Early Spring
oil on canvas, 10×10

By Carrie Jacobson

One of the best things of this life as a painter is having the time, and living in the space, to be aware of the minutiae of the natural world, and the turning of the seasons.

Weeks and weeks ago, I saw the tips of the trees begin to redden. I’ve watched the buds shift to yellow green, and then to flowers and, in a second, it seemed, burst into leaves. I drive the back roads, slowly enough that I can notice the wisteria growing wild where, perhaps, a house once stood. Slowly enough that I can stop to help a turtle cross.

The daffodils are mostly passed here, except for in the shadows, but everywhere,  dogwood is blooming, pink and white, fragile and brilliant deep in the shady woods, and dancing at the edges, too. Azaleas – ludicrously loud! Ridiculously bright! – announce themselves all over town. Irises are blooming, elegant and spiky, and the lawn is already out of control.

Working for decades inside, I hadn’t known I’d lost touch. Now, I know I had.