Spring will never be my favorite season. It's way too far the opposite of my favorite, which is autumn. Nevertheless, spring holds some powerful associations for me-- the buzzing of insects, the smell of fresh cut grass, showers of orange blossoms in the wind, sleeping outside under the stars and
the wonder and mystery of Will O' the Wisp.
The Wisp captured my imagination as a child, and still does, because it's a creature both in and out of this world, so elusive that no one ever gets a good look. Forget fairies in dresses or naked little people with wings. Feh.
Give me instead the Wisp. Ever only seen in glimpses, peripheral to the ordinary light of day, on the edge of what is real and what is not.
Ever so welcomed to open a tiny tear in the plain sphere of shoelaces and homework and brushing of teeth.
Ever so quick and nebulous in detail that no one can agree on its appearance. Wisps are like ships made of clouds, but darker, trailing legends behind them-- stories that scare and thrill children by the campfire. Tales of humans lured away into strange places, never to be seen again.
I'd love to paint a wall of Wisps, but that would be insane even for me. So for now I'll content myself with painting them on Poppets, which might be equally insane, given the scale. Madness is relative, after all. Working tiny is interesting. It lends perception. It exercises its own creative muscle. It's bigger inside than out, and it's been a great introduction of Will O' the Wisp to the kids who move about in this weird house in the desert.
I think this weekend we might sleep outside. And have marshmallows and stories of Will O' the Wisp.
Because that's how legends stay alive---not from movies or books or games, but but by the telling, in a circle of fire lit faces--telling with earnest respect for the lore, to eyes young and wide enough to feel the magic.
Note to self: marshmallows