I’ve been deep in thought for weeks. Slowly feeling like this new place can become our home. Watching someone else’s garden begin to speak. What treasures did she plant—that question has been with me since last October.

There’s an abundance of rhododendrons and azalea—not things I would have planted but perhaps I would have if the land hadn’t been deer fenced—one of the first things we did here. Not just because of deer but mostly because of our two wildly adventurous and enthusiastic Weimaraners.

Today I was in the front garden weeding out the buttercups entwined with what I suspect are crocosmia and irises. I could never successfully grow irises at the farm. Here they are firmly in place and I look forward to welcoming them when they bloom.

The Japanese lilac tree sweeps generous armfuls of blossoms in a giant swoop across the garden. The fragrance of lilacs weaves through the arubutus moving out towards the road and down to the mailboxes. The lilac was alive. With bees, butterflies, hummingbirds.

The bees were inches from my head as I stooped and pulled out plants growing in the wrong places. Each plant a soft message whispered: sorry, you can’t grow here, tell the others. Eventually I begin to add the bark mulch, I love how quickly it provides a tidy backdrop for all the plant beings while also helping to preserve water and add nutrients to the soil.

As I shoveled wheelbarrows full of bark mulch I wondered where the trees grew that had provided this mulch. Did the scent of the bark carry memories of some far wilderness site, of a clearcut in the middle of Vancouver Island. Did the bark carry the memory of eagles nesting in its branches, or ravens standing watch, or the call of cougars or the soft footsteps of deer and elk or the buzzing of bees.

I felt a sadness for these unknown trees whose dress had been delivered to my new home in giant white bags. I tell myself at least all parts of the tree are being used. At least their memories will become embedded into this new garden, perhaps their stories to be whispered through the fragrance of the lilac tree.

Later as I looked through the photos I’d taken of the lilac tree. Blurry photos of the bees zooming from flower to flower. Did you know that flowers give off an electrical charge that alerts the bees as to which ones haven’t been visited yet?

As I looked at one of the last photos I’d taken, I noticed a faint rainbow across the garden, perhaps the spirits of the trees were making themselves known.

Forget-Me-Not: Clear Seeing

Forget-Me-Not asks us to be present in the moment and to begin to see the beauty of the small which reflects the beauty of the whole. It reminds us that we are a sacred being in the circle of life. You are as necessary to the unfolding of the world as the Forget-Me-Not flower is to the Earth. You are here to share the beauty and the presence of your soul.

The Eco Heart Oracle is my own deck with messages from 48 flowers from nature, find it here.

This morning the plum tree was singing with bees, as I moved tomatoes from the sunroom to the greenhouse. Far too many of them, some exotic from China, Japan, Russia alongside seeds saved from the farm. Tomato starts were followed by dahlia babies, suffice to say there is an abundance of them and I’m not exactly sure where they will all go yet….shhhhhh. I delight in knowing the gardens will be beautiful and filled with beauty, bees, birds and butterflies. Dahlias are a bit like baseball cards or hockey cards where you keep a catalogue, carefully making note of additions or deletions. I’m often asked if I have a favourite—how could I? It would be like trying to choose a favourite child. You love them all equally, but in different ways and for different reasons.

Today working in the sun with my hands in the soil and tubers waiting to be unpacked—I thought of the flower farms and growers who sent them from, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Alberta and British Columbia and how hard they work. I thought how I really do belong to the flowers. To all of them. Every flower is like an energetic whisper. Even the weeds.

Before Alchemy Farm flowers were like background music you hear in an elevator, always present. After ten years of caring for them at the farm, they have become integrated into the fabric of who I am. As tedious as 900+ dahlia plants became, the love of working with them remains. The soft prayers, rituals of encouragement, the greeting of old friends upon hearing their name. Writing each tag, codified with initials that correspond to the Master List. They anchor me in the present, they will blossom alongside me in this new garden.

Today for the first time I feel a deep sense of peace with the move. I'm grateful the farm called in such good caretakers. The farm is becoming a beautiful dream that was filled with magic, a sense of place, a sense of purpose growing flowers and plants to create habitat for other beings. The farm is now someone else's dream.

