Upcoming Markets

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You can always order a bouquet through the webshop, (delivery in Central Halifax/ Dartmouth) or catch us at the following Spring Markets: 

The Banook Pop-Up, Banook Canoe Club (Just in time for Mother's Day!) 

Saturday May 12, 10-5pm.

17 Banook Ave, Dartmouth

 

The Dartmouth Makers Spring Market  

Friday May 25 5pm-9pm / Saturday May 26 9am-4pm

The Parish Hall, 61 Dundas Street, Downtown Dartmouth

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Three ways to get your mitts on some gorgeous Flora Valentine bouquets this year:

Pop-up Tuesday February 13, 10am-6pm, at Urban Gardens, 60 Queen Street, Dartmouth.

Or pre-order though the Flora webshop for pick-up at Urban Gardens, Dartmouth (or for delivery).

Also pleased to say you can add a small Flora bouquet to your scrumptious Valentine order @honeyandbutter.ca! 

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We'll be there with fresh market bouquets and potted lovelies!  

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Getting ready for Mother's Day deliveries this weekend. So excited about all the spring blooms in the studio! Order through the shop on this site.  

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We'll be at Inkwell Modern Handmade Boutique and Letterpress Studio, 1658 Market Street, Halifax, Feb 13th.

Come snag a luscious lovely bouquet!  

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Checked out the dahlias at Public Gardens. I like the titles as well as all their varied shapes and colours: Pride of Place, Neon Splendour, Midnight Dancer, Purple Imp, Swan Lake, Woodlands Wildthing, Valley Porcupine, Crazy Love. There are tons. Also enjoyable to watch the people looking at them, excitedly snapping photos and oohing and aahing and pointing.

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I was sort of shocked to see this tree, the first all-in fall tree I'd encountered this year. Actually kind of stopped in the path and stood staring with my mouth open I think.  Until I regained my senses. 

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I always enjoy these three pals they plant out each summer. I imagine them whispering them to each other in the dim greenhouse all winter, excited for the next appearance, rehearsing. 

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And these I'd like to draw. Cartoon cacti.  

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The foliage on these was so gorgeously dark, and there were still tons of buds. The blooms were catching the sun saying Look at us, Look at us, We were made to catch and hold the light. 

 Fall into Fall flowers and birthdays and celebrations.  I've loved this first season of being able to harvest Flora-grown flowers from my field. Learning and learning and ok so I didn't really weed as I should have this year...But of course next year I'll do it all perfectly?   And this season was about allowing space for it all in many senses: space for messiness and space for mistakes and space for experimenting and trying and seeing. Space to be small scale and space for learning how to prioritize and how to balance. Space to plan badly and for that to be ok. And space for creating my own way of working and getting to enjoy learning about each flower variety and seeing the growth process of each. 

Fall into Fall flowers and birthdays and celebrations.  I've loved this first season of being able to harvest Flora-grown flowers from my field. Learning and learning and ok so I didn't really weed as I should have this year...But of course next year I'll do it all perfectly? 

And this season was about allowing space for it all in many senses: space for messiness and space for mistakes and space for experimenting and trying and seeing. Space to be small scale and space for learning how to prioritize and how to balance. Space to plan badly and for that to be ok. And space for creating my own way of working and getting to enjoy learning about each flower variety and seeing the growth process of each. 

 Some things were slow growing, like this lisianthus. And when you're waiting you're thinking, as you glance at the snail-paced stems hardly moving, is it worth this one? Is it worth waiting for this to grow?    And now it's producing and producing and I go out to the greenhouse and I stare at it. 

Some things were slow growing, like this lisianthus. And when you're waiting you're thinking, as you glance at the snail-paced stems hardly moving, is it worth this one? Is it worth waiting for this to grow?  

And now it's producing and producing and I go out to the greenhouse and I stare at it. 

 You just never know, I guess. There are still things appearing out there that I'd long since given up on. Tall poppies about to burst into bloom and these tiny orange and yellow milkweed blossoms that I adore.   I pulled the late sweet pea vines overhead along ledges in the  greenhouse and carefully reinforced them. There's just something to it, the romance of a cascading drift of blooms overhead. It makes me happy. 

You just never know, I guess. There are still things appearing out there that I'd long since given up on. Tall poppies about to burst into bloom and these tiny orange and yellow milkweed blossoms that I adore. 

I pulled the late sweet pea vines overhead along ledges in the  greenhouse and carefully reinforced them. There's just something to it, the romance of a cascading drift of blooms overhead. It makes me happy. 

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I took an amaryllis bulb out of its dark closet hiding spot too soon. I was thinking I'd done so by accident, but the truth when I think about it is, I took it out thinking there was probably very little chance it would bloom. But I didn't throw it away for some reason, so my doubt could only have been partial. I watered it and stared at it long and hard from time to time as it put out leaves, healthy and defiant, and then a strong, sturdy stem. 

Well then, here you are. Well then, here is something unexpected. Out of season and somewhat absurdly timed, but also right on time and belonging to a season of its own making. 

 

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I'm struggling to understand the timing of many things. When should this bulb or that herb or these seeds be planted, when should I water, when should I feed, when should I pinch or deadhead or cut back, when should I step back and wait?  

I repotted lavender started in May and lined up the pots in little rows. We line up what we hope for and water and warm and wait. I research and I read and I ask and I learn, but so often it comes down to doing it somehow and seeing what happens. So much of it comes down to tangles and mistakes and bad timing and not enough or too much time,  and doing it wrong in order to get it right later. 

Or maybe put more simply, the allowing of a construction site, with all its mess and chaos.  

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There was a good, good while, I'm telling you things can be so, so good sometimes, standing in a sunny greenhouse calmly and slowly pulling succulent leaves from their stems to dry them and propagate them. One by one. 

