by Deanna Dusbabek, artist & photographer in the Pacific Northwest

I love daylight savings time. Is this a controversial statement? LOL. It seems like everything is controversial these days, right? But I can recall that even as a kid, everyone seemed to moan about the spring ahead moment. Something about “losing an hour.” I’ve never understood this.

“Spring ahead” means, well, SPRING, which is my favorite season. Although come to think of it, we don’t actually get seasons in the PNW, but I digress. Maybe a better way to phrase it is: I love what daylight savings time represents. Sure, we “lose” an hour, but we gain an immeasurable amount of well-lit, sun-drenched opportunity to create, to dream, to plan and to execute those plans.

Daylight savings means the perception of more time, which brightens the psyche and eases the pressure of a short, fixed schedule in which things can get accomplished. "Spring has sprung," as the saying goes. But spring isn’t just a season. It’s an action, as in, "to spring." And this is the theme of this blog post as we, ahem, spring ahead towards inspiration (OK, cheesy. Whatevs).

In order to benefit from this gift of time, which is really a gift of light, we first need to take an inventory of where we’re at as we emerge from the typically busy fall and winter months. For many of us, these months are de-energizing from accumulated holiday activities and back to school tasks.

Particularly for creatives and business people, the holidays can be especially draining of our energy resources. As we prepare to receive this gift of light, it’s important to make sure we intentionally make time to recharge, or to “fill the well," as Julia Cameron of The Artist’s Way refers to it. March, with daylight savings time and the advent of spring, is the perfect opportunity to free up internal storage space so you can fill yourself with all that beautiful, inspirational light.

We all know that some fun spring ahead benefits include: spring break, spring nail designs, spring dresses and spring cleaning. But did you also know that March, by way of perfect serendipity, has an important symbolic flower associated with it? Yes, indeed! The daffodil, which signifies rebirth, new beginnings, inspiration and creativity. How wonderful, given our discussion. And since March is the official kickoff to the spring season (first day of spring is March 20th this year), it serves as an extended opportunity to do some spring cleaning of mind and soul, to unclutter for an inspired “system reboot.”

This is where my foolproof plan comes into play. (I actually do this exercise year round to stay refreshed. It works that well for me). I spend focused time doing this during March especially, so as to best utilize the month as a segue between two distinct creative seasons.

So put on your walking shoes and follow me.

My plan in a nutshell is this: find a quiet woods or forest where you can walk (anyplace will do, as long as you’re safe and there’s no noise). Silence your phone and don’t wear earbuds. Plan to spend at least forty-five minutes walking there, four days a week, beginning in March. Listen to the birds as they busy themselves readying their nests and exchanging gossip. Listen to water running in streams or the rain coming down. Listen to your shoes squishing the mud. Listen to your breathing.

And do breathe deeply as you go. Take in the musky aromas of green growing things, moss, trees, clean air. Do this by yourself—this is key, and be comfortable in the stillness. Understand that you’re not running a race to get to the next task on your To-Do list here. Give yourself permission to luxuriate in what’s around you. Notice the plants and trees as they arise from their winter slumber. What animals do you encounter? What can they teach you about industry? About life lessons? About God?

It seems to me that creativity resides within the soul. And when I place myself directly in the path of God’s own creative work, like a forest, it gives my soul more freedom to connect in a deliberate way with THE creative energy that Julia Cameron—and I—identify as God.

Those who speak in spiritual terms routinely refer to God as the creator, but seldom see creator as the literal term for artist.” Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way.

From early childhood, I realized that the world was made. I understood this not from an intellectual perch, but from inside the creation. In other words, I’ve always seen God as Artist and the whole of His natural world, and everything in it, as His art. So when I’m in need of rejuvenation, as I usually am this time of year, I head to the forest with the specific intention of participating in the magic of all He made for us to enjoy. All the colors, sounds, textures of nature are what initially trained humans to create music, art, poetry and stories as a response to what we observed. “Making” is intrinsic to who were are and human art is the greatest compliment of mimicking God’s own artistry. And absolutely nothing is more effective than being inside God’s art to uplift, recharge and inspire.

Saint Pope John Paul II wrote in his letter to artists:

None can sense more deeply than you artists, ingenious creators of beauty that you are, something of the pathos with which God at the dawn of creation looked upon the work of his hands. A glimmer of that feeling has shone so often in your eyes when…you have admired the work of your inspiration, sensing in it some echo of the mystery of creation with which God, the sole creator of all things, has wished in some way to associate you.” Saint Pope John Paul II, Letter to Artists.

