Creating and Destroying in the Garden

This was the first year I planted what I call a real veggie garden: 3 raised beds and a few in-ground areas for a total of something like 100 square feet. Talk about an awesome, creative, magical experience! In February, there was nothing but dirt, to which compost, seeds, and water were added (plus love and a little elbow grease). Then the sun (fire!) provided the energy, which worked in combination with the innate knowledge of the seeds to grow delicious, nutrient-rich, energy-providing fruits and veggies.

It almost seemed like something from nothing – reminiscent of the old theories of spontaneous creation. Certainly, I was more an observer than a participant in this creative act – though I did provide the water and kept the weeds and snails at bay. But even though my role was relatively minor, it never would have happened without my vision and maintenance. It was a collaboration with nature that taught me a lot about experimenting and patience.

Then this weekend, I tore most of it out. It’s late September now, so the summer veggies are ending and it’s time to sow the seeds for the fall/winter crops. The plants seem to have their own internal cues, or maybe they’re just reacting to the shortening hours of daylight. Either way, they begin to whither and brown. Some of them exhibited a final burst of creativity, shooting out one last set of flowers. Some of them even had fruit on them when I pulled them from their earthen home, shaking the soil off their roots, returning it to the beds. Dust to dust (or in this case, dirt to dirt).

Since I live in southern California, this will happen at least twice a year: pulling out the previous season’s crops to make space for the new ones. The spent plants will become mulch to fortify the soil and the cycle will repeat itself… creating and destroying and creating again. In some places, they still burn the dried remains to release any stored nutrients (I love it: potential energy being released to the earth by fire!), but in fire-prone southern California that isn’t a good idea. So I content myself with composting. The worms are very happy about that.

So I once again have a blank slate. What will I plant? What will I try this time? My success will partly be dictated by the season (“For everything… there is a season”). Were I to plant corn now, it would surely fail, even though I harvested a dozen or so delicious juicy ears a few months ago. Should I allow my culinary desires to take precedence, I might plant buttery lima beans – but again, I would be disappointed. So, instead, I’ll opt for beets, cauliflower, kale, and other greens which won’t even sprout in warmer temperatures.

The lesson in this, for me, is that not only must one make space for new creations, but when those creations are a collaborative process, timing and agreement are everything. 

Storage and stagnation

In physics, they speak of “potential” energy  -- the energy held within an object, due either from its position or from its composition (ie, the chemical bonds that hold its molecules together). And then there is “kinetic” energy – the energy of movement; potential energy unleashed; the energy of work; the energy of change.

While conversing with some new friends, I started thinking about change versus permanence (which really started sounding more like “stagnation”). In the context of art, for example, my husband noted that though he’s glad that there are art museums where we can view, contemplate, and be inspired by great works of art, there are those who consider museums to be art graveyards. Art frozen in time. Frozen on walls. All of that creative energy, all of that inspiration and work – captured (trapped?) in a painting or sculpture. Until…?

Now, I don’t espouse eliminating museums or destroying great works of art, and I can come up with plenty of arguments about how those works are not dead at all, because they continue to inspire and instigate. But at the same time, it makes me wonder how those artists – if they were alive – would feel about their art being frozen indefinitely on a wall somewhere. Perhaps some of them would be proud that they had left their mark on the world… created something of beauty that outlasted their own earthly existence. But maybe some of them would feel differently. Might they feel limited? Trapped? Pigeonholed? Misunderstood? It’s possible.


Certainly, a lot of energy goes into the creation of art. Physical energy. Emotional energy. Mental energy. Creative energy. Might all that energy then be stored as potential energy locked inside, only to be released when the art is somehow changed? That change could be its destruction: All the potential energy being converted to light and heat of the flames. Not only the chemical bonds of the materials but the emotional and creative energy fueling the fire.

Yet another law of physics states that energy is never created or destroyed. It only changes form – released and recycled, potentially to create something else. I know in my own experience in witnessing art on fire that waves of inspiration and creativity have passed through me – perhaps freed by the fire and pausing if only temporarily to spark something in me.

Fire and Dust

Wow... what an amazing burn! For those of you who weren't there, there are already many incredible videos and photos posted on Youtube, etc. I was able to chat with quite a few artists about their work -- its creation and destruction, and will begin posting excerpts from the interviews this week. But I'd like to share one story with you now, which for me captures the meaning of transformation.

Suki (aka Karen Christians) is an artist from Massachusetts. She creates jewelry and works with precious metals -- an art which she began AFTER being horribly burned. Without going into details, I'll just say that years ago, she was caught on fire. One can imagine that after such a horrifying and painful accident, that she was not only physically but also emotionally scarred. But somehow, in her healing -- perhaps the key step in her healing -- she began to work with fire... to make art. She took the very element that scarred her and used it to make something beautiful... and in the process, her own trauma was transformed. Amazing!

As a goldsmith and jewelry maker, she has done a lot of cool things (including founding a school!). This year at Burning Man, she made two wooden "diamonds." So, transformation #1: wood to art. Each of those diamonds were then burned (one with the Man; the other with the temple). Transformation #2: wood to ash. But, some of that ash (mixed with the ash of the Man, the temple, and everything else that was in consumed in the fire) was collected and will be purified and compressed into 5 diamonds! (Transformation #3). Those diamonds will eventually be set into rings (transformation #4!).

Now, the story of the gold for the rings is great too...
Before the burn, Suki reached out to many many artists, jewelers, and goldsmiths and asked for the tiniest of scraps of gold... so in came the donations: many tiny scraps, which ultimately will be used to make the rings for the diamonds.

But wait! There's more! Those 5 diamond rings -- each designed/made by a different artist -- will be donated to one of five nonprofit/charitable organizations -- where they will be auctioned/raffled/etc. The money that's raised by those rings (transformation #5) will then fund many different projects, helping countless people (transformation #6 and beyond!).

My conversation with Suki really made me think about the power of change. Left as wooden sculptures, her diamonds would have been nice -- but they became ALIVE through the transformation from one form to the next. I have a feeling that that's applicable in a lot of other settings...