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.

Artists in Residence

There have been guests at the studio this week. Enji Erkheem, Paul Brändle and River Adomeit arrived earlier in the week and have been rehearsing on the farm. Their performance on Thursday night at Humuhalli was truly heartfelt and enchanting. We extend our gratitude to Enji, Paul, and River for sharing their talents, and to all the visitors who joined us in circle to make it a memorable evening. Thank you.

Video clips: Enji Erkheem, Paul Brändle ja River Adomeit. Forest Studio Mustikkarinne 18.7.

“This time was an opportunity to recenter and reground, so as to make music that comes from a more true and pure place. Being at Forest Studio Mustikkarinne brought out a different tone in the music we wrote, heavily inspired by the beautiful environment and closeness with nature. I spent every day out by the pond just relaxing and writing, which cleared my mind enormously.”

— River Adomeit

Enji Erkheem, Paul Brändle, and River Adomeit, are artists in residence in Mustikkarinne in 2024.

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.

Waning moon tunings for the beginning of the week

Ten days after the last note, ten days after the full moon, time for the waning crescent. A call to relax, to look back, to be grateful. The sky brings much needed water this week. Looking out in the morning, there's gray and rain, but opening the door brings in the deep scents of the forest and warm, gentle air. The morning swim feels more soothing than refreshing.

Yesterday I gathered plants and stones and slowly began to prepare the hall for next weekend's music. The rainy week will end with poetry and song on Saturday night, an hour before the first soccer game, on the day of the new moon.

You are invited to join us for poetry and music. Please RSVP in advance here.

Midsummer’s Day at the Farm

After two weeks of work abroad, I was ready for a break. Combining entrepreneurship and teaching can feel overwhelming at times. I find that things get a lot easier when I stop looking at the calendar and just go with the flow. There may be a two-hour vacation on Monday afternoon, or a Friday morning field trip to the nearby woods. There may also be a two-day work stretch for Midsummer's Day.

The day before, the full moon shone, and everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I made do with imperfect conditions, including uncut grass, unmarked trails, and an unfinished shop and signage. It was a real challenge, but I found my peace and even got some rest.

Nothing sets the mood quite like setting up the speakers, turning on the piano, and opening the day with a song. The next morning, everything was beautiful. The sun was bright, and the wind was warm. The Mustikkarinne garden was opened for the first time for music and visitors. This was the realization of a dream and vision. This year's Midsummer's Day was going to be a beautiful day.

I'd like to thank Juha Leviäkangas and Kaius Ruokonen for the music and Jarkko Sainio for the photos. And I'd like to thank all the lovely people who came or were with us in spirit, the neighbors, the villagers and the summer guests. More than fifty people came. My heart beats for all of you.

Mustikkarinne events continue on July 6.