Being in the forest in this way, united to that “glimmer” of pathos for God’s work, fills me with such joy that I frequently find myself overcome by emotion when I’m there. I participate in what God has made and also see that it’s good. That’s surely an encounter with immortality, as every artist, believer or not, can attest to. Our art is our legacy, perhaps even more so than our family in a particular sort of way.

As I mentioned, Julia Cameron calls this intentional, focused activity “filling the well.” She says, “Over any extended period of time, being an artist requires enthusiasm more than discipline.”

I know this to be true, as I’ve been an artist and writer all my life.

I don't know about you, but I can't create from a place of being “under water” in my inspiration account, caused by over-doing, over-giving, over-scheduling. I can’t force myself into the spiritual “space” I need to be in to make any type of art. This seems to be universally true, no matter how you earn a living. A burnt out CEO, lawyer or small business owner can have a debilitating lack of enthusiasm, which then leads to apathy, just as much as a burnt out artist. The point is you cannot give what you don’t have and any “making” endeavor means taking something out of yourself and giving it away. By its very nature, it’s de-energizing.

“Filling the well,” therefore, isn’t just for artists or creatives. It’s a good business strategy for preventing self-destructive depletion. It means that you allow yourself to engage in a healthy activity, like walking in the forest, purely for the enjoyment of being filled. You’ll feel reconnected to your soul, and better able to manage all the bits and pieces of your life as it hurtles through ever-expanding task lists and piles of Post-it notes. Daylight savings time naturally allows more opportunity to get your walks in before or after work, so you feel like at least a portion of your day is dedicated to your mental, physical and spiritual health, not someone or something else’s. It’s a wonderful commitment to make to yourself and will entirely shift your outlook. But it must be approached in silence, with humility and focused attention. I cannot stress this enough.

For artists who are also believers, these walks can inspire meditation on hidden mysteries:

All artists experience the unbridgeable gap which lies between the work of their hands, however successful it may be, and the dazzling perfection of the beauty glimpsed in the ardor of the creative moment…believers…know that they have had a momentary glimpse of the abyss of light which has its original wellspring in God.” Saint Pope John Paul II, Letter to Artists.

I love that: “…the abyss of light.” And that’s what it is. To be an artist is to exist in that abyss of light. What is spring, and then summer, if not an opportunity to be in even more light, as we talked about earlier?

And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.” Genesis 1:3

And it was good.

So as we settle into March, and with it enjoy the bright twin lights of spring and hope, I encourage you to find your forest and explore it without the boundary of deadlines. Explore it as an artist, with childlike awe at its complex beauty, as if you just got the biggest, grandest Crayola Crayon box with a built in sharpener ever made. Breathe in the forest and rest in its majesty. And allow yourself to wonder and see with the eyes of the soul.

This is filling your well. This is rejuvenation. This is inspiration.

Did you know, by the way, that “inspiration” comes from the Latin word “inspiratus” which means “to breathe into?” So when you allow yourself these silent walks in solitude, when you intentionally take time to fill your well, you’re quite literally drawing Divine “air” into your lungs. Put another way, inspiration means “breath of life.”

Think about that as we turn our clocks ahead.

But, you may say, “I don’t have time to do this for an entire month! I’m busy!”

We’re all busy, friend. And frankly, you don’t have time not to do this if you feel depleted and uninspired. Trust me, my foolproof plan works.

Now go buy yourself a lovely bunch of daffodils and enjoy your walks.




If the past year highlighted anything for me, it’s that I cannot stray far from my roots for too long. I need to be outdoors in fresh air and sunlight, surrounded by silence and growing things. I need aromas of animals, grass and fall apples. I need wide open spaces so I can see the sky. I need cows and chickens and horses and sheep, so I can be humbled by their rootedness in simplicity.


I need to be on a farm. It’s in my DNA.


My ancestors were peasant farmers going back to the early 1700s. As nearly as I’ve been able to trace, my direct ancestor, Paul (Pavel), came to this country in the mid-1800s, from a poor village called Hlinne in Bohemia (now part of the Czech Republic). Like so many others, Paul was in search of economic opportunities for himself, his wife Marie, and their ten children who all sailed with him from the motherland.


They came through New York, then crossed the country in two covered wagons to settle in southern Minnesota, a land rich in fishing, green rolling hills and enviable soil. He purchased a land deed for 70 acres there in 1857, and for three subsequent generations, that land provided for my family, until it was sold in 1969.


