So many greens. The brownish tones of bladderwrack, whose name made me wince in imagined pain, little poppable polyps that we loved before bubblewrap was even thought of. The generic dark forest slime slathered across the rocks, coastal combovers, a slip hazard for flip flopped children, so we took ours off and risked gashes and jagged edges rather than not being able to feel our way with our soles. Sand caught on our feet gave us a tiny bit of traction, but we still slid off and flung our arms out to balance ourselves, rockpool tidal tightrope walkers.
Tiny crabs hid under fronds and someone, probably Monsieur Cousteau, had taught me that these were not leaves. Here were hidey holes for entirely new forms of life, creeping, like us, around the edges of ocean, wondering what was what. Even then, I knew my plastic bucket jarred against all nature’s magnificence, with its hard manufactured texture and artificial colour. The bullhead I caught in it, alien eyes bulging, was given a few strands of spinach green to hide itself in, until it was time to release it back into the sea. The capture of such treasure all on my own, in my smallness, fed my happiness all summer long, and taught me the beginnings of diving for pearls in mystic prayer, the joy of glimpsing life in salt water pools, and the realisation that all life is magical.
text © K Dibbens-Wyatt Photo from Pixabay
Just as the ocean cries out in glorious Technicolour that she is not only blue, not only green, so I shout out to the world that cannot see who I am. All of us are so much more! Can you not see the myriad of hues that curl under each rolling tide, that sing through the cells of one leaf, that rustle and hum in every emotion passing across my face?
Light and shadow wash over all things, creating tints with no name, and driving the machinations of artists’ colourmen, sweating over the alchemy that will never, no matter how hard they work, obtain true dawn-beach-gold. For who can mix a palette for every green in nature, or even on one tree? And who can capture the nuances of light and dark playing joyfully, dancing as dolphins, on the crest of one wave?
Holding the briefest of moments in our consciousness, were we to live forever, we would never exhaust the meditations dancing in the light.
Text and artwork © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt
Limes sitting in a crystal bowl, catching the light in zigzags that refract through the glass, glancing off the zest in bounced pools of golden green. Here is a sacred thing of beauty that may be set before a queen, bounty from the tree of life, this glorious energy encapsulated in pitted orbs. Can you smell the viriditas, the freshness, these new mercies offered you every morning? All can be renewed. Take and eat, taste and see that the Lord is good.
Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018
As an artist, I can tell you that the one colour you never seem to have enough shades of, is green. The amount of different shades and tones of green in a landscape is astounding, as if God simply could not get enough of making them, but also because of the sheer number of leaves on the trees and blades in the grass, so that there is a myriad of angles and ways of catching and reflecting the light, or hiding in shadow. Creator God knows that one big mass of this colour needs to be broken up; given facets like a jewel to show its true beauty.
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
Bottled air, these bubbles of condensation are caught in a green tinted bottle that used to hold apple blossom body spray. They look like little apples themselves. Droplets of freshness, yet doomed to become stale in their plastic prison, they are nevertheless a little work of art all by themselves.
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
Embryos unfurling, stretching to prehistoric patterns. The forest light filtering through your serrations, the unfossilised, fresh-fronded teeth of pure unsullied green. Here is a nursery unravelling then, millions of years of timeless tedium, edenic shapes, untouched touchstone of evolution, perfect pyramids emerging, ancient parchments unrolling to reveal your viriditas vellum, your undeterred, unchanged message. Only the wind rustling the unread pages.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
Here is a forest, our forest. Dreaming beneath green pine spires and rusting oaks, the coolness of shade-bathed feet as they stand on the leaf-spattered, needle carpet ground; bare toes sheltered under tiny toadstool parasols. Leaf siblings, higher up, haloed in sunshine as it winds and bends through arboreal barriers. Here we open and close our eyes with each breathed breeze, and find our calm delight.
Words and art © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015