The drought has changed the landscape, but it has changed me too.
The thick green underbrush that once held its secrets has thinned. I can see farther through the trees now. The island feels more transparent, as if it has decided to reveal what was always there.
Most of my spring crops are gone. The plants I’ve been dreaming of using for natural dyes are holding on, and gathering leaves now feels like asking too much. Some seasons are for making. Others are for listening.
The royal palms have their own answer. Each day another frond lets go, returning itself to the ground. I gather only what has already been offered.
Use what I find. Never take too much.
The drought is teaching me that stewardship is not separate from my practice—it is my practice. Going deeper doesn’t always mean searching farther. Sometimes it means standing still long enough for the land to tell me what it is willing to give.
This year, the island is asking for gentleness.
I’m learning to make art from what remains.