Green Song in a White World

As the days of March grew warmer in the foothills, we began to forget Winter. Winter, however, did not forget us. “Spring,” we laughed when we awakened to the songs of birds we had not heard since October. “False Spring,” we sighed as our days and nights turned white and cold again.

This flower, a gift from a friend, ignored the winds and white drifts piling up against the windows. On the coldest days it seemed to grew taller. Green fingers sprouted, searching for light. Every day I contemplated it, listened to it, drew it.

Years ago when I used to offer classes at the college, I would suggest to my students that drawing is not only the act of seeing, of observing with our eyes whatever the subject might be: flowers, clouds, skin, whatever. But drawing is also an extension of our fingers, as if we were touching the subject, embracing it. What I have lately been learning from the flower is that drawing can also be an extension of our ears. During these weeks of companionship, the flower and I seem to mirror each other; I oberve it, it observes me. It listens to me, I listen to it. To my surprise, the flower sounds like it is singing.

Do you remember when as a child you first held a conch shell to your ear and were amazed to hear the sounds of the sea? The flower makes a sound like that, like a sound light would make if we could hear light. No, no, I thought, I must be mistaken, flowers don’t sing. The amazing sounds are only feathery whispers of snow piling up against the windows.

Then again, perhaps they aren’t.

For more thoughts and images:

My book ☛ Double Vision, Waking Dreams
My website ☛ JohnMichaelKeating.com