The first time I went picking wild asparagus with my brother-in-law forty years ago, I couldn't see any, while he seemed to find asparagus everywhere he looked. "You're looking with city eyes," he said. He was right. I had just arrived from downtown Philadelphia and all that green hurt my eyes. Gradually I lost my city eyes and I could see the wild asparagus, too. Every spring, I bathe my eyes in the soothing, calming, nourishing green that is everywhere. There are so many colors of green.
For almost twenty years years, I didn't go back to the city at all. I lived in rural NE Wisconsin where I had a huge garden, and grew the vegetables we'd eat all winter. I canned, froze, and dried everything possible; I even made ketsup. During those years, my eyes became totally acclimated to the country, and I was overjoyed to see the purply green tips of the wild asparagus poking up every spring. Free vegetables! No planting, weeding, watering, fertilizing! Also delicious.
But for the last twenty years, I've been splitting my time between Boston, MA and Door County, Wisconsin. Consequently, every year I go through the same adjustment from city to country that overwhelmed me all those years ago. And in the spring, when I'm staring at a patch of grass and wild grape vines to find out where the asparagus went, I hear the memory of my brother-in-law's voice, "Slow down. Give your eyes time." It's good advice. I remind myself of that when I get to the studio, where I transition from one studio to another. My eyes need time.
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