Emergence: Reflections on a Pea Pod and the Art of Becoming

Pen and ink contemporary fine art by Doug Ashby

There’s something sacred—especially as an educator—in the stillness of an early summer morning. The soft sounds of life waking with the rising sun lull me into a deeper state of restful awareness. In these dreamlike moments, I float between sleep and consciousness, where inspiration and clarity often bloom. I find myself hopeful in the quiet. I savor it for the spiritual currency it offers—an energy that guides my day with purpose and ease. It feels tender and young, not unlike the new growth captured in the pea plant I recently drew. In that quiet awakening, I recognize the deep connection between the cycles of nature and the rhythms of my own creative life.

The artwork above began, as many of mine do, with an observation rooted in seasonal living. As the days inched closer to the opening of my local farm, I began dreaming about fresh produce—specifically shelled peas. They’re an iconic taste of early summer. If you’ve never shelled a fresh pea and tasted it raw, it’s hard to describe the contrast. The frozen or canned versions pale in comparison to the mineral-rich sweetness of a freshly harvested pod. It’s as though the plant channels the wealth of the soil straight into that delicate burst of flavor—earthy, green, and alive. This experience feels spiritual to me. It felt worthy of becoming a drawing. Like the moon above—a recurring motif in my work that represents the human impulse to look beyond—this plant, in all its ephemerality, holds deep meaning. There’s beauty and insight to be found in such simplicity, and I wanted to capture that fleeting moment in handmade form.

This drawing emerged during a transitional time in my life. If you’ve followed my journey, you may recall the professional turbulence I’ve experienced as an educator—tension that led me to resign at one point, only to rescind it later. That process, painful and necessary, helped me shed emotional weight I had been carrying after two decades in the classroom. It allowed me to reconnect with the teacher I once was and the artist I’ve become. What I now understand is that these identities are not in conflict. They are interwoven, symbiotic. Each informs and nourishes the other.

In some ways, I feel young again—energized, open, and creatively renewed. I’m excited to explore new directions that honor both sides of my professional and spiritual life. Like the tender pea plant—fragile but full of possibility—I sense something inside me beginning again. Of course, I didn’t know this at the time of creation. But that’s the nature of art: it often understands something before the artist does. The more I try to grasp the meaning of transformation, the more elusive it becomes. And yet, the act of creation brings me closer to it. I wonder—does that resonate with you?

This reflection brings me to a larger question: how do I move forward in a way that honors the full picture of who I am? At one point I asked myself how I could merge all the best parts of me into a singular, complete life philosophy. But what does that really mean? Maybe it begins with grace. Grace to be flawed. Grace to accept the messiness. Grace to see myself fully as both educator and artist. And more importantly, grace to let the artist lead.

My spiritual life is grounded in art. It’s through mindful drawing, reflection, and the quiet work of making that I feel most authentic. Tonight I’ll prepare one of the few meals I’ll get this season that includes fresh peas. Their growing season is short, fleeting. But it felt important enough to spend over a dozen hours creating a drawing about them. That alone tells me something: this space within, this urge to create, to document, to make meaning—is sacred. It is my spiritual center.

And yet, even as I write this, I recognize how easy it is to lose sight of larger themes. The small joys of creating can sometimes obscure the bigger questions. Still, I believe there’s a thread that runs through it all—a sense of emergence, of stepping onto a new path that has, in truth, always been there. Perhaps that’s what I’m communicating through this piece. Perhaps what I’ve long taught my students is equally true for myself: that art exists to communicate what matters. The earliest works of human art were not simply decorations—they were symbols of meaning, shared values, spiritual knowledge, and cultural memory.

So I ask you, as I ask myself: What is being communicated through this work? What are these drawings—these moons, these roots, these tender sprouting forms—trying to say? I believe they are sending me messages about the work I need to do, both spiritually and creatively. About the value of seasonal living, the worth of handmade creation, the need to slow down and notice what is quietly growing.

More directly, I’ll ask you: is there something small in your own life that is beginning to grow?

I’ve come to believe that I am now, finally, stepping fully into a path I’ve been walking for years. I just didn’t recognize it because I was focused elsewhere. What I once viewed as an obstacle was, perhaps, the very force guiding me toward my purpose. From this tiny seed of self-awareness, I want to grow a life that nourishes my creative practice. A life where being an artist—and allowing that identity to shape everything I do—is enough.

This week marks the beginning of a new commitment: a weekly reflection and a new artwork, shared here at Dashbyart. I plan to publish these essays each Sunday morning, though I offer myself grace if they arrive a little later. This isn’t a ritual—it’s a practice. And with practice comes patience, flexibility, and devotion. I hope, sincerely, that this becomes a shared journey. Your presence and your reflections help me stay on this path. They also influence it, deepen it, and make it better.

I used to think I had to do this alone. But like a seedling, I am still learning. Still reaching toward the light.

The moons above remain—constant in their change, quietly sustaining the life that unfolds beneath them. If we keep our eyes up and forward, instead of down and inward, we begin to see how the heavens instruct. So too do our circumstances, if we meet them with openness. Growth is never certain. But it is always possible.

As always, I hope this art and reflection speaks to something within you. If it does, I would love to hear from you—through email or in the comments below. Let’s begin a conversation.

If you’re interested in owning this original artwork, it is available unframed for $440. Please reach out through my contact page to inquire.

Thank you for being part of this.

— Doug