Now I’m meeting new plants as they emerge from the depths into spring. Plants new to me. Rhododendrons and azalea with colours hidden, along with a Japanese lilac tree, Oakleaf hydrangea, Sargeant’s hydrangea, Algerian ivy, fragrant vines, euphorbia and more, all revealing their secrets. It makes my heart happy to know that the previous owner was a plantswoman too.

I place my hand on the huge mulberry tree, covered in moss, arms branching outwards in balance, and ask it to send a dream if it needs anything. Have you had that happen? You forgot to water a plant and wake up or are jolted into the present when you realize it? Scientists are now finding that plants can communicate with us. They send energetic screams when they are in distress. Thankfully, Robin has the irrigation under control—10 years of experience at the farm with a much more complicated system, we were blessed that the irrigation system is already in place here. Today I feel a deep sense of gratitude for this beautiful new and different home.

I feel grateful for the new-to-me studio where I’ve begun to return to my art practice. What is slowly emerging are layered landscapes from the years spent in deep immersion at Alchemy Farm.

I’m heading into the studio for a few weeks. I’ll be back when something is ready to share. In the meantime, the shop is there if you’d like to look around.

A message from the Alchemy Flower Oracle

Queen Anne’s Lace: Sanctuary

Each flower, each Being, is a stitch in the tapestry of Life. Work with the Earth, and all her Beings, to create your own sanctuary.

The Alchemy Flower Oracle is my own deck with messages from 48 flowers from nature, find it here.

This morning I was shoveling poop. Hours of it — shoveling and wheelbarrowing composted manure to make new beds for the gardens and replenish the existing ones. It felt especially good today to be doing it, a constructive way to work through some conflicting thoughts. Sending the energy into the ground, to absorb it, cleanse it, and then send it to the world as beautiful flowers and plants in a few weeks.

I’ve written poetry for years — which has its roots in songwriting as a fledgling musician in high school band. I played the flute and immersed myself in words and melody. So much so that my parents got me a tape deck so I could record what I was singing instead of stopping and starting to scribble with a pencil. Through the turmoil of teenagehood I left music behind — I was also quite shy and didn’t like being front and center. Still am.

Many years later, at UBC studying in the Fine Art Department, I wandered next door to the music building at lunch one day. I’d seen a flyer for Paper Bag Lunch Concerts. I sat at the back of the rehearsal hall and shocked myself by crying in public — with the deep understanding that I was studying in the wrong department.

I started looking into switching to music. I had a six-year background in flute and other instruments. But then my daughter was diagnosed with a brain tumor and, as a single parent, we all moved into survival mode — moving with my two children to the Okanagan to stay with friends. I switched to UBCO to complete my Bachelor of Fine Arts. While there, I did an unofficial minor in creative writing. My poetry was lyrics.

Fifteen years ago, my son — who is a musician — worked with me to bring one of those poems to music. I was going to record the voice, but I was here and he was in Vancouver, and then I met my husband. And so the song waited.

For fifteen years I carried it. I could hear it in my mind. I would look up the lyrics every once in a while and just have no idea how to move forward by myself.

By chance earlier this week, I was watching a training by Sabrina Romanov on AI. She very casually mentioned an app called Suno, and I thought I’d check it out — maybe it could help me write some background music for a private podcast I’m working on. I happened to notice that I could upload lyrics, choose some parameters, and have Suno turn them into a song.

I cannot believe what happened. I was crying like a baby. I finally got to hear my song.

And now that one song indulgence has opened a whole big fat can of worms.

I’m an artist and I totally get that AI is a big bad monster that is consuming us, one idea at a time. But how do we stop it from advancing? Was it okay that I uploaded my lyrics — my words — to a machine that then put them to melody and voice? If it’s just for myself, or to share with friends, is that okay? Is it okay if I use it as a base to work from? Whose voice was that anyway, singing my words?

My son is understandably upset. I innocently and with great excitement shared my sort-of-song with him. In hindsight, I might not have shared it with him.

And that stopped me.

Are we becoming secretive because of AI — because of how it is overtaking our lives and stealing our minds in the process? As upset as artists are, rightly so, how do we have a conversation about this if everyone is angry and afraid? Is there a way to learn how to co-exist with AI? I wonder if ‘real artists’ will become what people turn to, not AI—but at the rate things are moving how will people know the difference? Live performances, videos, artist documented creating work?

