​I will remember 2021 was the year that our garden took over.
 
Perhaps it’s no accident that this was also a very difficult year for me personally. I will not deny that the garden provided a kind of escape for me, a sanctuary; a place I could go and lose myself for an hour or a day. But it was so much more than that. There is a lot of wisdom in a garden, wisdom that comes mostly through one’s hands and not through one’s head. The wisdom I found there goes well beyond knowledge of how to grow plants successfully. I believe most of these lessons apply to my art practice, and probably the rest of my life as well.  Here’s some of the lessons the garden taught me this year:

• Planning is essential. So is improvisation. 
  Those of you who know me already know planning is not my strong suit. I have dabbled in gardening for many years now, but everything changed when we hired a landscape designer to help us turn our front yard into a native plant garden (goodnaturedlandscapes.com/). She not only planned the plantings, she designed pathways and a seating area. She turned the garden into a place: not just something to look at, but a space to dwell. That was a huge insight for me, and that allowed me to do the same for the back yard. Planning gave me a vision, and took the guesswork and stress out of every little decision. 
  
  Improvisation is my strong suit, and it is also necessary. There were times when the plans called for plants that failed, or couldn't be found. There were also plants I had that were thriving that were not part of the plans. While I stuck to the plan as much as possible, I also gave myself the freedom to "riff" a little.  That has made it more personal- which reminds me of another key lesson from the garden that I learned: a garden is really a reflection of the gardener. Elaine noticed this right away. She has told visitors that you can really see how I think by walking through the garden. I found that to be a little scary, but she's right. 
  
  
• You can only do what you can do. And that’s enough.
  I started out in the garden all Gung-ho: just me, a fancy new wheelbarrow, a couple of shovels, elbow grease, and gritty determination. It took about three weeks before I was in physical therapy for strained rotator cuffs in both shoulders. I had to learn the hard way to accept my limitations.  Learning that (as much as I have learned it) has been a bit of a blessing. Doing less labor means sitting and watching the garden more. The whole family has pitched in to move mulch, stone, and do the weeding, and I love that they are invested in the space. Speaking of weeds, sometimes I let the weeds go for awhile, and they turn out to be lovely. (Except for creeping Charlie- that stuff is the worst!). Given time, the plants will grow and spread, and the bare patches will take care of themselves. There is so much abundance in the garden, sometimes you just have to let go and let it do its thing. 
  
• Feed the soil, not the plant 
  This is an adage that is part of permaculture gardening, and I am already seeing how true it is. Areas where I have been feeding the soil and leaving it undisturbed for three years are the areas where plants just explode out of the ground. The beds I prepared in the past year are still doing well, but nothing like the older beds. I've been thinking of how this might apply to other areas of my life. In my art practice,at times I think too much about "feeding the plant" (growing the business) and not "feeding the soil" (making the things that feed my soul, generate new ideas, resting). I'm trying to shift that focus, but it's difficult for me. 
  
• For God’s sake, don’t make everything practical 
  In the vegetable garden I am always tempted to make sure every square inch of soil grows something edible, in spite of all the books that recommend growing flowers like marigolds which help with pest prevention. This year, with the expanded vegetable garden, I gave myself permission to grow sunflowers, marigolds, and zinnias, as well as a few flowering natives. I am so happy I finally made that decision! While it's true that those plants turned out to be practical in a way (increased pollinators) the real benefit was to me. I cannot tell you how much joy those flowers gave me. I spent hours back there- reading, watching the hummingbirds, and just sitting. I really wanted to just be in the presence of those flowers, to bask in their beauty and abundance. You can bet I'll be planting more flowers in the Spring. 
  
