It is such a celebration when, finally, the crocuses are blooming on the ridge. I once painted a Mother series around the crocus because each spring they reminded me of my own mother, their softness, fragility and beauty. The crocus is so ephemeral and yet such a powerful symbol of new life. Although it’s really not an environmentally sound ritual, I also picked and pressed a single bloom as a rite of spring each year, for many years. Here are three of those spring times captured in a frame.
This year, I’ve broken with that rite of spring and have left my bloom to be admired and then to lose it’s petals, go to seed and bloom again next spring. I will remember and cherish that I was graced by its beauty. Life experiences have taught me that to admire and engage a life, however fleeting, is enough.