When is it okay for an artist to use AI?

Long after I finished shoveling, I was still thinking.

You take something raw, like manure, and you put it in the ground. The earth absorbs it, transforms it. In a few weeks, something grows. You don’t always know what—sometimes it’s weeds, even they can be beautiful.

I don’t know what grows from here. But I think we have to keep talking — even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then.

A message from the Eco Heart Oracle

Elk: Earth’s Heartbeat

Elk is asking you when was the last time you were in sync with your surroundings and with the Earth? Do you hear, and trust, the messages that are being delivered to you daily through your senses and your intuition?

The Eco Heart Oracle is my own deck with messages from 48 flowers from nature, find it here.

As I lift dahlia tubers from their packages and boxes, I think of all the farms that have grown them the previous year. Where they washed, dried, stored—and hovered over them for months. Each tuber carries the energy of the farmer, the flower grower.

Some tubers are big and firm and wrapped snugly in potting soil and special waterproof packaging. Others are tossed into a box lined with tissue and a few flakes of sawdust. Others are a bit questionable, the sliced top of a dahlia with no tuber—not one I’d have sent out, but I also know their tenacity and incredible will to grow.

I left my dahlias at the farm when we moved, some the great-great+ grandchildren of the first ones I planted in 2016. Multiple generations of dahlia families. Some of the farms I’ve ordered from this year are ones I sold dahlias to over the years—so, the grandbabies are coming back to a new home. There is something of the sublime in that thought.

As I tick off boxes on my master dahlia spreadsheet, making notes and writing labels, before carefully placing each tuber into a new bag filled with dampened soil, I think how this dahlia addiction is kind of like collecting books, cameras, typewriters, anything that our soul attaches meaning to. And yet in the quiet beneath the meticulous note keeping and careful handling, I can feel an anxiety just below the surface. The world has been nuts recently. I don’t know about you but I’m mentally walking around singing the la-la-la song to block it all out.

We each carry a spark of the divine within us, an individual light that perhaps if we could see from a great distance might become like a mosaic, our energy forces resembling some beautiful mathematical equation, a swirling, flowing, energy of love. How, how do we reach the space within ourselves where we can be at peace enough to sense the magical oneness we share? For myself my way has always been nature. The forest my church. The birds, water running through a stream, bees, the wind—the hymn.

After decades of working as an environmental artist with nature in what might be called deep meditation, seeking to understand the ancient wisdom that holds me, learning the secret of sites, their memories— I had no idea how others might perceive what I was doing. When I began to work more publicly in this way I had shamans sending me emails asking me if I knew that I was working like they do…um, no, not consciously.

I was working in a way that called to my heart, to the deepest part of my soul. A way that felt like truth. I was shy about working in my light—perhaps you are too? I was worried I would be bullied again, as I was as a child. It’s a difficult thing to be different but only wanting to be like everyone else.

So, my work has woven a thread through a rich tapestry, the latest was the farm, where I spent my days on my knees in reverence and service to beauty, to bees, to nature. My hands blessed soil, seeds and water. I stood in tears to see seeds emerge and their flowers beckon bees, and the awe of bounty given in return. The wind carried secrets to my listening ears…an owl’s warning, a raven’s delight, frogs courting serenades, raindrops on leaves.

I have always believed that we are each made this way. Instruments for Nature, schools for souls, gifted the blessing of experiencing this life here surrounded by wonder. But then there is the weight of the world. The decisions of imperfect humans that affect the field. They too are at earth school.

And I’ve always been a teacher, from the time I could speak I was sharing what I was learning, and eventually teaching at colleges and universities. Terrified of public speaking, of being seen. But The Work asked of me to be brave—as it’s continued to do.

And I’ve been wondering — how can I help others, you, to connect deeply with the natural world to be able to come back to your truth and to peace through opening your heart. How can I guide you to meet the earth as I have learned to do.

I began to answer this a few months ago and then put it aside, not being certain if what I had to offer was needed, or wanted…there goes that fear again.

Today I’m stepping into that.

If something in these words has resonated — if you’ve been mentally singing your own la-la-la song lately — this practice is for you.

