This was our Cretan morning ritual: On waking we brewed two cups of greek coffee and sat outside, doing absolutely nothing for the first hours of the day. This nothing was so full. Full of silence, of sunlight, of birds and insects, of field sounds and natural life. Full of many insignificant beautiful moments.
I was so amazed by this richness within nothingness that I started collecting these moments on my phone.
Every day something presented itself to me, a shade falling on the house wall, a delicate dry plant, a lonely cloud. There were so many moments, that I started recording them in the evenings as well. Collecting visible treasures, filling up my soul’s bucket with fresh water. There was no satiety for me. More and more small wonders kept appearing. Nature really goes overboard with its performance.
But then it ended, August has flown by too quickly, and we’re back at our city garden. For the first few morning coffees the garden seemed pale and lacking in comparison to the Cretan wild celebration I left behind. I felt frustrated until I came across a text by Hesse, that challenged me to find a way to see beauty even here.
“Just try it once — a tree, or at least a considerable section of sky, is to be seen anywhere. It does not even have to be blue sky; in some way or another the light of the sun always makes itself felt…Hermann Hesse from an essay titled “On Little Joys” 1905 (!)
I mean, I do have a piece of sky in my city garden… and trees…
Gradually things got a little better. Again I’m able to find small joys with my morning coffee. But I do miss the wilderness, this practice of finding small delights is so much easier there.
“Gradually and without effort the eye trains itself to transmit many small delights, to contemplate nature and the city streets, to appreciate the inexhaustible fun of daily life.
Post art: Greek coffee, gouache on paper