bridget martin

And just like that January was here and then gone, leaving behind hints of hope and whispers of possibility. Imbolc ushered in February, promising renewal and rebirth. Catkins, snowdrops and celandines emerging from winter dormancy, budding trees and budding plans.

Bird song, Spring song, Sea song.

And already I see March on the horizon, heralded by bursts of daffodils but too fast. Too fast. Focus on this day I tell myself. This moment. Go slow.

The last few years have taught me that sometimes an idea or a thought or an emotion, if slept on, yields a very different response the following morning. The slowing down reveals a different path, offering a new perspective. Not necessarily better but different.

And yet we need the wonder of vivid spontaneity too – wild, vibrant and energetic. This is the stuff of life, the Spring quickening, “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower”. It is finding a balance – quick and spontaneous, thoughtful and slow, dark and light, yin and yang.

I grind chalk into a thick gritty paint and mix some pigments, Yellow Ochre, Red Ochre, Burnt Umber, Cassell Brown Earth, and open a journal. Using these pigments feels elemental. Painting with the earth is like walking in nature, along shoreline and woodland track, wandering the edges, gathering and noticing. Noticing the devastating beauty, the perfect imperfection. Contrast and duality.

Later I collect some threads and scraps, knowing that with stitches come knots and tangles, and with tearing come holes and fragility. At the same time there is always the potential for repair and connection. For taking the story in a new direction.

These bits and pieces that may otherwise be discarded are the fragments of life. Messy, flawed and real. All parts of the untold story. In gathering them the holes may be mended, the lost may be found and the fragments may form a whole. Tenderly and surely. But these things take time.

Go slow.