Listening to the Earth — a gentle 9-minute guided audio practice delivered via private podcast plus a beautiful downloadable pdf workbook. $27 Get it here.

The frogs have been serenading nightsongs, the robins singing daysongs and finally this morning the sun announced spring’s arrival. Daffodils and tulips shouting out enthusiastically. The climbing hydrangea sent out leaves in greeting. Honeysuckle waking, ancient companions to arbutus and Douglas fir in our mossy forest scattered with blue-eyed Mary Collinsia grandiflora. My heart sang to witness the first swallow’s arrival in early morning. Hummingbirds have been buzzing at the windows making me think the previous owners must have provided them with nectar.

In working meditation I found my way through the new-to-me garden beds, through plants and weeds—just plants growing wrong places. Old garden tags: zucchini, squash, tomatoes, pattypans, excavated. Parsley wildly scattered alongside travelling St John’s Wort, feverfew, sorrel, curly dock. The one we called devil weed on the farm, hairy bittercress runs amuck through the gardens and pathways, soon to explode flinging seeds in a 16 foot diameter.

The newly assembled greenhouse—a house of hope, sits on a cedar deck overlooking the garden beds.

Strawberry plants and raspberry canes planted with today’s sun, in the old berry cage joined by broadbeans. I’ve always planted in a wild kind of way, plant beings with unusual neighbours growing in out of way places.

Plants in waiting. Ranunculus and anemones in trays yearning to root in their new home. Exotic tomato starts under lights in the sunroom. Dahlias some potted, some in boxes and more arriving by post. Wood betony, figwort, coreopsis, dusty miller, wallflowers, sweet peas and more, waiting. Fragrant roses enroute for the front rose garden, to join newly planted hydrangeas, camelia, magnolia, lilies still sleeping and peony just glimpsing out.

As I worked in the new garden the memory of Alchemy Farm whispered to me. Ten years of relationship, of rhythms tied to weather, seasons, planting, harvesting — body moving to nature's dance, like breathing. Working with the new land became a balm today, in the sunshine with bird serenades, bees stopping to say hello, my raven friend swooping low. Today I finally know my heart will survive this transplanting.

A message from the Alchemy Flower Oracle

Daffodil: New Beginnings

It is time to rejoice for there is a new spring waiting. A time of joy, of happiness, and new dreams blossoming.

The Alchemy Flower Oracle my own deck with messages from 48 flowers from the gardens at Alchemy Farm, find it here.

I can see the mountain, that the farm is nestled into the base of, as I sit here writing. It’s taken me months to be able to sit down to write. Months to begin finding my way back to myself, moving through feelings of deep loss, grief and letting go and finding a way forward. The funny thing about letting go of the farm is how the relief of no longer having to care for the farm is mingled with deep sorrow at leaving the gardens, all my plant relations and memories held by place.

The new stewards are perfect. I know this. Their two young boys will grow up in a place of wonder. Adventures filled with tree forts, tadpoles, forest trails, ponds brimming with water creatures, dragonflies, bees, snakes gliding through tall grass.

I know the changes they are making are like the ones we made when we became the guardians of the land. I know they need to make it their home now.

And yet, my heart reeled in shock when I heard from neighbours that the huge Western hemlock by the driveway had been taken down. The last thing I did before we drove away for the last time was put my hand upon her and tell her new people were coming to care for her, for the land. I asked her to make them feel welcome. I knew she was struggling, but every year the tree guys assured us she was still healthy. I understand the practical decision to remove her, it’s easier to do when you are new and haven’t spoken to her daily.

Up until the moment of the news of the tree I’d been ‘okay’. Reminding myself that the perfect people were there now. That I was grateful for our new home. But that night, I woke up sobbing, in the black of night, deep loss and thoughts running through my mind of: wishing we’d tried harder, tried to hang on to the farm, to the beauty, to the dreams we’d planted there.

I left the name of the farm with the land, thinking that it was Alchemy Farm, but after the tree I realized that Alchemy Farm was mine and my husband Robin’s dream. My—our—work for the last 10 years has been a journey into alchemy. I knew that I had to continue that journey, to continue writing about alchemy, about nature, to share the wonder around us. The new family have to find their own name, their own way.

