Garden/Art - Aha! Moment

Today I discovered a direct correlation between my view of art and my new garden. Having moved in in February, the garden has proven to be a source of wonder. The beauty of snow covered grounds gave way to what appeared a vast wasteland of dead oak leaves and ravenous ticks. After hiding indoors for a few weeks I was tempted back outside by the spring blooms. Armed with leaf blowers and tick spray I ventured out to discover a wild garden created by the previous owner who is an extremely talented artist. I didn't feel worthy of caring for this beautiful creation and found myself overwhelmed. It was like standing in front of my easel and new art supplies. What the heck do I DO with this? And so, back in I ran to view this creation through the windows. There is an oak tree that sits in the middle of the deck that appears dead and has strangely affected me. It was a photo of this tree that attracted me to the real estate listing. It was this tree I dreamt of when I prayed the real estate deal would be successful. It was this tree that I discovered held the wind chimes that create the soulful sounds. Does it make sense to bond with a tree? I was saddened and cried. How could I cry for a tree? What's the matter with me?

In an effort to take control of myself I ventured out this morning with camera in hand. I thought to myself that perhaps if I viewed this mysterious garden through the lens, that I would see things differently. And what a story unfolded. My birds-eye view was overwhelming - there's the unknown; the inability to appreciate the fine details; the thought that I can't handle this. But upon zooming in I realized there are beautiful things popping up all around. Yes, the trees may be dead but there's also new life. There's hope. There's a promise that there are other yet undiscovered 'treasures' waiting. And that I should work on this new garden, and art, one small piece at a time. So that I can appreciate the details; smell the new blooms/smell the newly sharpened pencil, feel the heat of the morning sun/feel the smoothness of oily pastels, hear the birds in conversation/hear the rustling paintbrush on canvas. These are the things I forgot during my panic of my birds-eye view.