 

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There when I’m not looking. There when I get lost and decide not to mind it. Do you trust yourself, do you trust your days, do you trust your gut, do you trust your fingertips. Beyond your eyes, beyond your sight. Reading that book lately made me think “I reckon” and “I suppose” a lot. I reckon I’ll keep on feeling for it all in the dark. I suppose endings and beginnings meet in the middle and stare at each other for a while.

The solstice and a strawberry moon. White irises opened. Blue irises opened. Things wake up in their own time, these are not things that could be forced. I looked out at that Full Strawberry Moon (Hot Moon, Rose Moon) and it was itself entirely, and casting good metallic light on the water. June water under the strawberry moon, well, these are the kinds of things we came here for.

Sometimes I get better at looking at things, at noticing things, and there's colour and texture enough to revive me and remind me and reset me. I like reading the names of flower varieties. I read through some roses today: Desert Peace, Good Life, High Hopes, Intrigue, Leonardo Da Vinci, Adelaide Hoodless.

And everywhere little beginnings. It seems, sometimes, that beginning takes a long time. The sweet peas seemed to stay the same height for a while. I knew they were forming roots in the dark wet soil, but it was hard to be patient. I'd go ask them,  Well babies- Are you growing yet? This week they started climbing, and I love coaxing their tendrils around the supports.

Same with the cup and saucer vines. Finally moving upward and attaching to their fences. Their tendrils are so delicate and so well designed for clinging and climbing up, it makes me think about the obvious- that plants are living things.

 

 

 

 

 

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Don't worry, there's evidence, things are growing and changing as they should. Don't worry, there's extravagance, and it belongs to you. 

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I went around taking stock; there is enough green. There is enough. Enough to green up your dry, tired winter branches. Enough to make you drop your shoulders and enough to make you remember to laugh. 

 

 

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Does time go fast? Does time go slow? I absent-mindedly rub the little leaves with my fingers to catch their scent. They smell like themselves. Tomatoes, eucalyptus, basil, dill.  

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Their shapes and scents are their own and they are new and quietly confident in the world. I like reading their names, I like watering them, I like picturing them sixty days from now. 

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Lots of mornings, lots of afternoons. It's coming along and it's taking its time and it's foggy and drizzly sometimes.

I went out and I was on my way and I was carrying things both inside and out, and the list clamouring, but I stopped and I stared at the lady's mantle. It's before the show, before the lime green, before the taller stems and before all the things June does. 

I saw a May stage, a morning after a rainstorm, with the curves of the leaves all insistent and sassy, being themselves entirely. This stage where the leaves simply catch the water in their hands, and hold it and hold it and hold it. 

roots, water, soil, green, time  

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Even though you made a list of things needing to be done, even though you felt the heaviness of all the heavy things, today brought you here, to this work: easy, difficult, green, quiet. A hummingbird flew in and for a while you heard only the whirr of its wings and your shovel and trowel working the soil. After a long time when you were covered in sweat and went to get water, it was hard to remember what day it was, what time, but you knew the planet more closely and you knew what insects and worms look like in the earth. The sky looked like it had an Instagram filter over it, the clouds were lifted forward and close to you and present. 

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Everywhere you looked there were scenes of beginning, roots forming and stretching and moving in tiny ways. To your fingertips, the surfaces of leaves were cool and soothing and sure of themselves. 

 

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Every year it's the same, you think they won't come up, you think the magic won't happen- but it does, and it will.  

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Out into the brightness and wonder of spring. We have the afternoon, we have each other, we have time and sunshine. 

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I'm telling you, please believe me, that in this world are secrets and flowers, and there is more than one way for everything to belong to you.  

 

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Let's go see it all, let's go look at it all, let's move through it all. The velvet of winter gone, the silk of summer arriving.  All that's reflected in the water and all that a day can hold. All that fits into the pockets of you. 

 

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And you can go inside, you can be shaded and sheltered. You can make it all up as you go along.  

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A strange sort of inbetween week. The greenhouse cleaned up and waiting, but the frost date hasn't passed yet. Empty pots all lined up waiting for new things. 

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I carefully study tulips partially grown and the tiny blue muscari putting on their quiet delicate show. This is what  beginnings looks like. Expectant and small. Tentative and stubborn. 

 

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The textures and colours show true though, in their edged past slipped through time. These things are well rehearsed. 

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At the ready for new days, new months, new relaxed shoulders, new eyes that know how to look now.  

Dartmouth Makers Pop-Up

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Flora Flower Studio will be at the Dartmouth Makers Spring Pop-Up Market at The Parish Hall, Christ Church Dartmouth, 61 Dundas Street from 10-6 this Saturday. Hand-tied burlap-wrapped Mother's Day bouquets want to get into the hands of lovely moms! 

Flora bouquets will also be available this weekend at Fancy Lucky Vintage, 4144 Lawrencetown Road, and at Uprooted Market and Cafe, Musqudoboit Hbr. 

 

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The first day back in the greenhouse. Spring cleaning fever hit hard. There was so much to do, so much to organize and sort through and tidy up. Got rid of old broken pots and managed to clear some surfaces and the beds which were covered in winter debris- kids toys, leftover wreaths, fir boughs, dead potted plants that didn't survive the winter..

 

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Rescued some bulbs and laid them out to dry before I store them. Pulling them up from their pot was amazing. Their roots were so healthy and determined and plentiful and white.  

 

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Gathering up all the pots I found a dead little yellow bird. Walked up into the tall brambles with it on a spade and gently laid it down. 

 

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There's the new, there's the old, there's what's past and there's what's arriving. And there's also now, now, now, with the daffodils just perfect and the way they take up residence as if they lived there all the time. They make coffee, they hang out laundry, they throw open the windows to air the place out.