Recently, I was having a conversation with someone who moved to LA about the same time as me. We were effusing about how much we enjoyed living on the west coast, but he made the comment that it's incredibly difficult for him to mark the passing of time now. I understood what he meant. You won't hear me complain about living someplace that has perpetually sunny weather, but that is one thing I miss: the acute connection to the passage of one season to the next.
This home sickness is especially apparent during the transition seasons of spring and fall. I was fortunate to have a very special yard at my house in Minneapolis. The side and backyard were fenced in and hidden. This created an almost secret garden feeling upon entering. While the yard was certainly showy in the summertime, the quiet, steady, green growth of the spring always won my heart.
After months and months of grey skies and a seemingly dead landscape, it was always a wonder to see the fern fronds emerging from the wet underbrush. Uncurling their prehistoric fronds, growing at a remarkable rate day by day. The lily of the valley and snowdrops so delicate and pure, sometimes with wisps of snow still nestled around their roots below. Those first warm days of spring, I would walk the yard frequently, offering words of encouragement. "Grow my pretties, grow."
Year by year this was a reassuring feeling: that no matter how long the night, how cold and dreary the days, life would surely emerge once again.
This moodboard for my next collection is inspired by the promise of spring. The smell of earth and moss and delicate florals, and new life awaking after a long sleep.