Growing up, there were always flowers, as evidenced in photos or memories.
My mother, Grace, grew red roses in front of the two bedroom, added onto to make four, ranch, on Eveningside Drive in Topeka. Purple irises bloomed on the side and pale blue bachelor buttons gathered across the back along the fence.
In Tachikawa, Japan she learned Ikibana, the art of flower arrangement. They graced the buffet and changed weekly.
A hedge of red roses framed the front yard of the old frame house in Roaring Springs, Texas where the man who invented the cotton gin once lived. As the years passed and the hedge thickened, cars passed slowly by just to see Grace's roses.
Suddenly, my cabin is filled with orchids. It just happened. All I do is place three ice cubes in each pot, weekly. It must be the light. Our cabin is filled with light.
Everything about me, all my memories show up in my shibori art to wear. Today in velvet I see orchids and roses and green leaves.