even*cleveland: flowers for mothers (not medals)

flowers for mothers (not medals)

A piece of art you make by tracing flower shadows.

Pansies for thoughts: Anntian g-mallows t-shirt.

A blank journal by IDEA, with photographs of Shozo Sato's ikebana scattered throughout to encourage words to bloom, or a book about finding flowers (a favorite).

Nonfiction "Open Arms" perfume, "an interpretation of a healing moment, nurtured with elements of nature’s vitality and caring gestures. Ripe fruits, sweet flower blossoms, fresh green leaves from nascent branches, and crushed peels are condensed to create a fresh, bittersweet essence." (A fresh, bittersweet essence is exactly how I'd describe motherhood.)

Garden notecards by Jane Ormes at Bari Zaki.

John Julian x Sarah Lucas classical mug, for coffee flavored with whimsy.

A length of floral embroidered ribbon from Minnieolga, to tie in her hair or use as a bookmark.

A long basket by kaaterskill market and a pair of snips, for bringing home bouquets.

Clogs green as grass.

A tea towel that looks like a meal of flowers or actual petals to eat (The Quiet Botanist's matcha rose chocolate bar).

Spiritual Objects golden flower necklace, for everyone and anyone called to mother, in whatever form that takes.

(This is the medal I am talking about; absolutely repugnant.)

Related posts: choosing motherhood / what's possible / true colors

Other gifts some mothers may enjoy: 2017 / 2018 / 2019 / 2020 / 2021 / 2022 / 2023 / 2024

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust.

Italo Calvino

Why didn't she try collecting something? It didn't matter what. She would find it gave an interest to life, and there was no end to the little curiosities one could easily pick up.

Henry James

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