my grandma's garden.

In the language of flowers, the bearded iris represents hope and courage – both are trademarks of living a creative life. As I venture farther into the waters of creativity—and choose to follow a path that is anything but ordinary—I can’t help but acknowledge that my grandmother Patricia Littlefield and her gardens are what sparked this light in me. She instilled in me a belief that I could and should pursue a creative life.

My grandma wasn’t a gardener. She was an artist. Her gardens were her muse, her passion, and her delight. I was raised by her on the shores of Lake Michigan, among other family members, frequently spending time in the overflowing perennial gardens that surrounded her big blue house. We took trips to the local nursery each spring, looking for more inspiration to add to her cache; my grandma, waiting for a new flower to speak to her, and me, patiently being pulled along in the nursery wagon, which was perfect for hauling plants and granddaughters. Her gardens contained multitudes of plants – bountiful and jungle-like in its design. In my memory, her flowers towered to 4- or 5-feet tall, but at the time, I was only about 2 1/2-feet tall myself. In reality, the gladioli and hollyhocks were nearly 5-feet tall, but I recall feeling small compared to the lilies, hydrangea, echinacea, and rudbeckia plants. I would weave in and out among the plants, inspecting their petals, pollen, and any visiting insects.

My grandma in her linen clothes, calmly and meticulously setting up her easel among the irises, carefully unpacking her art supplies one tube of pigment or brush at a time. I am always reminded of these voluptuous, bearded irises towering above the rest of her June garden. Atop their slender stems and reed-like leaves, sat puffs of pastel colors with billowing, ruffled petals blowing in the breeze.

She could happily sit here for hours painting her blossoms plein air-style, only stopping to make me mac n’ cheese or harvest a handful of blooms, placing them in a glass vase to be painted later.

She would always invite me to paint with her, generously sharing her professional-grade art supplies with me: $12 tubes of gauche, thick watercolor paper, pristine canvases, and pastels. We would spend hours painting together – her examining how the light hit each petal and replicating each shade of peach or mauve perfectly, while I painted triangular people with fingers like French fries and two strands of hair.

As her children grew up and left the house, she replaced their presence with her colorful depictions of gardens and vases brimming with blooms. She allowed flowers to create abundance, while she transitioned from motherhood to life as an empty-nester and divorcée, and then slowly into grandmotherhood. Her paintings were a practice. She never intended to sell them, only to use them as a means to create a lasting appreciation for the temporary beauty of the gardens that surrounded her.

As I began to realize my own interest in flowers, my grandma got sick. Her day-to-day life slowed and her ability to garden lessened. I helped her plant zinnias and cosmos around her back patio so she could sit and paint them – appreciating their delicate details. I would deliver arrangements to her house and she would paint them for me—her watercolor strokes and color choices perfectly depicting the splendor of the farm-fresh blooms—so real that you could almost smell her muscari and peonies.

My grandmother passed away last December, leaving a mountain of her paintings to her five children and 11 grandchildren, including me. Her work was so infused in my life that I have had to take a step back to reflect and realize that my own love of art and flowers stems directly from my time spent with her as a child. Over the years, her artwork contained an expanse of flowers, but the bearded iris still stands out to me as her flower. Its representation of hope and courage perfectly exemplify her outlook on life and her dedication to living a creative and rich life.