I'm all for blooming where planted. Making the best of a location—any location— is easier than constantly grumbling and complaining about it. (I've tried this both ways.) Every location has its merits. Of course, some unfortunate places can tout only a single merit or two, and those hide behind vile weather or bleak landscapes...
Regardless, I do believe if you set your mind to it, you can bloom, wherever.

But living where you desire to live is very different than living somewhere because you've chosen to live there. What's the difference between desire and choice? The place where you locate Home Base is, unfortunately, almost always arrived at by choice. Probably because you work there. Maybe because you went to school there and somehow never left. Maybe you have family there. Responsibilities. A church you love. Ties of friendship. Maybe you've planted saplings that you want to see grow into mighty trees.
Maybe you simply never made the choice to leave. (Not choosing is always a choice.)
My husband and I have been there, done that, and for all the above reasons.
 
We weren't unhappy. Heavens, we sometimes even bloomed there. But we desired more.

So we walked away from that life, a life we'd chosen and nurtured for decades. Why? The easy answer: We were on the far side of middle-aged crazy, super-responsible, burned-out people. Dig deeper:  One day we woke up and admitted our blossoms weren't as colorful nor as fragrant as we suspected they could be. Was there someplace we could blossom prolifically?
A Home Base we didn't have to make the best of?
We needed transplanting.

Uprooted, shed of responsibilities, ties, trees,we could've gone anywhere.
That is an amazing choice to possess. We followed our hearts, relocated somewhere we love, somewhere we desired to live.
Far West Texas certainly isn't for everyone, but living there is a privilege my husband and I don't take lightly.

Why then, do we ever leave?
This month, we've escaped our corner of the world for greener pastures, and I mean that literally. We're vacationing in south central New Mexico, camped under towering fir and pine on grass so lushly green it stains my bare feet and hurts my eyes if I stare at it too long. We've traded our rugged brown mountainside for this soft green one, gained a couple of thousand feet in altitude, driven six hours to get here. And for what? Green?

I don't enjoy painting this country as much as I enjoy painting west Texas. Never have.  I miss the rainbow of color the high desert offers anyone who pays attention to its garish displays. I absolutely hate painting with those endless greens that fill most landscape palettes. We must frequently refer to our map when we hike here. Here, we're crowded in with other RV-ers, far closer than I'm comfortable being to unfamiliar humans, however nice and well-behaved, however expensive their motor homes. Our phone service is sketchy, roaming off-network, expensive. Real groceries are only available way off in Alamogordo. And having made my mark as a Big Bend landscape artist, I have a limited market for the subject matter found in these lovely Sacramento Mountains. It rains almost every afternoon, and my man, my dog and my parrot live in fear that a mountain shower will drown them during one of the hikes I insist we enjoy almost daily. Every mountainside looks the same. Green. Or, greener.

Even so, I paint what I see here.  I'm blissfully happy when rain interrupts my day. Looking across pastures of too-green grass, trying to decide whether it's viridian or pthalo or olive or cinnabar relaxes me. I don't care whether what I paint here will sell back in Texas.
I'm blooming here in New Mexico this month.

We vacation to refill our senses. To unwind, to recharge. To put problems and stresses back in perspective. To renew our connections with each other. To take the time to watch the dog sniff unfamilar air, to listen to the parrot compose a new song. To explore new ground, to possibly get a little rain-soaked in our exploring. To make friends of strangers. To choose and use from that tray of unworn sticks of green pastel.

Even my husband, who authored the book No Place Like Home So Why the H%#! Leave It? and our dog, a shelter alumnus who worries that every trip away from Home Base might result in us losing our way and ending up back in the pound have recently admitted that yes, vacations are good things and they're glad they came. (I try not to say I told You so too often; I save my energy for prodding them into these little hiking adventures I plan for the team, and there is the possibilty they'll get wet, so I don't want to remind them I'm the one who demanded we take an extended trip somewhere, anywhere....)


It's good for us to sometimes follow other trails, to paint with seldom-used colors. To study maps, to hike farther than our legs feel comfortable carrying us. To sleep in, tired from yesterday's unexpectedly demanding hike. To fulfill inexplicable desires.

I remind myself that if I wasn't seeing green this month, I'd be painting from the same old familiar and beloved palette.
I know that, like Jim and the dog, I'll have a new appreciation of Home Base when I choose to return from painting this world through these wonderful green-tinted glasses.


Afternoon Showers and With Laundry on the Line
9" x 12" on archival Wallis paper
 Unfinished plein air pastel copyright Lindy C Severns 2009

May you bloom today, wherever you are. And may you only get a little bit wet from those requisite afternoon showers. (Unless of course you live in Far West Texas, in which case I wish you a skin-soaker, so much rain it makes you shiver and run for the nearest rock shelter to await rescue by canoe...)

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