HEAVEN OF A HUNDRED GREENS

Each spring serves up to these aging eyes, this rejuvenating soul, an eagerly awaited feast of color. Here in Minnesota, winter’s barren, monochrome landscape has starved us of such nourishment for five long months. 

        We must continually make room for 
        wonder in this panoply of presumption.

It’s easy to lavish gratitude on the first green shoots of Siberian squill and then crocus, daffodil and hyacinth. Later, grass starts its miraculous reinfusing of green, followed closely by the unfurling of tree leaves. And finally the usual succession of perennials bursting forth with every possible shape, hue and texture of greenery.

Having witnessed the display every spring since we opened our infant eyes, naturally we’ve come to take it for granted, haven’t we? The same way we do with blue skies, breathing, and other automatic functions of Nature.

But, to continue evolving as human beings, as stewards of the celestial body that sustains us, we must continually make room for wonder in this panoply of pre-
sumption. For the ability to see at least some of Nature’s gifts—including green—as if for the first time.

     A square of black muslin paled next to, of all 
     things, a swatch of black plastic garbage bag.

IT ISN’T WHAT IT IS
One of my first college studio art assignments was to create an 8-inch by 8-inch paper collage, each of whose 64 one-by-one squares was black. The squares were to be taken from any sheet source—paper, fabric, plastic or any other material—as long as each one appeared pure black. 

I used all of these materials, including many samples clipped from magazine photos of black objects: a car, a dress, a night sky, a piano. In their respective contexts, each square was definitely black.

With my grid lightly penciled in and my little squares neatly stacked, I started gluing them all down to the cardboard base. 

What took shape was not a solid sheet of "black." Far from it. It was an elegant mosaic of deep, rich colors, each brought out only by its contrast with its neighbors. What might have seemed common black in its original, unchallenged environment now shone in distinct, dark hues: eggplant, mahogany, claret, midnight blue; deep woods green, ebony.

And it wasn't just the hues; a range of textures came into play too. Even the blackest value rendered on newsprint now looked dull and flat next to a sample printed on glossy magazine stock. A square of black muslin paled next to, of all things, a swatch of black plastic garbage bag. 

(The second part of the "Black & White" assignment was to do exactly the same thing with "whites." Suffice it to say the results were every bit as surprising and beautiful as those realized with the "blacks."
 
   My soul awaits those first April shoots so bravely 
   borne from twig and stem and umber soil.

GREEN, SEEN
So that brings us to these greens I'm enjoying during today’s walk around the neighborhood. Greens no one’s ever asked us to categorize or compare. It dawns on me that this could be another challenge—to an art school student, yes, but also to anyone looking to deepen their appreciation of this awesome, underappreciated color.

So I take a quick photo of the melange of green I'm about to walk through. Then I do the whole mosaic thing again, this time digitally. 

No surprise, the result is as beautiful as that black-on-black checkerboard I created a half century ago. Here, in these thirty-plus verdant shades, is the reason my soul awaits so keenly not just spring flowers, but those first April shoots so bravely borne from twig and stem and umber soil.

FREE AT LAST

A month ago, this soil was frozen over three feet deep. Just last week it gasped under 16 inches of snow.

At long last, like so many eager chicks bent on freedom, spring flowers—daffodil, iris, Siberian squill—peck through earth’s crumbly shell, beaks agape for spring’s soft rain and sun. 

GREEN RIVER – Leafscapes of Change

         In one last gasp the thirsty land exclaims 
       in fervent hues, “Do not forget me, green!”

         These aerial views of summer’s wane are rich with meaning. 
           The landscapes speak of flow and ebb, growth and decay.

              Rivers of green recede from lands they’ve nourished, 
            lush and pliant, since May. Tributaries that coursed then 
             with new life now gather it, drain it back to the source. 
      Stream to brook to rivulet—all know in their cellular souls that, 
      here in northern climes, frozen flow hurts more than none at all.

         In between, red, orange and gold spread as on New England   
                 hillsides. In one last gasp the thirsty land exclaims 
                        in fervent hues, “Do not forget me, green!” 

                    In the end, flow slows to trickle; trickle, to seep;
             and then is gone. Sere earth mottles, cracks and crumbles. 
        And decay’s fall brew percolates to nourish the land once again, 
                      stored up for yet another May flood of green.

EVENING GLORY – The Other Side of Now

I've always loved morning glories. The way they greet each new day with all their being, expending their most joyous color early, fading in afternoon's heat, then closing down, passing their lifeblood of light to other buds whose day is tomorrow.

I've marveled at that one continuous parasol petal, a fabric of such gossamer translucence that it must be lit from within.

And then there's that breathtaking color—blue's my favorite, a clearer, truer blue than that of any bloom.

But this evening I stop and appreciate the plant's evening glory. Here, in one
gaze, are both its coming and going, evidence that one's not simply the inverse
of the other.

No, morning glory unfurls radially, like a twirled umbrella, but curls up another way, rolling in and over itself like water down a round hole. It will not open again.

The irony's not lost on this wonderer that, so unlike me, this moment's all about past and future. I'm glad that, come morning, now will once again unfurl.