The closed fist
To the open palm
I have had a blast sending out welcome packets to paid subscribers and recipients of the field note! There is still time to subscribe to receive the first issue and mail delivery. Read more here to join my riso mail club as part of this substack project.
Hello, fellow earthling,
Do you ever feel the energy of something just by gazing at it? Of course you do; you must.
Yesterday and this morning I’ve gazed upon tightly closed fists, the perfectly sealed packages that are several dozen thick coreopsis buds stretching tall through the atmosphere. These are packages that open themselves, but not without densely bound anticipation and wonderment.
I planted the coreopsis last year in my dye garden, after purchasing sweet little starter plants at a native plant sale. They didn’t flower last year, and this year they have tripled in size and… I don’t know what color they are!
The not-yet-opened flower is, without doubt, the inspiration behind concealing gifts in wrapping paper. It is the original, much less controversial, gender reveal party. Nature’s scratch-off lottery ticket. The collectible mystery trinket. There is something about the not-knowing followed by the knowing that ignites something universally exciting within us (I am aware scientists might call this dopamine).
The energy I can feel when I gaze upon these buds is that of a sparkling pressure cooker filled with pent up creative energy holding tight for the perfect moment to arrive. And when it does, it’s beautiful and seemingly effortless. We miss the in-between entirely, nearly always. As in, how often do you see a flower half in bloom? We get to see it sometimes, but more often we see the closed bud one evening, and the bloom the next morning. Once it happens, it happens fast.
Sometimes it feels like this in my own process too. Energy percolating for days (or even years) on end, and then suddenly, the closed fist becomes an open palm.
Do I even need to say more? Does it land better mostly unwritten, this comparison between the opening of a flower and a human creative experience? This is a metaphor that should be tired by now, but it strangely isn’t, and it doesn’t cease to enliven me. Just like how we never get tired of flowers themselves. Year after year after year, watching the same flowers come and go, with never a crescent of wane in delight. Some things just don’t get boring.
And there must be acceptance too, that even the most vivid arrivals will also depart. What blooms must dry up in the sun, dis-integrate in the rain, seeds spread into the air by the wind. The elements are always in action.
I’m feeling it. I hope you are too. This is your sign to merge with a flower bud. Find a wrapped package. Feel what comes up.
What are you going to do once when it opens?
More soon.
The wonderment of nature: putting the "mine" in dopamine. :)