I came across these beautiful images, taken by renowned photographer, Margaret Courtney-Clarke of Ndebele women painting their homes. “These images portray a unique tradition of Africa, a celebration of an indigenous rural culture in which the women are the artists and the home her canvas.” It’s a tradition that dates back to the 18th century –– their once mud walled houses are now made of plaster –– where women in the community paint their houses to mark a major event like a birth, a death or a wedding. I find the concept as beautiful as the geometric patterns and vibrant colours these women create. The togetherness, tradition, self-expression.

I’ve been making plates at my kitchen table these past few weeks, and it’s been an exercise in patience, to say the least. There is a prime time, when the clay’s consistency morphs from mushy to malleable that every potter seizes. The clay feels leathery and beautifully workable. Too early, and the clay just flops, too late, and it becomes rigid and set in its ways. It’s always a thrill to find the clay at that perfect point; there comes a confidence in the hands, and a command of the material. It’s tempting to rush, but that almost always backfires. Clay has a memory, and it will remember that you rushed it. Warp. Some rush. Some learn to wait. Some wait too long. Chances are, most of us we’ll do all the above.

I’ve always enjoyed being in nature, and walking among the trees. Last winter, I remember feeling a heightened appreciation for the beauty of naked trees. Then came lockdown, and long daily walks, and I longed to see foliage on those trees. Bare branches suddenly gave me hope. Soon, they would be leafy and alive. Spring came and went, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. With the world upside down, at least we could count on the trees to do what they always do. By summer, the city was a fervent green, abundant with leaves and blossom, and our walks continued. We moved slower, especially on those extremely hot July days, but we didn’t stop moving. We’d always end up among the trees, in their shade, in their splendour. Jason and I felt it, and I think the children did, too. This pull to the trees. “To their majesty,” as author, Kerry Claire wrote recently, “their steadfastness, and the admirable way they keep reaching for the sun.” Today, after dropping off my daughter at school, I walked through a nearby ravine and marvelled at the wonder of the trees around me. The light was golden, the colours majestic. On my way home I bumped into artist, Nicole Kagan and remembered something she’d said at a workshop I’d done last winter; “Trees are both grounding and lifting to be around; their roots are in the ground, and their branches reach up to the sky.” Before long, the trees will be barren. Before long, we’ll begin again.

My son is a beautiful gymnast. I’m always amazed by what he’s able to do with his little body, his power and poise. He can walk about on his hands with such ease. I came cross these photographs by American conceptual artist, Robert Kinmont and immediately I thought about Antimo. The series, entitled 8 Natural Handstands, was shot over several decades, and shows the artist doing handstands on cliff sides, river beds, forests and deserts. A form of performance art, the photographs are an exploration of the land, and the artist’s place in it.

I came across the work of Brooklyn based artist, Yuko Nishikawa today and her art, philosophy, and rhythmic attitude to life resonated with me a great deal. She makes lighting out of clay that’s wonderfully weird and anthropomorphic, as well as beautiful mobiles that feel like roving planets. During quarantine she made one painting a day, some incredibly detailed, and others simple and bold in execution. “Piku piku,” Nishikawa says in her artist’s statement, “is a Japanese onomatopoeia that describes involuntary movements caused by unexpected contact. I want my work to make you feel piku piku, tickling something deep down inside you.”

One of the silver linings of Covid, is seeing how imaginative and resourceful people can be in times of challenge. We’ve watched neighbourhood restaurants morph into gourmet grocers, florists sending stems with build-your-own-bouquet videos, and dozens of gyms and fitness centres taking their workouts into the woods. This summer, I watched my friend, Lily turn her drive and garage into a creative heaven for neighbourhood children. Lily’s grassroots camp provided jobs for local teenagers, and kept the younger children in her neighbourhood safe and engaged. My friend, Jessica, a Mum of two and a passionate cook, zoom-taught sprogs across the country to make bread sticks, croissants and sticky buns. “My mantra has been from the very beginning,” said Moschino head designer, Jeremy Scott, “my body may be in quarantine, but my mind isn’t.” I love this quote. It’s a solid reminder of how creative we can be despite limitations. This year, Moschino presented Spring 2021 in a very different way. Scott worked with Jim Henson’s famous Creature Shop to create a marionette puppet show titled, “No Strings Attached” in lieu of a traditional runway show. It’s kind of exquisite –– the dolls, the clothes, the imagination.

For the last few months, this parking lot has doubled as our children’s playground. With our back yard a mud-pit of discarded nails, wood planks and sheets of aluminium, the parking lot behind our house became their stomping ground. And boy, have they stomped. If not shooting hoops, or racing their bikes around the outer rims of the lot, they’re playing hide and seek, gaga ball or simply loitering like teenagers. In the summer months, all the neighbourhood kids gathered here for games, and now it’s just the three of them again, plus our next door neighbour (and his ace laser pistols) throwing a ball, counting cars, bickering and laughing. By 5 p.m. the parking lot is empty, so they have so much room to run around. It’s not charming or quaint, but it’s all the fun they need.

I’m not a huge fan of Autumn flowers –– celosia, chrysanthemums and rudbeckia –– but I still think any flower in abundance looks beautiful. Heaps of goldenrod, or a vase full of cornflowers is lovely, even if they’re not my favourite bloom. As clichéd as they are, sunflowers really are joyful, conjuring images of Provençal fields, Van Gogh paintings and stone kitchens with large farmhouse sinks. Everyone should buy themselves a sunflower this weekend; better yet, make it a dozen.