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They say: fashion is about desire as much as clothes and I admit, over the years, with changing intensities, I have been interested in clothing. I find it amazing how attire can change our identity, can playfully allow us to be a different and I like the way impressions can be managed through appearance, though I make not much use of that myself. Being into trends, colours and textures for years, I recognize quality and connect with desirable items. This game is played in accordance with the way I think about myself, which until yesterday I though to be in tune with the real me. However, yesterday I went to an upcycle event and got free colour advice from a professional. You know, a true person-tailored consultation, when a lot of coloured pieces of cloth are interchangeably placed below your face and you can see in a bright big mirror what flatters and what doesn’t. A great experience, you would think! And it was, although it made me think. And it shed light on the relationship I have with myself.

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I am WILD. Not because I have tapped into some old energy while comfortably sipping on green tea kale smoothies after a generous but not too exhausting class of kundalini yoga. Neither am I WILD because I went to a trance workshop and learned to rise my vibrant female energy and I am certainly not WILD through quiet meditation on some healing 528hz tunes, although I must confess, I have tried them all and some have even become part of my regular routine. Also, I am not WILD because I am wearing handmade dresses from tribal textiles and I smell of patchouli and decide not to die my silver turning hair. I am WILD because I have to protect, at all cost, something that I’ve just found and which I dearly treasure: myself.

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Today my path took me to Hortus, the enticing botanical garden of Amsterdam. Here I shared herbal inspiration and deep human friendship with a dear Artist Way friend, enjoying the lovely combination of nourishing words and satisfying lush greens. While walking around the beautiful garden quiet in its winter sleep, I found a broken seedpod on a bush of rhododendron. A pod with a hard shell, beautiful silky inner chambers, but half destroyed and completely empty of seeds. I thoughtfully placed it back on the bush, just to see a small branch, with three similar seedpods in the hand of my friend. Small fluffy seeds were pouring like snowflakes out of it. We shared the pods, and I took one home as a token of this beautiful day and as a seed for further inspiration and growth.

Continue reading “Inspiration and the Paulownia tree”