The Art of a Rough Day
Next Saturday I'll be a featured artist at the Intersections: Arts & Faith Conference in Folsom. The theme for the day is Honest Art, and I'll be talking about many of the ideas and stories that fuel my vision and my work. In preparation, I've been trying to get some of those things down in a coherent way, and I'm even considering putting together a more formal presentation of it all. But that's a topic for another day.
On the subject of honesty, though, some days are just tough.
This week I had one of those days. It started with barely being able to get out of bed; maybe I stayed up too late, maybe I've been pushing too hard. Everything felt slow to start. I kept getting pulled away by the small household tasks that pile up for everyone. Finally I got myself and Ginty out the door and over to the creek trails, and was immediately met with the sound of loud, relentless construction. I know they're building more homes over there, and that's fine, but it felt like an invasion of the peace I was so desperately craving.
Some days are rough for all of us, even Ginty.
A little ways down the trail, Ginty went into full meltdown mode over some other dogs, not just once, but a couple of times. Meanwhile I was taking deep breaths and trying to drink in some calm, not feeling like it was working at all. Forcing yourself into peace is probably not the most effective method, as it turns out. But I kept going, kept breathing, and slowly started making myself notice the small things.
First, a hummingbird, flitting around a nearby bush, there and gone in an instant. Then another one later on the trail, and then another. I've been thinking about them since, and when I looked up what hummingbirds symbolize, I found that it centers on joy, healing, agility, and living in the moment. And in many traditions they are seen as spiritual messengers of comfort, resilience, and grace. I feel like I could use a generous helping of all of that right now.
Farther along, away from the construction noise, I found a spot where a buttonbush met the rushing creek in a way that produced the most beautiful sound of gurgling water. My deep breaths finally started to feel like they were doing something. I couldn't stay there all day, but I stayed a little while.
On the way I came across a small Pipevine Swallowtail caterpillar crossing the trail, sluggish, slightly dehydrated, seemingly having given up. I picked it up and carried it to its host plant, where it visibly perked up once I set it down. I've been seeing a lot of these little caterpillars lately, crossing the trail for reasons I can't quite figure out, and I found myself wondering, am I a little like that? Struggling through something difficult for reasons that aren't entirely clear, just trying to make it to the other side? Maybe. Or maybe this particular season of difficulty is simply part of the journey.
Getting a glimpse of a Spotted Towhee is always encouraging.
There was also a Spotted Towhee peeking out from the brush along the trail, which felt like its own small encouragement. And as I made my way back toward the trailhead, the path runs closer to the creek, and the sound of the water felt like a quiet parting gift before I had to face the rest of the day.
Because the rest of the day was waiting. As a small business owner, the list is never-ending, the semester is winding down and I'm behind on grading, and I need to finish new artwork in time to share it at Intersections next week.
I don't have any tidy answers. I'm just keeping on keeping on. I hope you're doing at least that well too.
No matter what, the trail is always good for me.
