Three Little Buddhas

Twilight in the green foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Beads of rain trickle down the windows of the studio. An iron-colored sky fades into a cold night. It’s the middle of the month of May, but winter has returned. So why does it feel like the world is on fire?

Sometimes the weight of what we know to be true feels too heavy to bear. A few days ago, before the rains came back to visit, I turned away from the din of the television set and the news of disasters and catastrophes across the world; turned my back on the inanities of Senates, Parliaments and Ministries to walk out of the studio into a fragrant garden of tulips, peonies and violets. With a pencil and a few brushes and a tin box of watercolors, I sat for a couple of hours in the dirt at the foot of a cluster of irises.

Gardens in Spring are noisy places and the voices of flowers are hard to hear over the hum of insects and the chatter of ravens and blue jays. I wondered if I and the irises would be alive next spring so that I could paint them again. I think they replied, "yes, of course," but I'm not sure.