Avainlippu – A step forward for Mustikkarinne and me

Our farm’s, Mustikkarinne’s, floral products have been awarded the Avainlippu (key flag), a recognition of Finnish production. The Avainlippu is granted to products and services with a domestic content of over 50%—in our case, this share is over 90%.

For me, this is more than just a certification. It’s a quiet confirmation that the path I’ve chosen—growing, gathering, and creating with my own hands, in rhythm with nature—carries value beyond my own experience.

In the floral industry, the Avainlippu is most often awarded for services, not for products themselves. Mustikkarinne is one of the first, if not the first, to receive it specifically for floral products. This distinction strengthens our commitment to local-grown flowers, traditional craftsmanship, and working in harmony with the seasons.

A mark that supports my work

For me, the Avainlippu is not just about where the flowers come from but also about how they are made. It affirms choices that have come naturally:

• Prioritizing Finnish flowers and natural materials instead of mass imports

• Using sustainable, biodegradable, and reusable materials—avoiding floral foam and excess plastic

• A slow, seasonally guided approach, where every bouquet is unique

This isn’t just recognition for work already done—it brings clarity. It allows me to say, without needing further explanation, that this is the kind of work I stand by.

Mustikkarinne | Metsätila | Forest Studio
www.mustikkarinne.fi

Avainlippu – fact sheet

What is Avainlippu?
Avainlippu is a certification granted by the Association for Finnish Work (Suomalaisen Työn Liitto) to products and services that meet strict Finnish production criteria.

What are the requirements?
At least 50% of a product’s manufacturing costs must come from Finland. Mustikkarinne exceeds this significantly—over 90% of our production is domestic.

Why is this significant in floristry?
The Avainlippu is typically granted to floral services (flower shops, design work) rather than actual floral products. Mustikkarinne is among the first to receive it specifically for flowers and arrangements.

What does the Avainlippu mean for Mustikkarinne’s floral products?

• Finnish-grown flowers – We cultivate flowers at Mustikkarinne and work with local growers.

• Sustainable materials – No floral foam, minimal plastic, biodegradable and reusable elements.

• Handcrafted in Finland – Every bouquet, wreath, and floral arrangement is made at Mustikkarinne’s workshop.

Where can you buy Mustikkarinne’s Avainlippu-certified products?
Our seasonal bouquets, wreaths, and floral arrangements proudly carry the Avainlippu label. They are available for direct order and at our farm’s flower workshop.

Lavenders slowly waking from their first winter at Mustikkarinne.

Baptism flowers

Our village has a new member. Most of the flowers were grown here at Mustikkarinne and the nearby village.

The scent of lavender in midwinter stirs the heart

The lavender gardener has been watching the weather forecast thoughtfully, wondering if the frost will arrive before the snow and how the lavenders will endure it.

With temperatures bouncing back and forth, every week has brought new surprises. A few days ago, I walked to the pond and discovered lavender emerging from beneath the snow. I expected brown stems and dried blooms left over from autumn, but instead, I found a shimmering sea of silvery green plants, releasing a scent so intoxicating that I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

I had set the whole lavender project aside, busy with forcing paperwhite bulbs and setting up the workshop. There has been plenty of wonder in those tasks alone. But this—this I couldn’t avoid. There they were, strong, fragrant, and quietly calm in the heart of winter, just as they should be: content in their stillness, turned inward, waiting. The smallest plants are now about five centimeters wide, while the largest have spread nearly to thirty. My love for lavender hit me like a shovel into fresh snow.

Lavender in winter dormancy in Mustikkarinne.

This is why I became an amateur* gardener. A couple of years ago, I walked by the pond at Mustikkarinne and wondered what might grow there. I realized the terrain was perfect for lavender—or at least it could be, with a little imagination. I began gathering lavender knowledge from around the world, attended a lavender course at the University of Michigan, and found a trial project in Finland where the grower, Riitta, later became my mentor. Lavender brought us together, and my excitement led me to search for more training. I joined an apprenticeship program in horticulture at Saaren Kartano in Mäntsälä, where I studied outdoor flower production and herb cultivation, eventually specializing in lavender.