• Gardens are not just about beauty, they are about hope.
  We are all used to seeing images of gardens in there full glory, and when I started gardening I would pour through those images and think to myself  "yes- I want that!" Of course, when I actually started to garden, I was putting tiny seeds or seedings into the ground. That majesty I envisioned seemed impossibly far away. I learned that you have to embrace the promise and the mystery of the plant. How is it possible that a seed barely bigger than a grain of sand can grow into an 8' tall okra plant? Is it going to grow at all? The inevitable answer is "wait and see." That is a hopeful answer. Often that hope is rewarded. But sometimes there is disappointment when the plant doesn't grow. But even then that disappointment comes with a gentle prodding: "why don't you try again?"  I am very thankful for that sense of hope, and for the sense of wonder that goes with it. 

I took a break from making pots for two months. Part of that was of my choosing, part of that was due to other demands on my time. In any case it was the first time I had had that kind of break from making for as long as I can remember- I suspect I've never been away from the wheel for that long since I started making pots 30+ years ago! 

I finally got back to the wheel and thought I'd start out just by making some simple bowls. It's an easy form for me, and I can approach them like sketches: I can explore ideas without much investment of time or energy.  I had a general idea of what I wanted these to look like, and decided to approach them in a slightly different way than I typically approach making bowls. 

From the very first bowl these forms felt special. I was getting a fluid broad curve off of a narrow base the felt very natural, like a flower opening from a bud. There was an easy rhythm to my throwing that was controlled but allowed the clay's voice to come through. So much of what I want my work to do was coming out in these forms, and without me having to force it to happen. 

I have now trimmed all these bowls and they are waiting for their first firing. I am really excited about the direction these are taking, and I'm hoping to be able to recreate some of the fluidity of that session of working on the wheel in coming weeks. In the meantime I think there is a really important lesson for me, so I thought I'd better put it in the blog so I would remember it. Here it is: 

Dave, take time off every once in a while. Make other stuff, go find things that inspire you and spend time with them, or just sit and ponder. It all makes your work better.

The first "real" day of winter arrived this week in Chicagoland. As a person who grow up in the Southern states, it's easy for me to get discouraged by cold temperatures and lack of sun. There are days in this season when the high temperature will be in the single digits. The wind chill drops that temperature by 10 degrees or more. The sun currently sets around 4:30pm, which means it's dark before I even get off work. For years the first thought I had when winter came was, "Ugh- how can I get out of here."

The season of Advent has also arrived in Chicagoland, as it has everywhere. Advent is a time in the Christian liturgical year which is marked by waiting, anticipating, and preparing. As I was growing up I mainly remember Advent as a time of eager anticipation. Christmas was coming- the lighting of candles in the Advent wreath was like a countdown timer, or like the ball dropping in Times Square to mark the New Year.

I've come to understand that Advent is a much more complicated season than that. There is eagerness, sure, in Advent, but there is also reflection, stillness, and recognition that all is not as it should be, or as it could be. There is a kind of mourning in Advent, which seems especially poignant and necessary in our world today. If the thought of Christmas makes you feel "less than," sad, or depressed, Advent is a season that recognizes and affirms those feelings. It makes room for sadness, even as it anticipates the promise of hope and love entering the world. 

Perhaps you can see how this relates to the winter garden. It's easy to look at a garden in winter and see only dead plants: to mourn the lost summer splendor, or long for the Spring that is yet to come. Those feelings are only natural, and we naturally don't want to spend time in that place, physically or emotionally, for very long. But I'm slowly learning to be present in the garden as it is in this season. It is reminding me how necessary this season is to the life-cycle in the garden. The soil is resting and rejuvenating, storing up energy that will feed next year's growth. Many of the plants are not dead, but hibernating; it is as if the plants have turned inward, collecting their energy into their cores and roots. Other plants have died, but also gone to seed, and those seeds are abundant!

There is a beauty to be found in the garden in winter that is unlike the beauty to be found here in other seasons. It is a quiet beauty, seen in the starkness of the structures that are there, seen in the promise in the seeds, heard in the rustle of the grasses. These are small moments of beauty, to be sure, and I have to look for them. I have to lean in. But they are there, they are real, and they speak to me of hope. It is really the beauty and hope of Advent, and I think I need it now more than ever.  
​