Foxgloves

Love in the Time of Foxgloves. That's what I was thinking as I walked the dogs this morning. The commons around my mother's house are full of them. As with most things in the natural world, it's been a bumper year. They are biennuals, Lester informs me, so this year is a good one. Fuchsia and pale pink foxgloves popping up everywhere, amidst the lime-colored unfurling bracken, and under the fallen oaks, which are now sprouting myriad leafy spikes reaching upward. There are finches, tits, song thrushes, amorous wood pigeons. I'm walking in the woods where I grew up, reverted back to childhood, walking in reverie and pondering how fortunate and privileged I am. My narrative isn't important; I know that. But I am grateful for this time to think, to process, to listen, to learn. I have not fully understood the concept of white privilege, of blindspots, or the inability to fully walk in the shoes of those with a different experience. This is my reality today; the green woodlands, the smell of moss, the pink and yellow honeysuckle, almost empty pathways. All I can say is: I am grateful. My voice will sound naïve, I know, in the sea of far more woke voices. But this is the time to be grateful, to pay attention, and to use our privilege to make a difference; to actively seek out ways to help. It's not enough to be smug and bourgeois and liberal and not racist - the time is for active anti-racism. I want to do better.

My job for many years has been to amplify the voices of artists, and I will continue to do so, but paying distinct attention to the voices of my clients whose experiences are unlike my own.

We can't take anything for granted. Nothing. Every single act, every word, has a domino effect.

Nature is there, it seems, to show us what a harmonious world can look like. Thing grow and die, and another takes its place.  For everything, there is a season.