Drifting in an ocean of healing and recovery, it occurred to me that in this past year I have been places I have never been before. I did not get to travel to the wild places I’d prefer, but instead became a passenger on trips beyond my control.
I had Covid at the end of summer and it weakened my immune system, leading to a hospitalization for pneumonia this fall. This led to two episodes of GI bleeding which were pretty frightening. Several blood transfusions and two procedures later, I was released to go home right before Hurricane Ian stormed and stomped southwest Florida. Ian brought us a muddy salt-water storm surge and several inches of floodwaters into our home. May I say that this is the FIRST TIME we’ve had flooding like this? And we’ve been 45 years in this area.
Luckily for us it was only a few inches and not too full of silt, but bad enough for us to imagine what it was like for those who had a several feet or more of water filled with all kinds of unimaginable things. Ian came as September ended, and now (end of December) I am still waiting to unfurl (unclench?) myself from that tightly-wrapped protective ball of “coping” I’d assumed.
You might be wondering what this has to do with the nature journals. Well, not too much in the sense that I didn’t do much drawing or writing in that time. I was too overwhelmed with antibiotics and too weak to do much but rest in bed. Maybe a bit here and there, trying to recapture the love, that connection. Still, it was the sounds and images of nature that helped me heal, even when I couldn’t seem to put the marks on paper.
Maybe there’s a time when we need to let ourselves be filled, so we can fully heal, mentally as well as physically. And there are times that new experiences are processed later, when it’s safe. I sense this processing and reflecting and finding meaning is happening for me somewhere on a deep level, but not revealing itself too often to my every-day workaday brain and heart. I found though that I could reach a bit of it through art of a different sort.
There have been many losses this year. I’ve been in places this year that I never want to visit again. Others have as well; some have had experiences much more frightening and stressful than mine, and have had much more loss. My heart reaches out to them, blindly but surely. I don’t know who they are, but they matter. I sincerely hope that healing and recovery comes quickly for all.
In the meantime, there is the green-gold light tumbling through the leaves on the oak tree. The soft cooing of mourning doves at dusk. The small things: spiders and anoles and tiny warblers. The memory of standing speechless in the midst of so many swallowtail butterflies -- two days after the waters receded, come to lay eggs on the battered pipevine. That especially felt like a tiny miracle. How did they survive the winds? Where did they shelter? And yet here they appeared, bright and fresh, lifting me. Healing me.
Grace.
Finding nature for recovery (or anytime), visit explore.org for webcams and videos all over the world, and let the natural world inspire you.
Collage, (somewhat) inspired by the cut-outs of Henri Matisse
Media: Various papers and magazines, tissue paper, card stock, embellishments, glue, Kimberly watercolor pencils.
