How many springs?

My father died on Easter Sunday many years ago. Just before he passed he told me about his regrets. Chief among them was failing to realize that we all have a certain, finite number of springs in our lives. He wished that he had payed closer attention to his garden. He talked at length that day about the color of his azaleas, how he had nurtured his fig tree through blight, the joy of seeing his bulbs emerge and how much he loved putting his hands into the dirt. 

A few years later, I visited the hilltop town of Ronda, Spain. This little village, known for bullfighting, was a favorite spot of Ernest Hemingway. As I walked through the park, I noticed an old man strolling along the promenade, and for whatever reason, he reminded me of my father. Maybe it was his hat or his cane or his slight build. Or maybe it was the way he stopped every few steps and looked up, so lovingly, at the Jacaranda trees.

I returned to that photo over and over again. In the spring of 2022, just before the anniversary of my father's death,  I began to think about what he said. How many springs do I have left? Any and every spring could be our last. What I know for sure is that how I spend my days -- where I allow my thoughts to go, what I stop to pay attention to -- is what the rest of my life will be about.

I painted "How Many Springs" in honor of my father. Each year, when the bulbs begin to pop out in my own garden, I remember him, and pay attention to the finite gift of spring.

How Many Springs by Nan Dawkins