I began to feel myself again once I’d made the decision to reclaim the Alchemy Farm name—my work, my heart for a decade. I finally began to feel like I could begin to find my way forward. I’ve started planting new pollinator gardens and learning the language of this new land. The dogs, Ruby and Blue, love running through the forest, stopping to look up, the resident squirrel teasing them and chattering loudly.

I’ve begun to feel a sense of freedom as I walk along the winding driveway to my new studio. The studio is in a state of unpackedness, but I finally have the time to begin dreaming of new work. We are surrounded by magical arbutus and Douglas firs with fingers of Old Man’s Beard moss, a forest floor thick with moss covered rocks, a seasonal pond and creek meandering through westcoast beauty.

We are finding our way through this season of deep change. What about you? What are you letting go of?

This morning a swallow sang out and tapped on the bedroom window, searching for a nesting place under the eaves. The farm is filled with hope, and beauty surrounds us. The woods are filled with bird song.

Bees have awakened, answering the fragrant invitations of blossoms. The lilies in the pond are spreading earthy green leaves upon the surface that reflects the sky moving by. Salamanders, tadpoles, frogs and toe nippers, living secret lives below the reflections. Lawnmowers and chainsaws punctuate the valley, distant echoes.

Our morning and evening walks with the dogs are a ritual of presence. The dogs led by their noses are joyful in their vole hunting, while I hunt for beauty. Never does a walk go by that does not hold some treasure.

Last night’s wind flung branches dressed with mosses, cones—new and old—seeds and nature bits to add to the earth, future soil. What first seemed a mossy clump turned out to be a gift, a reminder of the fragility of life. As I opened the moss a nest appeared—a secret.

The nest holds the history of the farm. Bits of moss, leaves, grasses, pine needles and twigs. Strands of dog hair, we’ve brushed out left in amongst the blackberry canes for spring birds. All woven together expertly and with care. It also holds memories of the cycle of life—a tiny bird skeleton lies along the inner circle of the nest. A memory of hope.

A message from the Eco Heart Oracle

Cedar ~ Sacred Healing

Cedar reminds you that you are becoming a part of the history of the Earth with each day of your life. What do you want to leave behind as your legacy?

I kneeled on the ground, a new dahlia, green with promise in my hand. A silent mantra, a planting meditation, a prayer said for each plant: the name, memory of its presence, my heart glowing with love, an invocation to grow strong.

I stretched and glanced over to see the hellebores winking at me beyond the fence. They live under the shade of a Grand Fir that stands beside a climbing rose. In June red roses, like punctuation marks or bits of fireworks trace lines along its graceful boughs.

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I love hellebores, they are a special type of nature magic emerging in winter from the places they’ve lain dormant, dreaming.

They’re also known as Christmas Rose or Lenten Rose, and belong to the Ranunculaceae family (buttercups). It doesn’t surprise me that they have a history that includes casting spells, rituals and were used to ward off evil spirits.

Their energy, their magic feels deep and ancient, reminding me of the shaman journeying workshop I participated in many years ago. Hellebore feel like they carry the same type of ancient earth energy, a sacred energy to be deeply respected.

Their name Helleborus is from the Greek words helein (to injure) and bora (food) and they were used in ancient Greece in medicine. Although they have been used historically to treat many ailments—they are no longer used herbally as all parts of the plant are toxic to ingest.

They can also be used for energetic work to ward off negativity, aid in personal growth and shadow work, connect with the subconscious and unseen worlds. They can be used to create sacred space, call in deep introspection and explore death and rebirth. They are deep.

Years ago, in my art practice, I worked on a series that included photographing plant cells under a microscope and exhibiting them alongside a photo of the plant. Looking into their structures felt like looking deep into magic. Many times I found the cellular images echoed the plant, or reminded me of the place it grew and sometimes the images were like the starry sky. The truth is that everything is connected — the earth and the stars, the seen and unseen, the vast and the small. Click here if you’d like to view that project.

When I moved to Salt Spring Island I met my first Hellebore and brought out my microscope. Here’s what I found:

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I planted Hellebores at Alchemy Farm because they called to me, perhaps because of how I first met them, but these plants would share a gift with me in the years ahead.

Hellebore opened my heart with blinding light, bringing instant clarity to my work as an environmental artist with a practice based on reconnecting people to nature. I’ve written about and made work that shares how we are deeply connected to all that surrounds us.

