last week, it was time for this collection of stories and images to move on, to mix and mingle with holiday wrappings and old bills. Our children did not plow through them, as I once did, and no library wanted them. This 450 pound collection was, in fact, a burden from another era. When I returned from the recycling center, I was not surprised to experience an increased flow of fresh air in my studio - - The shelves, lighter and more open, an invitation. We were managing the clutter we brought home from my mother-in-law's house, which we had cleared out three years ago. It was time to say farewell to her pressed leaves, National Geographics and her dog-eared rhyming dictionary. The
compost absorbed all of it, including the expectations of creating the perfect turn of phrase in a gift card, thank you letter or speech at the garden club. In our pile, the leaves & this book will nourish new growth in a new year & maybe even inspire new ways of thinking post 2020.
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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. When I visited the Lebanon Solid Waste and Recycling Facility (also known as The Landfill) last week, this is what I saw: Fresh snow and a sparkling blue sky. The air smelled clean and the earth seemed to breath. The steam had just settled on the freshly turned compost piles and tracks from the machines that accomplished that task seemed like snakes in the snow. For almost a year, I've been documenting the Landfill and have not been surprised by the tons of waste dumped onto the ground, creating a mountain where there had once been a valley. I have been in awe, however, at the raw beauty of this rugged piece of earth in our midst and the artful way the crew at the landfill sculpts our garbage every day. I love how landfills contain the waste from our lives, no matter who we are or where we come from. Beneath the skillful manipulation of soil and wood chips mixed with our garbage, lies all of us, mixed and mingled together. The universality of this reality humbles and invites pause. This discarded organic tomato soup carton could be mine. And how strange to see one of the organic produce bags from the Co-op stuck in the mud. As a photographer, I love the yellow against the dark earth and the way the sun makes the plastic shine. As a naturalist, I am saddened. Will one of the crows or other birds that visits this open land be poisoned by the plastic? A few minutes later, when the sun went behind a cloud, it was not the play of light, but the play of textures and tones that caught my eye, and the way the color of the ground shifted from raw black soil to brown shredded bark to a layer of plastic and then on to the snow-covered hillside. And here was this massive vehicle whose sole job is to smash it all up, but which, in the process, creates these elegant circles in the soil. To manage our waste, the landfill crew harnesses a complex mix of engineering, biology, chemistry and art. It's all about containment - How to safely entomb our garbage so that it stays where we put it, does not leach toxic runoff or become a landslide, or explode from noxious gases. When at The Landfill this past week I thought about our current struggles with the Covid-19 pandemic. Just as our waste is mixed and mingled so too are we all in this complex crisis together. Our challenge though, is that as a society, we don't have the tools we need or the necessary systems in place to manage a crisis of this magnitude. For me, it's not hard to manage what I know or to plan for things I understand. Like in this discarded tax preparation worksheet from 1992, I can do whatever calculations I must. But when confronted with variables I do not understand that are beyond my control, I become a bit befuddled. While at The Landfill last week, though, the manager indicated that they were receiving 35% less waste than just two weeks before. He suggested that it's like everyone & everything is taking a deep breath and a giant pause. Maybe, I thought, that is what the earth and each one of us needs right now...as long as we care for each other along the way...because we are most definitely in this together... ...pausing
at the landfill or at home, or wherever we may be right now. |
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
December 2020
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