The Garden Collection
The Garden Collection
The Invitation
The Invitation
The Invitation A crash from the front room. The cat had knocked over my vase. The flowers had long since dried, the water evaporated. I hadn’t photographed them before they faded. I shooed the cat away from the brittle stems she was gnawing on and began gathering the mess, distracted by the familiar ache of having missed my moment. Then something caught my eye. The shape of the flower felt as if it were quietly asking me to look again. As I stood there, holding the stem, a sensation arose. It seemed to come from both outside and within me. A question. An invitation. Can I trust you? I didn’t understand it, but I felt its presence. There was more here than I could name. It arrived long after I thought I had stopped believing. Not can I trust others— but can I trust myself. Not just to be there for others, but to be present with my own knowing. Something I had always offered outward was now turning gently inward. Can I trust myself with myself? I carried the flower to my camera. Reluctant, new to this pull to create, I began to work with light and focus to reveal what was asking to be seen. That moment marked the beginning of a delicate exchange—trust, guidance, and wonder. An invitation to step into a more expansive, adventurous relationship with what I once knew, but had forgotten how to listen to.
The Invitation A crash from the front room. The cat had knocked over my vase. The flowers had long since dried, the water evaporated. I hadn’t photographed them before they faded. I shooed the cat away from the brittle stems she was gnawing on and began gathering the mess, distracted by the familiar ache of having missed my moment. Then something caught my eye. The shape of the flower felt as if it were quietly asking me to look again. As I stood there, holding the stem, a sensation arose. It seemed to come from both outside and within me. A question. An invitation. Can I trust you? I didn’t understand it, but I felt its presence. There was more here than I could name. It arrived long after I thought I had stopped believing. Not can I trust others— but can I trust myself. Not just to be there for others, but to be present with my own knowing. Something I had always offered outward was now turning gently inward. Can I trust myself with myself? I carried the flower to my camera. Reluctant, new to this pull to create, I began to work with light and focus to reveal what was asking to be seen. That moment marked the beginning of a delicate exchange—trust, guidance, and wonder. An invitation to step into a more expansive, adventurous relationship with what I once knew, but had forgotten how to listen to.
Inner Guidance
I rushed down flights of stairs, searching for the safest place to hide her. Knowing she wouldn’t understand, I locked the small cell behind her.
“I’ll be back as soon as it’s safe,” I promised.
I couldn’t balance staying safe and being true to myself. I needed to survive.
I hurried back up the stairs and assumed my role—adrenaline coursing through me, my true self left behind. A fog slowly descended, and I forgot how to play, how to smile from my heart, how to truly exist in this world.
I was no longer a blaring target, but I was no longer living.
Confused, I tried desperately to fill the emptiness from the outside.
I’m certain she cried out for me. But I was so lost, so overwhelmed by pain, that I forgot she existed at all. Life without your inner voice is truly perilous.
With each passing year, the pain of that betrayal buried me deeper. The more I strived, the further I sank. Afraid I wouldn’t survive the next avalanche, I stopped trying to escape.
Then, in the stillness, a voice whispered—
Maybe there’s a way we can live a life we belong in.
Maybe there’s still a way. Her gentle words found me.
And they stayed.
I rushed down flights of stairs, searching for the safest place to hide her. Knowing she wouldn’t understand, I locked the small cell behind her.
“I’ll be back as soon as it’s safe,” I promised.
I couldn’t balance staying safe and being true to myself. I needed to survive.
I hurried back up the stairs and assumed my role—adrenaline coursing through me, my true self left behind. A fog slowly descended, and I forgot how to play, how to smile from my heart, how to truly exist in this world.
I was no longer a blaring target, but I was no longer living.
Confused, I tried desperately to fill the emptiness from the outside.
I’m certain she cried out for me. But I was so lost, so overwhelmed by pain, that I forgot she existed at all. Life without your inner voice is truly perilous.
With each passing year, the pain of that betrayal buried me deeper. The more I strived, the further I sank. Afraid I wouldn’t survive the next avalanche, I stopped trying to escape.
Then, in the stillness, a voice whispered—
Maybe there’s a way we can live a life we belong in.
Maybe there’s still a way. Her gentle words found me.
And they stayed.
I rushed down flights of stairs, searching for the safest place to hide her. Knowing she wouldn’t understand, I locked the small cell behind her.
“I’ll be back as soon as it’s safe,” I promised.
I couldn’t balance staying safe and being true to myself. I needed to survive.
I hurried back up the stairs and assumed my role—adrenaline coursing through me, my true self left behind. A fog slowly descended, and I forgot how to play, how to smile from my heart, how to truly exist in this world.
I was no longer a blaring target, but I was no longer living.
Confused, I tried desperately to fill the emptiness from the outside.
I’m certain she cried out for me. But I was so lost, so overwhelmed by pain, that I forgot she existed at all. Life without your inner voice is truly perilous.
