When I was in my forties, I took my first classes in visual art. I never selected them as electives in high school because I thought only certain people can do art. Those people included my close friend, Donna who excelled in that area and was always chosen by the teachers to do the classroom bulletin boards; years later, she became a high school art teacher.

When I ventured into watercolor and soft pastel classes, I began to understand that being an artist is about seeing with new eyes. Drawings were broken down into finding the basic shapes that made up the subject and then understanding the proportions of each to the other; at least that’s how I remember those introductory lessons. I also recall learning about the foreground, middle ground, and background of a painting. Those terms are used to describe the spatial organization of elements within a composition, creating depth and perspective (per AI).

The foreground is the area closest to the viewer which can be seen in more detail and with sharper colors. The middle ground lies between the foreground and background and often contains the focal point. The background is the area furthest from the viewer often depicting distant scenery, sky, or less detailed elements. You often hear references to the background, like background noise or the best background for a photo. But other than in art class, I’d never understood the three levels simultaneously.

That is until I was walking through a lavender farm on San Juan Island in Washington State.

I’d taken my solo journey that year to the Pacific Northwest. I’d seen a movie, “Snow Falling on Cedars” and I was fascinated by the huge fur trees and wanted to travel to a part of the U.S. where I’d never been. I went there in mid-July and stayed in the main town of Friday Harbor. There was an island shuttle bus that stopped near my hostel and one of the main sites I wanted to see was the Pelindabra Lavender Farm.

I love the fragrance of lavender more than any other. It does have a calming effect and the color is pleasing with the various hues of lavender and purple. We’d tried to grow lavender in a pot but the Southern heat proved to be too much for that plant. When I first walked into the field, I could barely believe the profusion of healthy lavender plants, at their peak in mid-July. I had my morning coffee walk, that was part-exercise-part-devotional, trekking up and down the rows of fragrant plants. There were workers trimming back dead stems and some harvesting what would be made into the teas, soaps, and all-things-lavender sold in the gift shop.

At one end of the farm, there was a small lake across the road and summer campers were learning to sail small crafts. The boats had white canvas sails and they glided about smoothly in the late morning breeze. In the distance, stately snow-capped Mt. Baker stood tall. Stopping to take in the scene that I was a part of, the lesson from my painting class came to me.

“I’m walking in a painting,” I thought. I’m the subject in the foreground surrounded by the lavender plants highlighted in different areas as the clouds pass in front of the sun; the lake with sailboats is the middle-ground; stretching up to the heavens is Mt Baker with the white snowcap standing out against the blue sky. I’d never felt more present to all that was around me.

On the following Saturday, the town of Friday Harbor had their Lavender Festival. I had no idea that I would be there during that time. It was a festive event with lots of vendors, bands, and by chance, I met the creator of the poster for the event and she signed what became my souvenir.

When I was preparing this post, I looked up Pelindabra Lavender Farm and found out they’d closed. That made me sad but I felt fortunate that I visited and have a strong memory of being there, of being totally present to all that was around me in that moment.

I wonder how many other times in my life I’ve missed things by not being totally present. There have been other ‘scenes’ where I was part of a real life painting that had interesting fore, middle, and background.

Now, I need to stop– wherever I am, whenever I can, and be in the moment. What is in the foreground? And the middle ground? And what about the background? How does this painting speak to me?

All this I carried with me from that lavender field on San Juan Island.

I am grateful,

Connie