The first lavender seedlings arrived in early April 2024. I had prepared for the pick-up trip by clearing out the back of the Berlingo and folding down the seats, but to my surprise, all six hundred tiny plants fit onto two 25x40 cm trays, which I carried home on the car’s rear shelf. That’s how the journey began—a journey filled with more trials and errors than successes. I’ve learned patience and precision, read meters of literature, and connected with lavender growers from around the world. Along the way, I’ve also learned to trust my instincts and found the courage to follow them.

This morning, when I saw bullfinches perched on the windowsill, I knew frost and snow were just around the corner. I had to make decisions about winter protection for the days ahead. My lavenders were carefully selected to match the climate—varieties that can withstand short periods of frost down to -15°C. The ground, softened by recent mild weather, still held moisture near the pond. I covered the roots of the smaller plants with snow and crossed my fingers and toes. As if nature herself was offering support, snowflakes began to fall gently as soon as I returned the shovel to the shed.

The stillness of winter strengthens both lavender and gardeners alike. Beneath the snow, new growth pulses with quiet confidence, trusting that spring is just around the corner.

Wishing you a cozy week from Mustikkarinne.

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*Amateur: the ideal balance between pure intent, open mind, and the passion for a subject

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.

Fallen Sunday

A standstill. I find myself turning to soft, velvety clothes, waking up the fireplace and wood-burning ovens, lighting candles at noon. Rainfalls follow one another; in between, there are glimpses of sun and soft, noticeably cooler breezes of what is about to become fall air. No one remembered to tell the lavenders, dahlias, and sunflowers that the weather is changing. They are blooming like it’s mid-July, growing strong and letting out a flower or ten or twenty per day. It’s our first year, so there’s so much learning ahead for us all.

Collector’s Note

Beginning of September. I am collecting. Foraging, growing and harvesting. Stocking, drying and capturing summer. I am not alone. The squirrel is just as busy, as is palokärki, our black woodbecker. We are all quite loud in our chores. The yard is filled with whizzeling, singing, clicking, tweeting and occasional barking. Weather stays warm and humid. Our neighbor is worried that this winter will hit us with a month of -30 degrees wheather to compensate the warm waves. Bring it on, we are ready.

Before it's time to say goodbye

“Imitate, assimilate, innovate. In that order.”

— Clark Terry

There's a song by saxophonist Kenny Garrett that I fell in love with when I was a jazz student in Austria. I used to put the song on repeat and listen to it over and over again. At some point I even wrote lyrics to it, made it my own... Then later I continued and wrote my own melody inspired by the original tune. The lyrics came last, and finally it was time to bring the song to life in performance and recording.

Much later I learned that the original melody was written for a band member who had passed away. My song became a bridge to the grief of a lost friendship.

This month I was called to create a floral arrangement for another sad and sudden goodbye. I walked through the woods, visited the family garden, listened to the stories. Then I gathered all the materials in the workshop, let them rest and strengthen in water, and finally began the work.

I piled up lichen and moss, layered callunas, bilberries and spruce, flowers and wreaths from the garden... Added some, left some. Branch by branch, flower by flower, the work came together. Much like a song comes together from pieces of history, thoughts and feelings that are recreated in its final form. It's a very deep, personal and emotional process, much like writing and singing.

And yet we end up in the light.

Both music and natural flowers can help me to bring out feelings that are hard to reach. They are the bridge over deep and dark waters. They are my words, my steps, they bring me back to earth when it seems the sky is crushing and falling, and most of all, they gently remind me to breathe and grow. At my own pace and pulse. One breath at a time.

A weed is a flower growing in the wrong place

Arranging flowers is a bit like composing music. You pick random notes, feel the melody line, and let it form into a song. And sharing work, whether it's bringing them to a new home or capturing photos, feels a lot like bringing a new song to the public for the first time. It's a fragile, small, vulnerable moment of reaching out. You're always ready to pull back and close the door for good. Yet, here we are again.

George Washington Carver said, "A weed is a flower growing in the wrong place." This summer, I've fallen in love with many, gotten to know a few, and worked with some. I have a feeling I’m taking the first peek through a vast door and only have gotten a small glimpse of what might turn into a whole new view.