I didn’t know that choosing to make art is one of the hidden definitions of helping people. It’s not just that art can comfort the weary, heal the sick, and change the political face of the world. But it’s also the artists themselves, showing up for the joy and terror of the creative process. The courage to be oneself, and to carry on doing one’s true work, helps people every day.
When I think of seasons, I think instantly of Tasha Tudor, who depicted them so beautifully—and who, in my sodden Northwest childhood, gave me an idea of what seasons could be like for people who didn’t live on the edge of a temperate rain forest.
I’m shocked to find that this new/old urge to write is punishing. It is not folksy and warm. It does not smell of babies and grass stains. It’s demanding, elbowing its way into the privacy of my dreams.