I write this as I work from home on a rainy Friday afternoon, trying to think of a name for the print you see here. I notice it resembles a flower. An orchid? A white poppy? Hmm, not quite. I try to see if it bears any resemblance to the birth flower of December (a daffodil)? Nope, it doesn’t, no luck there. I pace around my room, when my eyes shift to something green: a first edition book dated to the 1870s that I had purchased this summer. Nearly two centuries later, still perfectly bound by an emerald hardcover and minted in unfaded gold foil embossing. And all of a sudden, there the name of the book and now the name of this new print lie: A Year With The Wildflowers.
As the year comes to a close, I think about all the people I’ve crossed paths with, the cups of coffee I’ve had, the days that turned out a little unexpected, a little wild, but very much remembered. In every sense, A Year With The Wildflowers sums up the year gone past, the seemingly insignificant moments that end up being the moments that mean the most, and all the beauty that lies in the unplanned, uncharacteristic, unchartered.
I wish that wherever you may be as you read this, that you’ll spend a restful and reflective holiday season with your loved ones, and why not, another year with the wildflowers.
See you on the other side!