Some of the happiest times of my life were spent on that farm and I recall quite clearly the somber mood as we left it for the last time after its sale. There have been few days since then that I haven’t thought about my family’s ancestral home with great yearning in my heart.


But, let’s return to the present.


2020 was nothing short of abysmal for so many, including me (see my blog post about the Covid lockdowns and mental health). But there were two bright spots. The first was being able to photograph clients in October, after months of enduring the stay at home order here in Washington. (We were shut down again in November, which was infuriating and definitely NOT a bright spot). The second also happened in October, when I came upon A Bountiful Farm, a family-owned 30 acre farm right here on Bainbridge Island.


From their website:


"Ross and Sharon (Boundy) left Seattle and moved to Bountiful Farm in 1981. The only structure on the property was the main brick farmhouse. They saw the property as a place to enjoy with their four children and put in a lot of hard work. Over the years, they've built a barn, chicken coop, sheep shed, cottage, and more. Bountiful Farm is home to a herd of sheep, cows, one dog, four cats, over 80 hens, several beehives, four horses, and a flock of Canadian Geese, who fly here every summer.

Now, we grow organic produce, free-range eggs, and are an event venue. Everything from weddings to bar mitzvahs to the Painted Frog Auction has taken place here. Bountiful Farm is a place buzzing with energy right in the heart of Bainbridge Island, WA. Come visit us!”


“Buzzing with energy” is a factual description, albeit a modest one. The place fairly explodes with good vibes, from its cheerful mascot dog, to the flower gardens offering up massive dahlias so voluptuous they droop on their stalks. Each vignette on the Farm is a poem about goodness and bounty from the land, curated with love.


I discovered A Bountiful Farm purely by happenstance while out scouting spots for a senior portrait session. As I was driving along Fletcher Bay Road, I’d spotted a pearl colored horse in a pasture alongside a fenced driveway, just off the road. I can’t resist any animal as beautiful as this one was, and I wanted to see it up close. I turned into a long, tree lined private driveway and followed it past the horse, to a cluster of picturesque houses. I readied my apologies for interrupting so serene a place without permission.


A yellow lab instantly appeared and greeted me without the slightest hint of apprehension that I might be there to steal the silver. He seemed expectant of an edible gift from me and was so clearly habituated to this routine, I realized he must have visitors on a regular basis. He settled for an enthusiastic belly rub in lieu of a treat, unabashed in his exposure of his private parts to me, a stranger. But such is the joy of dogs in general and labs in particular. I finally looked up from the lab and surveyed my surroundings, none of which had been visible from the road.


What I saw took my breath away.


It was as if someone had syphoned from my brain its memories of my grandparents’ place and reimagined them here. I was overwhelmed with emotion, struggling to reconcile my feelings of being transported back in time.


The bright air was heavy with smells from my childhood: hay, dirt, manure, animals, flowers, vegetables. And for a long moment, I stood there in the driveway breathing them in, as pictures of lost loved ones associated with each scent flickered in my mind. Something soft rubbed against my ankle and I looked down to see a grey tabby who acted as my tour guide from that moment forward, as the lab had gone off to investigate the tall grasses by a duck filled pond.


As I absorbed this magical place, it occurred to me that I didn’t yet have permission to be on the property, but there wasn’t anyone visible to ask about getting it. I opted to knock on the closest door which was opened by a charming gentleman with kind eyes and a kinder smile: Mr. Boundy, the founder of the Farm, as it turned out. He gave me permission to wander about at will and to bring my senior portrait client there, as well. I thanked him and proceeded to treat myself to something I hadn’t done in many years: meander around a farm. I grabbed my camera bag and jumped into the adventure with a grateful, enthusiastic heart.



And what a meander it was! I followed a walking trail around the outskirts of the property and exchanged greetings with the cows and the neighbors’ sheep, then headed past another horse pasture and into the gardens. A classic, yet stylish, blue barn dominated the area beside the flower and vegetable garden, looking painterly against the cloud dotted sky.


I spied a rather grand chicken coop beside the barn and then a large fenced area where some curious horses were watching me with their extravagantly big eyes. As I approached to pet them, they snuffled and sniffed my hands, sending warm puffs of breath into the chilly morning air. They looked like they should have been in The Lord of the Rings films, breathtaking as they were. I spent a fair amount of time with them, loathe to leave, but eager to continue my adventure. To be honest, I was so enchanted by what I was experiencing, I’d forgotten about the beguiling white horse that had initially been my reason for coming to this place.


