My silent art prayer screamed volumes. No words could ever express a mother’s anguish when the promise of motherhood dies at the roots.

Instead of screaming, I slung a big paint brush full of hot pink paint. Over time my palette softened, and I gave up wishing the phone would ring.

The Rose Garden mural began at 54” x 216”, painted and collaged on Belgian linen, I hoped such a big prayer would ‘solve’ my huge dilema. My son refused to speak to me or anyone in the family, don’t bother to call, text, or write.

Nearly four years have passed, still silence. The new granddaughter now four, unknown, unseen, but never forgotten.

Calling in the divine goddess of the creative cosmos, last month I seeded the meadow with cosmos and picked up the paintbrush.

The Rose Promises volunteered to jump in. I’d called them ‘plotting blessings’ to remedy the estrangement with my son’s family.

Now here we are transforming roses into wildflowers, cosmos.

The idea of plotted blessings came through as I was painting Promise Me a Rose Garden. The same week my son cut off all family, voles devoured the roots of my favorite coral climbing rose!

From the shock of the blackened roses, I slowly painted, cut, and pasted fibers of my being into paired configurations. Each contained one grid plot, alongside a cascading dreams floral in motion. After creating several sets, I laid them all aside.

In the garden, similarly I transplanted what little remained of the roots of my beloved rose to more sunny, fertile position and waited.

And then I felt the disconnect. Promise Me a Rose Garden, or You Promised Me a Rose Garden! The title pointed right at my expectation that had become the source of my angst and disappointment.

Somewhere along the way, I’d let it go. No longer expecting anything, the paintings jumped back up on the easel for another go.

Everyday, I watered. Prayed for rain, and painted. Cosmos was sprouting.

My approach to painting has transformed over fifty years. Painting now is an investigation of the present moment, not a destination. Rather than a plan, I keep a sacred intention and space.

No map. Rather, a co-creative responsibility to direct my emotions into actions that heal.

A simple expression of now releases so much!

There are no words that express a mother’s grief of losing a son.

Never will be.

Each precious moment a heart connects with the cosmos, seeds sprout.

Journaling Prompt:

What are you seeding?

What is ready to harvest?

Cazimi: the moment a plant moves from being burned by the sun into being purified by it.

Put it down: the soil knows what to do with it.

What has been on the vine so long, it’s rotting from the inside out?