The Art of Arranging Fauna

It is true that my father sparked my love of birds and a good guidebook — be it on mushrooms or trees. He often comes up when I discuss my work as an artist and wildlife rehabilitator, as the man who gave me the lifelong gift of birds. My mother, however, played a quieter role, perhaps less obvious at first glance. She taught me, above all else, how to look closely at the world — to love it unabashedly. To hunt down the Calypso orchid nestled at the feet of old-growth giants. To find the wonderment in a Mountain Lady's Slipper streamside, and to understand the importance of visiting it yearly.

Over and over she would say "Dwarf Hesperochiron" as my clumsy seven-year-old self did my best to pronounce it — to remember the importance of its name. I have a distinct memory of squatting above this flower, its small white strawberry-like blooms hugging the freshly thawed ground, my mother telling me to look closely at the purple veining and dark stamens. She taught me about Monkey Flowers too — their propensity to gather around small springs and seepages, and how to count their spots: Three-spotted Monkey Flower, and five-spotted. How the bright orange flowers we saw clinging to the cliffsides were in fact Wallflowers, a biennial that only graced us with blooms every other year.

I learned not to pick wildflowers from my mother. Their lives, so fraught already, deserved to burn bright as long as possible — how could we have the right to end such a thing? She made it obvious, giving the reasons why, not just the rules.

We did, however, have a cut flower garden, and from it we would make arrangements together. Even here she would point out the small wonders: how carnations could smell of sweet cinnamon, and how snapdragons could hide tiny bees. Not every mother invites a five-year-old to arrange the 20-some-odd bouquets required for the cabins and bunkhouse. We lived on a college campus that ran one semester out of the year, but also hosted everything from retreats to PCT thru-hikers. And if they arrived when the garden was in bloom, they came to fresh-cut flowers in a mason jar, ribbons neatly curled on the rim. Even under the strain of prepping for arrivals, my mother would pause and allow me to do my best to artfully arrange — in mimicry of her — the flowers we had cut. When our garden didn't furnish enough, a local flower farmer brought them by the bucketful. She also happened to be my kindergarten through second-grade teacher, and on my desk every week sat my own mini flower arrangement.

So it is no surprise that when I discovered an old tome titled The Art of Arranging Flowers — or perhaps that was the subtitle and Ikebana was the title; my memory is fuzzy here — I was drawn immediately to its pages. I was maybe seven. The white cover, the few color plates, and the feel of the pages seem indelibly etched in my mind's eye. I did a whole book report on it, including bringing in flower arrangements. I'm not even sure it was assigned. I was simply that enamored, and the adults in my life recognized that wonderment and played along.

Now, at nearly forty — almost the age at which my mother brought me into this world — I recognize so much of her in my artwork, in how I choose to step carefully and mind the flowers as I move through this world. I will not wait to honor her, as some artists do, until she is no longer here. I wish to do so now.

This series is for you, Mom. Thank you for teaching me to look closely at this world — to relish in its beauty, to know the names of wildflowers, to grace the table with what brings you joy, to hold space for just how miraculous it all is.