I'm generally up shortly after 5AM most mornings for the past two months. Early for some, not so much for others. A month into the calendar season of spring, daybreak comes earlier every day, and if I'm to experience it out in the air instead of filtered through the windows inside our house, I have to be up, dressed, make Gabe his breakfast, brew coffee, and be out the door before the bus picks him up for school at 6:45AM. Of course, my friends at Premier are already well into their work day by that time, but then most of them aren't still at it shortly before midnight, so I ought not feel like a slacker.
Anyway, the walk to the river has become a habit now - how long it will last is anyone's guess, but the effect on me is cumulative. My little places that I visit, and the path I follow, have become familiar and comforting. The changes each day are subtle, but blossoms that were bursting and vivid a week ago fall away and are overtaken by new growth. So I pay attention to these small moments. Yesterday I noticed a cluster of wild violets with delicate five petaled blossoms, white with stains of an indescribable soft blue and hearts of that delicate spring green. Today I sat down next to them with my pocket sized sketchbook and Faber Castell pencils in elementary school colors. I thought I'd drawn five of the flowers (a favorite number of mine by Japanese superstition, and that's how many petals there are). But when I got back here to the studio and looked closely, I saw that there is a sixth one. What we want to preserve is fleeting. What we experience changes in a moment.