Hello,
First, the good news. I spent several blissful hours in the garden on Sunday, trimming back the ornamental grasses, weeding, and pruning the beautiful oakleaf hydrangea — just the faded blooms from last season, cut any more and you risk cutting of this year’s bloom buds. The sweet peas have been in the ground for a week and so far (knocking wood) pests have let them alone (fingers crossed). And the Corydalis solida ‘Purple Bird’, which I planted in the fall of 2022 is blooming for the first time! Of course, when I looked it up on the link above, it says “best located in full to partial shade.” That might explain why the little tubers didn’t bloom last year, given that they’re in full blazing sun. So “transplant ‘Purple Bird’ is now on my garden to-do list.
In the not-so-good-news category, yesterday my Instagram was hacked and taken down. I got a creepy message via WhatsApp that said “we have your account, do you want it back?” ewwww… of course I did’t click the link — in fact I felt like I needed to go take a shower to get the ick off me. Instead I spent hours and hours following a bunch of dead ends. Then today we got through to a live person (!!!) and I have an actual ticket # (!!!!) and have been assured that my account can be restored. Whether or not the account’s content will be a part of the restoration remains to be seen. For those of you who aren’t on Instagram, my daily practice, “Seeing Color In the Garden” lives there, going on for nearly 6 years now. Of course for the last couple of years I’ve published those posts through this newsletter. I know I say it all the time, but it’s true: I’m so glad you’re here!
xo Lorene
Mixed up Colors
This week’s colors are undated for the most part since I don’t have access to the original posts and with a few exceptions, have only a vague memory of what I posted along with each image.
When life goes off the rails, I lean into the order of Fibonacci sunflowers and checkerboard fritillaries. Nature is purposeful and always makes sense, even if we don’t understand — yet. NB: I know, that’s not how you spell fritillaria. And another thing — was this a foreshadow of the week to come?
Coffee, caramel, cinnamon, curry, allspice, whiskey, ginger, breakfast tea, amber, sienna, bronze… I could go on and on and on. I have a thing for brown flowers. ‘Barnhaven Spice Shades’ primrose is one of my garden beloveds. The plant has been in the garden for at least 15 years, which is extraordinarily long lived for a perennial. That sort of resilience is instructive and inspiring. The garden shows me how to live.
Creating color studies became my daily practice, one that sustained me through those first brutal months of grief, and one that has carried me through all of life’s great highs and scary challenges since then. The practice has been transformative for me and I cherish the opportunities and community that have followed, simply because I picked up a brush and started paying attention.
March 22, 2024
Viburnum x bodnantense ‘Pink Dawn’ has been blooming in my garden since November as it does every year through good times and less-than-good times, and here we are on the cusp of April, .
Six years ago today, my dad, Gary Ray Edwards, died after a long illness but still far too soon. Ten days later, on April 3, 2018, I painted my first color study of this plant as a way to participate in that year’s 100-day challenge. Creating color studies became my daily practice, one that sustained me through those first brutal months of grief, and one that has carried me through all of life’s great highs and scary challenges since then. The practice has been transformative for me and I cherish the opportunities and community that have followed, simply because I picked up a brush and started paying attention.
My book, Color In and Out of the Garden, is dedicated to Dad, as are all of the many Viburnum ‘Dawn” color studies I’ve painted over the past six years. We miss you Rocket Man.
(Again, an eerie foreshadow. The thought of loosing 6 years worth of daily color study posts and observations, leaves me feeling a bit off kilter. But the idea that I might loose my connection with the many kind people that my practice has introduced me to is a gut punch.)
Another long-lived perennial in the garden. Ranunculus ficaria is attempting to take over the front garden. Once upon a time, most of the plants were a dark leafed form called ‘Brazen Hussy’. But nearly all of them have reverted or crossed and come back green. A green carpet of foliage spangled with school bus yellow flowers, some double, some not, isn’t all bad. I tell myself they’re doing good work for pollinators and keeping the ground covered so the “real” weeds can’t get in. Their bloom season is short, in a few weeks the plants will go dormant and I won’t think about them until next year when once again I’ll despair of any chance I might have of sifting all the little tubers from the soil.
Cherry blossom season is fleeting but never not a wonder. In early April 2020, I wrote about the treasured trees for a story in The Seattle Times:
We humans, along with most living creatures, are drawn to extravagant floral displays in nature. From super blooms in the desert to meadows strewn with wildflowers, blazing color and generosity compel our attention and clear our heads like the brisk wind that often worries the spring garden.
Springtime in the garden is busy. But cherry blossom season is worth marking. Standing beneath a canopy of delicate pink petals fills us up and restores winter-deficient levels of what scientists who study this sort of thing have taken to calling Vitamin N—Nature.
Sakura is the Japanese word for cherry blossom. That moment when the blossoms begin to shatter and shed their petals is called Sakura Snow—a botanical representation of the ephemeral nature of life. Just now our region is flush with flowering cherries, a bountiful pink prompt inviting us all to pause and revel in the spring spectacle.
HOLI
Hindus mark the end of winter with a bonfire that’s mean to consumer bitterness and restore broken relationship. The following day, Holi, celebrants take to the streets, singing and dancing and playfully dousing one another with plumes of colorful powdered pigments in a communal welcome to spring and a riotous rainbow of love and harmony.
— also from my book, Color In and Out of the Garden, Abrams 2022
Somehow, knowing that my account was hacked on a day that celebrates connection and color takes a little bit of the sting out of it all.
March 26, 2024, today as I’m writing this newsletter
This bed-head of a daffodil is a form of split-cup Narcissi, I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Pink Wonder’. I’ve planted daffodils in several places in the garden but for the most part, as I’ve mentioned before, I grow them in containers so I can see the blossoms up close and gather stems for the house. You can bet your bottom dollar, I’ve got a bouquet on the dining table and even with all the chaos swirling around, they are making me very happy.
Thank you for reading this mixed-up newsletter, I hope I didn’t whine too much. In the face of war, genocide, famine, illness and political mayhem, there are far more important issues to address these days. I’m grateful for everyone who has reached out and tried to help me navigate this mess, including the lovely human at Meta.
Creativebug
Thankfully my Garden Journaling class launched without a hitch — how refreshing! I may have room for improvement when it comes to keeping my own garden records, but every year I make a collage of bulbs that I’ll plant in the garden. I think it makes planting on a cold rainy fall day feel more like gardening. Plus it’s a great way to go back and make notes on varieties that thrilled me as well as demerits for those searing red tulips — one person’s “raspberry” is another’s “stop light red.”
In the store
What say we have a Spring sale on prints — I’ve extended the offer to run through the rest of this month. Visit my online store to browse the collection, including the above images. Each print is 8” x 8” with a one-inch border for a finished sheet size of 10” x 10”. Produced on natural-white artist grade paper (21 mil, 310 gram) with a subtle textured matte finish using archival inks. Take a look around, and let me know if you have any questions.
Enter the code: SPRING24 at check out to get 20% off all physical prints.
Hackers are creepy! Ugh. But the flowers and the beauty and love that come through your painting and post will always win.
Thanks (from a new subscriber) for bringing us these wonderfully warm and refreshing posts! I hope your IG account is restored without any loss! But may I say how happy I am that you've brought your work here as well, where I can take my time enjoying it?! Happy Spring!