Each spring begins almost imperceptibly.
Branches that appeared bare only weeks ago now hold the faintest haze of green. Buds form quietly before unfolding all at once. The shift from dormancy to colour happens faster than memory expects.
This time of year always feels like a return — not only to the garden, but to a particular kind of attentiveness. Subtle tones reappear: the pale wash of apple blossom, the saturated violet of lupine, the softness of peony petals just beginning to open. Even the broad leaves of hostas introduce a particular shade of green that feels unmistakably seasonal.
I find myself studying these transitions closely. Colour in fibre rarely arrives in isolation; it gathers from observation. The way light passes through petals, the contrast between cool shade and sunlit bloom, the scale of leaves against open sky — these relationships linger.
The garden, like the studio, moves in cycles. There are quiet months of dormancy and sudden bursts of growth. Watching this rhythm unfold each year continues to influence how I think about pacing, layering, and emergence within my work.
And, as always, there is a familiar presence wandering through the beds, curious and content, reminding me to pause long enough to notice what has changed.
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