My new tabby friend darted in and out from fences, but never let me get too far away without running back to check on me. She followed me as I investigated the chicken coop, and watched nearby in calm stillness as the hens came to meet me in a colorful, clucking wave, expecting to be fed, just the way my grandmother’s hens had.


A great sense of being home engulfed me. It was something I hadn’t felt since I’d been in my grandparents’ car as we drove away from my beloved family farm for the last time, after they’d sold it and moved “into town.” But such is the restorative power of A Bountiful Farm that it built a gentle bridge for me between the Past and the Now.


There’s so much peace at the Farm, you’ll never want to leave. I know I didn’t. And I keep looking for excuses to go back so I can once again cross that bridge and briefly return to a world that no longer exists.


If you haven’t experienced A Bountiful Farm yet, do yourself a favor and go visit. It’s the perfect day trip from Seattle and the owners are the loveliest people you’ll ever meet. The Boundys truly wish to share their bounty with all who seek to partake of it. Trust me, you’ll be a better person for having given yourself an opportunity to step far outside of your everyday life.


And who knows? You might even find a tabby cat who guides you across your own bridge through time, towards home.


Living in Washington State during Corona is like being ruled by a capricious king who wildly changes the law of the land from one day to the next on a whim. His rules are inconsistent and nonsensical, his subjects nothing more than a faceless crowd to be briefly mentioned in a newsfeed, alongside statistics that vary wildly from one minute to the next. To this mad king, the only thing that matters is the pie chart, the graph, the infographic.


Actual people need not apply.


But the real Covid crisis is the impact the lockdown has had on the lives of working class men and women, many of whom, like me, have small businesses. Our stories are largely left untold amid the ever shifting infection rates and death tolls blasted on the daily news.


We’ve been reduced to a literal faceless crowd, stripped of individual identity. Told we’re selfish to want to open our businesses. If we’re “allowed” to open our businesses, we’re forced to comply with the mad king’s demands as to what we can and can’t do in them, under threat of massive fines.


The psychological effects of the lock down and subsequent trauma suffered by people who’ve shuttered their dreams and lost hope must be shared. Their financial lives are in ruins and many face bankruptcy. You haven’t heard much about these men and women because to highlight their pain would be to recognize them as persons and not numbers.


These steadfast Americans are more than faces covered by masks. Many of them started their businesses as side hustles, as I did, and worked seventy hour weeks for years to grow those businesses, only to now see their efforts destroyed by mandatory lockdowns. Their trauma at watching their dreams disappear like cigarette smoke on the breeze is real.


Their trauma story—my story—deserves to be told.


Merriam Webster’s online defines “trauma” as: “...a disordered psychic or behavioral state resulting from severe mental or emotional stress or physical injury.” Does this resonate with you during these weird, upside down days of Corona Virus? I mean, it’s been an absolutely surreal, Mad Max from Thunderdome experience, complete with brawls over toilet paper and the rise of feral “Karens” writ large on the nightly news.


Do you feel like screaming at the top of your lungs?


I can’t take it anymore!”


Yeah, me too.


But let’s talk about mental health and trauma, because "traumatic" is the word I’d use to describe these past several months. Please keep in mind this disclaimer if you read further: I’m a Christian and the point of view expressed herein is mine and is absolutely God centered. Sad I have to say that, but these are the times in which we live.


So, trauma.

My “pandemic” experience has been of absolute panic, horror and near despair. Prior to the Corona Virus Meltdown, I actually had a great deal of optimism for the future. This is unusual for me because I’ve struggled quite a lot in my life. But going into 2020, I’d allowed myself to feel hopeful that the future showed signs of promise.


Perhaps, I’d thought prior to Covid, my little photography business which I’d fed and watered with love and sacrifice for several years might just make the leap from survive to thrive. Maybe I’d finally realize my lifelong dream of being a successful creative after all.


Then the Carona Virus Effect happened: life stood still and my entrepreneurial experiment stopped dead in its tracks. A part time job I’d also worked to keep my student loans paid ceased to exist. Like thousands of other unfortunate souls, I wasn’t able to get through to the unemployment department in my state and eventually gave up trying. Words like “stay at home order” and “quarantine” became part of the daily lexicon. The fear I saw all around me was palpable. So much so, that it became a real chore to interact with people at all, because their anxiety was so pronounced, it became their central reference point. And they frequently expected me to absorb their fear and validate it.


That’s not how I’m wired, however. My response to others’ need to deposit their panic at my feet was to seclude myself as much as possible. I’m not particularly timid as a general rule, but it was overwhelming for me to be confronted with all the hysteria.


