We Are The Start

on hope and planting the seeds

An unfinished owl is still an owl. Watercolour on paper, by me.

You learn a lot of things by painting with watercolours. Those tiny jewel-like rectangles that glisten in the paintbox are known to be a rather finicky medium compared to more easily controlled things like acrylics and oils. Those mediums have their learning curves, too, but nothing is quite as alive and with a mind of its own as watercolour—or quite as discouraging at times. One life lesson I have learned from my dance with these fluid paints is that there is always an ugly duckling phase when we feel like giving up. When we decide to carry on, though, we learn to slowly build up layers of transparent colours and finally arrive at our last details. The illusion we create of our chosen subject might even please us and align with our initial vision. Of course, it does not always end in the way we expected, but that is another lesson entirely. Here is what I have learned though: an unfinished owl is still an owl. It just requires me to keep the faith, stroke by stroke, layer by layer, until the full form is finally revealed. It’s a steadfast nurturance, in a way.

As I was reading the newspaper this morning, I came to an opinion piece by Paul Krugman, a writer I have come to admire. The title was “Why I Am Now Deeply Worried for America.” I’ve been trying to avoid overwhelming myself with too much difficult “news” and striking a balance with spending more time reading inspiring works of beauty and less time with the talking heads of opinion, especially those writing about things of which I have absolutely no control. It doesn’t always go to plan. Today I felt the pull to know what Krugman was thinking, after a particularly dismal news weekend. Because this is not a place where I wish to discuss the intricacies of politics I will leave you to decide if you wish to read Krugman’s essay; it is easy enough to find. What I wish to offer you today is what I thought about after reading his opinion piece that ends with the sentence “But now I’m deeply troubled about our nation’s future.”

I thought about courage.

What is an ordinary, every day citizen to do in these trying and uncertain times? Some days my only wish is to curl up like a potato bug and hide under a pile of leaves and snow until spring finally arrives. Thank goodness that urge is usually brief, as I was born with the nature of the waxing crescent moon: always with a gleaming sense of hope, even if it’s just a sliver of hope sometimes.

Courage, to me, is the ability to hold on to that slender arc of light in the deepest dark of times and carrying on with what needs to be done. It’s a yearning, I suppose. I can be unnerved to the point of feeling paralysed by angst and the unknown and then, after a bit of wallowing, still have a Herculean grip on the most fragile threads of optimism. What matters, though, is not the courage itself, but the conscious decision to make a start toward something better, something that can remove me from my fears for a moment, even if it is as small as washing the dishes piled in the sink.

What I am really doing is planting the seeds.

Think about the magical life of a seed. Pushed down into the darkness of soil, often cold and hard, it is awakened by the slightest warmth. It seeks nourishment from wherever it can get it, and then begins to send its thread-like roots out into its surroundings, which only nourishes it more. Warmth. Nourishment. Rooting outward. It eventually shoots up a stalk and a few tender leaves that often look nothing like the lush plant it will become. And then, after many weeks and sometimes even months or years, the flower and the fruit arrive. Not unlike my painting of the owl, which eventually became what I hoped it would be.

Barn Owl, watercolour on paper, by Kateri Ewing

So where am I going with this? Friends, we need to find the courage to live each day with a sense of hope, with a sense of wonder and awe at what is possible. There is so much more to life in this universe than the political climate of any country, or the divisiveness that seems to have devoured our hearts and sense of community. It does not mean that we look away or ignore the critical juncture we find ourselves in right now. It does not mean we do not remain diligent to seek the truth, the facts, to remain informed and working toward solutions or doing what we can to help those who are truly suffering, near and far. It does not mean we do not use our sacred vote to elect people with integrity who align with our world view, or at least most of it, and that we do not hold our leaders accountable when necessary.

What it does mean is that we find the courage to plant the seeds of hope and choose to spend our time nurturing, nourishing, guarding our sense of humanity, of beauty, of wonder and awe. When we can do that with great spirit—in spite of all those who might shout at us with their doomsday opinions—we will find the strength to come through these times with a renaissance of human dignity and creativity, ready to tackle the problems of our world, again and again. We won’t be continuously tempted to curl up like a potato bug and hibernate under piles of leaves until the dust settles one day. The work of how we spend our days can be our medicine, or our poison. I want to choose the healing medicine. If we never plant the seeds, the seeds will never grow.

We are the start. An unfinished owl is still an owl. A dark moon is only an illusion, for next comes the sliver, crescent moon, and then the full moon will soon enough be revealed. Let’s plant the seeds of what we envision, no matter how small a start.

How will you begin?

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