I’ve been feeling sentimental.
Spring does that to me.
The roses are in full leaf again—just leaves, not blooms yet. But I can already see the promise. Soon they’ll be sprawling and glorious and unapologetically red, climbing over the porch railing like they own the place. And I’ll think of her. I always do.
My grandmother. With her hands in the dirt, her skin sun-kissed into a deep brown tan, and that sun hat that never sat quite right on her head.
She didn’t have a garden.
She had a kingdom.
Not one vegetable in sight—just flowers. Layers of intention in bloom. Phlox and pansies, lily of the valley tucked into every shady spot. And those roses… oh, those soft pink roses that cascaded over the garage like something out of a dream. They towered over me when I was little. Still do, if I’m being honest.
She’d spend hours out there—trimming, whispering, muttering to the cosmos like they were misbehaving toddlers she loved too much to yell at. Picking beetles off her “babies” with the kind of protective energy usually reserved for saints or fierce librarians.
She’s the one who taught me the art of flower pressing.
Wax paper. A warm iron. A sort of reverence I didn’t have words for back then.
And now… now I press them all the time.
Delicate little echoes of things I don’t want to forget.
Not with wax paper anymore, of course—I’ve graduated. But the feeling? Still the same.
Sometimes I press her, too.
Not literally—calm down.
But I take a photo—her in her wedding gown—and I tuck dried petals around it. Petals from my garden, hers in spirit. My hands, her memory. A kind of slow conversation across time.
And that brings me to June 19.
I’m teaching a flower pressing class—Preserved in Bloom. We’ll be making 8×8″ framed floral art. You can float petals between glass, layer them on paper, frame a photo if you want. Or don’t. Just show up with whatever you’re carrying.
It’s not just about making something pretty.
It’s about keeping something that matters.
Preserving what feels sacred.
Honoring the people, the places, the seasons that shaped us.
There will be petals.
There will be stories.
And yes, there may be a few quiet tears pressed in with the flowers.
That’s okay, too.
Some things are too beautiful to forget.
But it sure helps to frame them.
—Darcy
Granddaughter, gardener, and keeper of the soft, strong things we carry forward
CLICK HERE to sign up for our Preserved in Bloom class to learn the art of flower pressing!
