On gardens, studios, and lives that are still becoming—and the quiet act of continuing when nothing feels entirely finished.
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
This week I planted Blue Sage and Ruby Muhly. I worked on the path that will lead to my new studio, watched concrete being poured, and edited what I hope are the final details of my new website.
Nearly everything around me feels under construction.
As is often the case, life has not arrived exactly as planned. A window I had imagined one way arrived another. There are still decisions to make and problems to solve. It is what it is, and now I solve that problem.
I just pray it is true north.
Lately, I have realized that creating anything—a garden, a studio, a website, even a life—requires a certain amount of trust. Trust that we can solve the problems we did not anticipate. Trust that not everyone will understand what we are building or why. Perhaps most of all, it requires trusting our own voice.
Preparing this website has made me think about that. A website is, in some ways, an act of being seen. Some people will understand it, and some will not.
I am beginning to think that this is true of almost everything we create, and perhaps even of ourselves. We can spend a great deal of time trying to explain, soften, or reshape who we are in hopes of being better understood and more acceptable. But I have come to another understanding:
I can survive being misunderstood.
I cannot survive abandoning myself.
Perhaps that is true of art as well. A painting that tries too hard to please loses something essential. A piece of writing that says only what feels safe loses its voice. And a life spent trying to meet everyone else’s expectations can slowly become a smaller life.
This is my work. This is how I see. This is what matters to me. And finally, after all these years, that feels like enough.
⋯
If all goes according to plan, my new website will go live on Friday. It feels both exciting and a little vulnerable to write those words.
The site has become a home for both my paintings and these essays, a place where they can live together and continue the conversations they seem to create.
Going forward, these reflections will arrive through Mailchimp rather than my previous email service. I don’t expect you’ll notice much of a difference, but I wanted to mention it just in case.
I hope you’ll come visit.
At the edge of light, Melanie
The view from where I’ll write, looking toward where I’ll paint —
The studio floor is going in, and soon a window framing the mountains beyond, true north