Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what’s in a name? ~Helen Hunt Jackson

Bee Psychadelic with Me Omaste Witkowski

Bee Psychadelic with Me

Imagine a fantasy wind pushing away the bounds of reality. Bending perception and altering our very ideas of gardening and flowers. Where did this plant come from and what is going to happen to the bee when it is done drinking its fill of this amazing nectar. Will it fly away softly with the wind or will it shatter into a million fragments of color only to reappear another time? The wind will bring it in and the wind will blow it away. The only solid thought is that we are all transient here and it is going to be ok.

Sometimes I can just lose all sense of time and place when I am moving my brush and tasting the colors before me. The anchor to it all is time itself. Time to do the next task and enjoy the next moment. Time will also bring me back to my favorite activity and again I look for the hidden joy in my craft.

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