From weeds to wildflowers to sounding pieces

At first, they’re just weeds. In the heat of the summer, they might even annoy me, growing in the wrong places and making me sneeze.

But as summer moves towards August, I begin to see possibilities. The stems start to harden, and the shapes and colors turn towards autumn’s warm browns. That’s when the foraging begins, on an even walk through the soft autumn air. The low light brings out the colors in a new way. Summer’s harsh light is gone, and now the meadows glow in warm, intense, bright, and deep shades. I feel like a kid in a candy store.

The sense of adventure continues the next morning at the workshop. Starting from scratch—gathering moss, preparing a natural oasis, plugging in the first stems. During most works, there’s a moment of despair and doubt. That’s when I keep adding, like composing music, working through the fear by placing bits and pieces together. Slowly, I begin to see or feel the connections. Little by little, the work starts to take shape.

Occasionally, it’s hard to know when to stop. Less is more, but it’s amazing what the right small tweak of color can do. The line between composing and arranging can be thin. Finishing a piece takes confidence and trust.

Then comes the celebration of accomplishment, the warm flood of happiness: I did this. Time to pick up the camera, search for the right angle, and discover another new perspective. Here are some of this week’s creations, including the work on sympathy flowers.

Home-grown dahlias lying on a bed of dried fireweed, mead wort, sea lavender, moss and spruce.