For the record, I was never afraid of the virus. I was, however, terrified of people’s reaction to it, the loss of liberty because of it and the consequent financial fallout for many Americans, including me. Every minute of every day for months has been extreme anxiety about surviving the lockdown. The idea of my photography business thriving--of realizing my American Dream--seems quaint now.


That’s what this piece is about: the grief and trauma of losing hope and how to come back from that, if even just a little. A word of caution: if you feel the need to argue with me over the politics of this virus, please stop reading now and go elsewhere. I live in a state that is—five months into this thing—still locked down with no end in sight. The noose tightens every day around my neck. And the very real trauma of that, with all the related aftershocks, is, to borrow from the so-called influencers, “my truth.”


It’s clear that my life and my livelihood are of no consequence to those who control the levers of power in my state. Nor do the lives of millions of my countrymen and women who are in similar, or worse, situations than I. My business—my DREAM—is gone. I have to work every part time job I can find just to keep a roof over my head and I’m still short each month. When I finally managed to connect with those in the know about any sort of financial assistance, I learned I don’t qualify for anything because I’m still working, even though I’ve lost thousands of dollars these past months. Debt’s piling up and I’m going to have to relocate in another state and start over, on the off chance that I can salvage my future somehow.


Trauma, indeed.


The daily struggle with depression has been the most difficult part of this ordeal. For days at a time, all I could do was sit in my tiny garden and try to assimilate the cheer of the birds and flowers and butterflies around me. Let the sun recharge me somehow and settle my shattered nerves that were on constant alert, like the Starship Enterprise when it encounters a Borg cube, the inside of my head flashing red lights and a computer voice counting down the self-destruct sequence and warning that all personnel must abandon ship:


“Three.”

Abandon ship.

“Two.”

Give up?

“One.”

There must be a way.


Day after day, this scenario played out in my brain. From experience, I’ve learned that trauma begins in the psyche then quickly moves to the spirit. My soul was on fire. But what to do? How was I to cope with my “new normal” of a life without forward movement? Into the garden I’d go and sit for hours, in quiet and stillness, because I was numb and in shock. I didn’t know it then, but I was grieving the loss of a future now in tatters.


And just as in every other time of trauma in my life--the death of my father, the implosion of my family, the loss of children--I instinctively sought out quiet and beauty for refuge. There among the flowers and the birds, I could find a sort of respite, a momentary comfort. I could remember when I felt whole, before all the insanity started. The wholeness existed on the other side of a great canyon, watching me with a familiar face, but at least I could see it from the opposite side of the gulf between us. It hadn’t abandoned me forever. And if I could see it, I could figure out a way to get across the canyon to it.


This time in the garden became my lifeline.


And it saved me.


Trauma tends to bring out the best or the worst in people, depending upon their disposition going into it. Chirpy, happy, happy people who want only to focus on unicorns and fairy dust are truly annoying to be around when you’re faced with terrible circumstances. But so are those who only focus on the negative. The worst are those who take the negative and blow it up like a hot air balloon and send it into your life so it can cast its massive shadow over everything it passes.


It’s exhausting.


Staying level and alert, yet open to feeling better, seems to be the most prudent course of action. But how to achieve that leveled path during traumatic times?


We know that nature is good for your mental health—a walk on the beach or in the woods is wonderfully calming when you face difficult circumstances: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/tips-for-everyday-living/nature-and-mental-health/how-nature-benefits-mental-health/


Because I see nature as God’s artwork, being present in the natural world soothes me in several ways: I get the mental health benefits and healing power of nature, as well as its artistry, and enjoy the spiritual refreshment both provide.


This comes in handy as a portrait photographer and visual artist, because I see everyone and everything as a work of art, so I treat nature and the people I photograph respectfully, filled with the wonder appropriate in the presence of such magnificence. In particular, I find my work as a fine art floral photographer invigorates and illuminates at the same time.


It’s an amazing thing being almost inside a flower. A macro lens or a Lensbaby lens (I love the Muse stacked with an 8mm and 16mm macro converters) really lets me see what’s going on in there: bugs on their own little adventures for food; striations of color and textures; the tiniest breeze which flutters the fibers on the petals, and so on. Truly a universe within a very small world.


Shooting flowers always gets me thinking.


Anyone can take a walk in the woods and point out dappled sunlight on the leaves and proclaim, “It’s so pretty!” And it is. But have you ever sat down and really examined all the different hues of green on those leaves?

