while I was looking for purple….

This morning I decided I would go for a walk and look for purple.

The air is crisp. 

I don my purple jacket and step out. 

Neat gardens soon give way to the National  Park. 

As always, my head hums with thoughts, dashing from one project to the next. As I walk through the forest I begin to notice, to see, to observe, and the mind chatter quietens.

purple amongst the fallen leaves in the rainforest

Purple gum leaves, fallen birds’ nests, bush turkey mounds, giant strangler figs, light through new magenta leaves, the burgundy inside a palm frond’s calyx, tinges of purple in fungi, lorikeet feathers, graffiti-marked stinging trees, the purple sheen on black bean pods, half-eaten fig fruit, the sound of running water, wind in the canopy, birds flittering.

Back to the street. Spring blooms in front of colonial windows, New Age signage beckoning Sunday tourists, a purple pram with twins on board, pleasantries exchanged with passing walkers, the first hydrangeas, long views of rivers and suburbs winding to the coast and islands beyond, the blue-purple haze over distant mountains with bruise-coloured clouds pushing westward, shadows on picket fences, winter sun on my skin, winds of change on my face.

My breath has deepened.

I recall a line from a poem by Jenny Joseph. Its first line, “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple,” is a humorous look at ageing.

Well, I am ageing…..

and today I was wearing purple.

Putting one foot in front of the other, I go forward.

There have been periods in my life when moving forward was simply what I did, what I had to do. I remember dreams of spinning plates, juggling too many things, distractions.

What has that capacity cost?

Am I a human being or a human doing?

I know how to do. I don’t necessarily know how simply to be.

Even when anxiety is taking over inside, I know how to keep the plates spinning.

Time passes on.

My hair turns silver.

First I was a wife, a mother, a survivor. Like so many women, I fashioned an existence around others.

Juggling work and home, and yearning for the artist in me to have more room. I would work in community and corporate life and come home and create when I could.

Finally, burnt to a crisp, I stepped off the merry-go-round and into my studio full-time.

I was like a rubber band stretched too far.

As an artist, I don’t accept the notion of retirement. Creativity and art making aren’t a job; they’re a way of being.

There are so many things to do, so many issues to explore and stories to tell.

As I age, these stories become layers of patina, creating more depth, complexity, nuance.

I just need to make sure the support on which I paint is strong.

The forest around me has helped.

The way of looking at things beyond me, an anchor.

Reciprocity, community, connections.  

Seeing the forest for the trees.

Ideas became clearer. The imperatives more urgent.

So many stories have shaped this place, and I want to share them all.

Anxiety rises. What we are doing to this planet, to each other, to our minds. What has gone before, what still surfaces, what is yet to come. What to do next. How to keep my studio practice in motion. How to keep the plates spinning.

Then I come home.

I notice purple.

A faded silk sari.

Patches on a quilt I have just finished for my granddaughter.

The thick socks I wear in the studio on cold mornings.

A birthday card from my sister.

All shades of purple.