Small, fragile beauties

Here in the deep south of the United States we are technically winding down the summer even though daytime high temperatures remain in the mid 80s and even 90s. I suspect I will be sporting shorts, tees and flip flops for quite a while longer and I’m not mad about it. That said, nature inherently knows what we can only slightly sense and only if we’re tuned in: the mornings are cooler and the bees seem to be slightly less frantic in their busyness. Plants have slowed their flowering and a few leaves here and there have started to yellow and drop. I wander through the garden, taking it all in, but mostly worrying about the what seems to be a sudden “downturn” in what was a thriving habitat. Have I overwatered? Not enough fertilizer? Too much fertilizer? Poison in the water? An infestation must have taken hold! This must be stopped! Fixed! Why aren’t you producing?!?

And so a few weeks ago, there I was, again, frantic and scurrying around the garden, digging at the soil, testing for moisture, grubs, PH and so on, when I happened to spy a small, fragile beauty in the bed of an expired tomatillo plant. It was the skeleton of the husk of a tomatillo that had been forgotten, left there to slowly decompose into the most beautiful architectural study of structure and design. The remains of a vascular framework that was perfect in it’s geometric pattern, precision and functionality. Another example of how the natural world exists as a screaming reminder that all of life is seasonal and yet somehow I struggle to accept and believe in it. This desiccated jewel was the alert I needed (ping!) to full stop, look around and acknowledge the change.

Did I take it inside and place it in a tiny glass container like a treasured specimen ? Yes, yes I did! So I’m still clinging, but…baby steps.

Looking back on this summer I realize that my eyes were opened to the infinite number of small beauties in our world. Infinite! I set out a few hummingbird feeders this year and those coupled with the pollinator friendly plants drew a crowd that put on a show not unlike Air Tattoo. A small yet tremendous joy was spying a hummingbird, perched on a tiny stem of a tomato plant, relishing in a summer shower, it’s long beak skyward, rustling it’s feathers in the downpour for an impromptu, cooling bath. The multitude of bees— from the wee-est, tiniest, sweat bees to the giant bumbles— all found something to nosh on this year. Even the unwelcome and miniscule aphids met their match with tiny green lacewings who found them to be a tasty treat.

Another small beauty and one of my favorite flowers to plant is Cosmos— so delicate, so ethereal, so seemingly happy in their bouncy sway with the slightest breeze. I am out deadheading them almost every day and they keep giving and giving with endless blooms all summer. They will be gone soon too, but not before I harvest them for cyanotypes. My one last effort to hold onto them, to memorialize their fleeting and fragile beauty, a humble attempt to make permanent the impermanence of the natural world.

I never know what comes next after a body of work has been exhibited, but I am feeling a draw towards smaller, more delicate reincarnations of what was outside this summer. Large, enveloping, atmospheric works have their place, but so do small jewels and I think I may make more of these in the future.

Stay tuned!