Frost Flowers

I admire a person who can paint—houses, that is, and ceilings, walls, and trim work. I have met some painters whom I consider true artists. No Pablo, Vincent, or Claude here, just Larry, Leland, and Bruce. They can cut in a razor-sharp edge, roll on paint with nary a streak, and hardly a brushstroke shows on the trim. I am more the frustrated amateur who grows impatient with his lack of perfection. In other words, painting drives me nuts. There’s no braving the elements, feeling the wind in my face, or just enjoying a beautiful fall day. Instead, I'm trapped inside, getting paint in all the wrong places, including my hair.  

Nonetheless, familial duty called and I put on some old clothes and got down to work. The reasons I hate to paint came flooding over me. The adage “I’d rather sit around and watch paint dry,” came to mind. If I go to hell, I’ll be the Sisyphus of painting: condemned to paint the same room over and over again while the devil looks on with a dissatisfied smirk. As I painted, I nearly decided to go back to school and become a tax accountant, just for the excitement.  

Time wore on with my brushes and rollers and a funny thing happened: as I got into the rhythm of my task, my mind became untethered and began to wander. I entered the “zone of contemplation”, the same zone I enter when I am in the woods, or sitting over a hole in the ice, or relaxing on an island in a remote Canadian lake. Random thoughts coalesced into solid ideas. I even came up with this post.

Last night, my wife suggested that we paint our bedroom next, and I got that familiar feeling of dread. The thought of doing it all over again wasn’t what I was hoping for. I would much rather be out in the woods, or at least sitting in the backyard, enjoying a beautiful October day. But, I will put on my old clothes again, pick up my paintbrush, and go off in search of my zone of contemplation. As I get paint in my hair, I might come up with another story.

One summer long ago, a young barefoot boy bounded out the backdoor of his house and looked at the world around him in wonder. Years later, he has yet to come back inside. Author John DeLap is that boy, still walking in the world in awe of nature and the life that surrounds him. In Frost Flowers, DeLap offers a collection of short essays, or frost flowers, that capture the rich tapestry of his life and the people, places, and things that have filled him with joy and sometimes sadness. From homecomings to making tea in the woods, he provides a moving collection of vignettes that weave together the inseparable connection between his life and nature. DeLap shares poignant recollections of growing up in southern Indiana and a life lived in the heartland. The stories show his deep connection to the natural world while encouraging others to seek their own place in nature, to strap on their boots and go for a hike in the woods.