Could you IMAGINE a color into existence on your own? No, of course not. We didn’t invent color, we discovered it and copied it and use it for our own purposes to beautify our lives. But all color is represented in nature, somewhere. And I believe, by design.


The effects of trauma on the mind, body and soul can to some degree be repaired by exposure to beauty—that’s one of the fundamental reasons it exists, it seems to me. I had a lightbulb moment many years ago: “Aha!” I thought. “Beauty can crack the stone around the human heart.” I thought that brilliant at the time. Maybe it is. But I’ve added to that thought since then, for I’ve come to believe that beauty serves many purposes, and now in this time of trauma, its most important function seems to be to stitch the soul back together and super glue the psyche.


Why?


Because beauty, the beauty of nature, in particular, is the closest thing we have to the fingerprint of God. There are many beautiful things in our experience: family, love, friendship, travel, etc. But only the beauty of the natural world is objectively the handiwork of Someone beyond us. We yearn for it and seek it out. Think ocean side or mountain view property, for instance. Even something as mundane as Pinterest is designed to help us find ways to beautify our lives. We’re obsessed with transformations of weight, teeth and bedrooms. Our homes can have better, more beautiful, curb appeal.


You know exactly what I mean when I say we yearn for beauty. It's instinctive to us. Most of us are repelled when surrounded by chaos and tumult in our immediate environment or on a larger scale, like the chaos caused by Corona.


The creative force which makes roses smell good is THE creative force Who has painted the world with such a variety of brushes and colors and themes and imagination, that were we to live ten thousand lives, we couldn’t comprehend it all. For me, this creative force is also a healing force. The beauty of nature, even the irregularities and sometime horror of nature, brings great wisdom and humility. These things help put life into perspective. And where there’s perspective, there’s a sense of tidiness and order. And order manifests a sense of blessed control, which is the key to feeling like you own your life.

But being present in nature is just the first part of the equation. As an artist, I believe that God communicates through beauty and invites me to participate with it and Him by creating something of my own, as a sort of answer to His call. The making of something beautiful is foundational, because it allows me to offer my own work back to God in cooperation with His creative Spirit. It’s a formula for salvation and it goes something like this:


I observe beauty in the natural world and meditate on it. This takes me directly to God. He and I converse about what I can learn about Him from what I’ve seen. I then feel energized, then compelled, to take that energy and create something of my own as a responsive exercise. It’s an act of defiance against the brutality of the world, a light filled moment where art meets faith.


The beauty of nature during and after this lockdown is an invaluable gift. Fresh air, sunshine, woods, flowers, oceans, mountains, desert and plains give most of us in the US an abundance of natural beauty from which we can gain a bit of peace. Even a small pot of flowers on an apartment window sill helps us take a mental and emotional “time out” from the current lunacy. And after the Corona virus passes, there will be more trauma that we each must face in our lives. Such is the nature of being human.


But beauty—the beauty of a single flower or a planet viewed from space—has the power to save, to heal, to shift a debilitating mindset. It’s restorative. Once I was able to recharge, I found a bit of clarity. I was ready to deal with plans for my business, and I was able to pick up my camera again and shoot. I photographed my little garden of salvation and made the images you see here.


As primarily a portrait and headshot photographer, I’m not able to offer the services I did prior to the lockdown. However, as a fine art photographer with a concentration on florals, I have some options. I’m now in the process of shifting my photography business to an online order system with a focus on fine art. Although I’m devastated at the loss of my portrait work, I look forward to spending my time for the foreseeable future among the blossoms. Once I relocate to another state, hopefully within the next eight months, I’ll relaunch the portrait side of my business.


The tiniest spark of hope burns again within me, thankfully. I can trust that to guide my way along this path of uncertainty as we move into fall and 2021. I can give myself permission to imagine a way forward again and pick up the pieces of my American Dream.


The beauty of nature and the act of creating has relieved some of the trauma and lifted the thick fog of daily depression. It’s helped me get to the other side of shock and grief, to the place where the wholeness stood and looked back at me. I can now stand beside that wholeness, instead of across from it, and look back at the spot in which I stood, that’s now empty. I’m not fully healed, there’s much work to do yet, but I have reason for cautious optimism.

The school closures will one day be over, and we'll again celebrate birthdays and bury our dead as we’re accustomed. But until then, remember the positive effects nature can have on your mental well-being and go keep good company with the roses in your garden.


Stop and breathe them in.


And thank them—and God, for He made these lovely things for us to enjoy.


He made them to help us come back from the ledge, to a place of recovery, where hope can build a bridge across the canyon.