With each passing year, the pain of that betrayal buried me deeper. The more I strived, the further I sank. Afraid I wouldn’t survive the next avalanche, I stopped trying to escape.
Then, in the stillness, a voice whispered—
Maybe there’s a way we can live a life we belong in.
Maybe there’s still a way. Her gentle words found me.
And they stayed.
The Mystic
The Mystic
A moment imagined from the inner life of a flower.
A stirring awakened within him.
He stretched and opened his eyes.
Where am I?
He found himself in the garden among others who looked like him, yet were somehow suspended in time.
Had life passed them by—or him?
Uneasy in the quiet, he moved through each stem with deepening intent, hoping to find a sign—some reflection of his own existence.
As the emptiness closed in, he wondered why he had been set on this path.
Then, from the distance, a sound.
He knelt and peered toward it, sensing something familiar—a stirring.
Like the mystic, perhaps we’re all seeking to understand what animates us.
Faith
Faith
She appeared and startled something within me.
Most flowers had mirrored my experience in obvious ways—
echoing emotion, memory, identity.
This one did not.
And yet, she felt unmistakably dear.
A flower in prayer.
I tried to understand what she was revealing.
An ache surfaced in my chest—a vulnerability, a sense of falling.
There are seasons when we hope someone else will lead us forward.
When faith feels like reaching through long stretches of silence.
And yet, something persists.
A deeper knowing, like a tendril orienting toward the sun.
She appeared and startled something within me.
Most flowers had mirrored my experience in obvious ways—
echoing emotion, memory, identity.
This one did not.
And yet, she felt unmistakably dear.
A flower in prayer.
I tried to understand what she was revealing.
An ache surfaced in my chest—a vulnerability, a sense of falling.
There are seasons when we hope someone else will lead us forward.
When faith feels like reaching through long stretches of silence.
And yet, something persists.
A deeper knowing, like a tendril orienting toward the sun.
Eternal Presence
The wildflowers were placed in my hands.
My body felt as if the ground beneath me had softened. I tried to compose myself, but everything suddenly felt distant—like reaching through a fogged dream. Standing required more than I had.
I set the growing worry aside and focused on getting through what I believed would be only a few days.
Later, light from the window drew my attention back to the wildflowers resting on the sill. The vase was webbed with dust and time. I studied the stems, unsure what, if anything, remained.
Horns and haunting petals beckoned—myths gathered easily here, stories formed to soften what felt too sharp to face. I couldn’t recall what it once looked like in bloom.
I hadn’t photographed in a long while. Long enough that counting the months felt dangerous. But today—today there was enough steadiness to create.
Uneasy, but more curious, I carried the flower to the camera.
As I worked, I noticed how easily the mind drifts—toward what can no longer be recovered. I resisted that pull. The flower before me asked only for presence.
Beneath old beliefs and quiet superstitions, something steadier held.
Eternal Presence is a reminder that meaning is not found in what once was, but in what endures—here, now, across time.
The wildflowers were placed in my hands.
My body felt as if the ground beneath me had softened. I tried to compose myself, but everything suddenly felt distant—like reaching through a fogged dream. Standing required more than I had.
I set the growing worry aside and focused on getting through what I believed would be only a few days.
Later, light from the window drew my attention back to the wildflowers resting on the sill. The vase was webbed with dust and time. I studied the stems, unsure what, if anything, remained.
Horns and haunting petals beckoned—myths gathered easily here, stories formed to soften what felt too sharp to face. I couldn’t recall what it once looked like in bloom.
I hadn’t photographed in a long while. Long enough that counting the months felt dangerous. But today—today there was enough steadiness to create.
Uneasy, but more curious, I carried the flower to the camera.
As I worked, I noticed how easily the mind drifts—toward what can no longer be recovered. I resisted that pull. The flower before me asked only for presence.
Beneath old beliefs and quiet superstitions, something steadier held.
Eternal Presence is a reminder that meaning is not found in what once was, but in what endures—here, now, across time.
The wildflowers were placed in my hands.
My body felt as if the ground beneath me had softened. I tried to compose myself, but everything suddenly felt distant—like reaching through a fogged dream. Standing required more than I had.
I set the growing worry aside and focused on getting through what I believed would be only a few days.
Later, light from the window drew my attention back to the wildflowers resting on the sill. The vase was webbed with dust and time. I studied the stems, unsure what, if anything, remained.
Horns and haunting petals beckoned—myths gathered easily here, stories formed to soften what felt too sharp to face. I couldn’t recall what it once looked like in bloom.
I hadn’t photographed in a long while. Long enough that counting the months felt dangerous. But today—today there was enough steadiness to create.
Uneasy, but more curious, I carried the flower to the camera.
As I worked, I noticed how easily the mind drifts—toward what can no longer be recovered. I resisted that pull. The flower before me asked only for presence.
Beneath old beliefs and quiet superstitions, something steadier held.
Eternal Presence is a reminder that meaning is not found in what once was, but in what endures—here, now, across time.
for those who linger with flowers
for those who linger with flowers
