A few weeks ago, I enjoyed a dreamy Saturday morning, at once bathed in golden, winter sunshine and tempered by a biting, frosty breeze. Like any good Sydney-sider, I spent the late hours of the morning catching up with a dear friend over brunch alfresco and as we meandered back towards our respective paths home, I made the spontaneous decision to visit the florist and spend the afternoon playing with some of my favourite winter blooms.
What resulted was a pretty little meditation on my gratitude for the resilience and quiet glory of winter and all her wildly graceful flowers. Only a few days earlier, I had finished my law exams for the semester and that weekend was a celebration of all that had passed and all that had grown. That afternoon of floral play, marked by the familiar, comforting feeling of petals and stems between my fingertips, and twine and shears strewn across the bench, was a study in a moment’s peace, and a nod to the fine tradition of floral arrangement that stretches back and back through feast days and ceremonies; through the cyclical seasons of congratulations, commiseration and love.