I became a painter and a gardener in 2021. I moved into my current apartment in February of that year, which had a garden plot in the back yard that my landlord said I could grow whatever I wanted in. This is a rare find for a renter in Chicago, and I’d never had a plot of earth of my own before.
This was also the year I experienced severe burnout and distress from my job working as a case manager at a homeless youth shelter in the city. I’d worked there for 3 years at that point. I was highly ill-equipped for the tasks required of that job, and my own mental health was hanging on by a thread. At the same time, I was expected to support and uplift youth experiencing homelessness amidst a global pandemic.
In the spring of that first year, my partner and I started our first rounds of seeds. We started tomatoes, peppers, basil, and cucumbers indoors. We weeded the garden beds that were overrun with mint and weeds. We built a chicken wire fence to keep the rabbits out and bought several bags of soil to amend the dry and lifeless soil. After all this back-breaking work, we transplanted our precious seedlings, who died before they could flower.
As disheartening as this loss was, I now know that this was an opportunity to witness nature and learn to notice its cycles. It is so easy to feel that our efforts lead us nowhere, but if we learn to observe the natural process and wait for the matter to break down, we know that is not the case. That winter, I covered the beds with cardboard and let the bodies of my plants break down and enrich the soil. In the following spring, I pulled back the ground cover to find the soil alive with springtails and worms.
I’ve begun to apply the same principles to my creative work. These days I have more ideas for grandiose projects than I’m able to see through to final projects. Some of my visions for creative work begin as hazy, vague sketches. Some paintings I start but hit a dead end. Instead of seeing these labors as a loss, I’ve begun a "compost pile” of art that I put in a bin underneath my bed. I turn it over often. I recycle my ideas. I wait for the matter to break down. I’ve learned that eventually, these attempts will coalesce into a creative expression I’m proud of.
This is a painting that I’ve been chipping away at for the past few months. I’m still embroidering the details on the cabbages, which is painstaking work that’s taking longer than I expected. The piece began as a simple composition, divided between the vegetable motif and quilt-like geometric pattern. I grabbed these collage elements I’d saved in my creative compost and noticed how well they fit into the composition, and added some leftover seed packets from last year.
The title of this painting is taken from a Joanna Newsom’s “81” which has been on repeat for me lately as I anticipate the next growing season.
I found a little plot of land
In the Garden of Eden
It was dirt and dirt is all the same
I tilled it with my two hands
And I called it my very own
There was no-one to dispute my claim_Joanna Newsom, ‘81
I’m starting to see my creative efforts blossom when, for so long, I’ve worried I was leading nowhere. I’ve grown to see my art as something I can nurture and as a natural cycle that I simply just have to show up and witness. Dirt is all the same. It’s how we tend to it that counts.
I’m trying to apply this mindset to this space I’m building on Substack as well. Admittedly, It feels weird to share my ramblings to a group of strangers. I don’t consider myself a writer, and It’s a little strange for me to be seen in this way. But, I want to share the moments of life that keep me going in hopes my thoughts can go somewhere else and be of service to others.
In what ways do you see the cycles of nature reflected in your own creative process or personal growth?