The forest is my church, the plants and all the beings my prayers. When I stop, drop deep into inner silence, my heart opens and I’m one with the plants and trees, bees and birds, the water, and the sky, and the earth. In my work I talk about how plants are aware of us—may even know who we are. I know this because I can feel them when I stop and listen with my heart, with the wisdom of the ancient memories I carry from my ancestors.

But I could never ‘show’ someone this truth until my husband gave me a device that takes the bio-energy of plants and converts it into musical notes. Each flower has a unique song.

The Hellebore was the first flower to share its voice with me. I burst into tears as it changed its song as I moved my hand closer and further away. I cried tears of deep understanding. It was as if the Hellebore opened a doorway and I was shown the truth I’ve carried in my heart since I was born, or perhaps even from the time before. We are all interconnected—woven together beyond what we can see.

Listen below if you’d like to hear the Hellebore — part of the same song I first heard.

So, when I made the Hellebore flower essence it was with deep reverence and with the permission of the plant. I included labradorite, a stone of transformation and magic that strengthens inner sight and acts like a shield of protection.

The essence was made in a clear crystal bowl filled with pure spring water, under the light of the Full Pink Moon—the moon instead of the sun for its intuitive and gentle guidance. The Full Pink Moon represents rebirth and renewal and encourages emotional clearing and releasing old patterns.

The Hellebore Flower Essence is also infused with the music of the Hellebore, its voice whispering from Alchemy Farm.

If you feel called to work with the energy of Hellebore visit here.

A message from a different flower—a card pulled from the Alchemy Flower Oracle.

Columbine ~ Dreams & Visions

You are one with all that surrounds you. It is an illusion that you are separate. We are all the same source energy, each appearing together in the same dreamtime.

This year we’re taking it easy at Alchemy Farm.

We’re in our 10th year, and this is the first one where I’m making time to be present, to enjoy quiet moments, to rest. It’s meant letting go of things I thought I had to do—like tending over 1,000 dahlia plants. If you’ve grown dahlias, then you know what kind of time commitment that takes.

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It’s also meant letting go of work that doesn’t make my heart happy, like harvesting dozens of buckets of flowers a few times a week. Instead, I’m enjoying the flowers. I’ve been walking amongst the gardens in contemplation and gratitude, instead of the perfectionist, over-achiever, having-to-get-things-done mind.

I’m allowing myself time to process the last 10 years and this monumental task we took on.

Starting a flower farm is not for the weak of heart. And starting a flower farm with no plan and no experience is not something I recommend.

A farm is a living, breathing creation. It’s all-encompassing and demands everything. It brings you to your knees with exhaustion but also feeds your soul with beauty and wonder.

For years, I fell into bed exhausted at the end of the day—worried about the weather, the weeds, the garden pests, finding farm help, and how to make a living doing this work that fed my soul.

Here, I’ve designed and planted gardens, started plants from seed, learned how to prepare and sell at farmer’s markets. I stocked our farm stand with gluten-free baking, jams, chutneys, relishes, baskets of freshly picked fruit, berries, and veggies.

Using my training as an artist, I’ve taught myself how to be an eco-florist, working with the personality of flowers and plants to create flower messengers for people’s loved ones.

While also using my graphic design background to run our website and social media accounts. I’ve also drawn on my skills as a teacher to offer workshops and garden tours, sharing the magic of the farm with visitors.

I learned a new language—the Latin names, secret incantations, of hundreds of plants. I learned the secrets to germinating their seeds, planting schedules, which beneficial bugs or potions each one needed. I’ve cried because an irrigation pipe failed and no one noticed the dead plant bed.

I’ve had to move—supple weaving of plans like a seasoned dancer—when sudden weather changes brought early rain or unexpected winds that broke flowers destined for a wedding.

I’ve cursed voles that felled new apple trees, knowing they’re part of the ecosystem and help aerate the soil—but still. I’ve watched in wonder as tiny black beetle pests were decimated by the sudden arrival of a flock of ladybugs that quickly dispatched them.

Nature has me in constant wonder. And the farm has been my teacher.

Now it feels like it’s time to pause.
To put pen to paper.

I’ve known I was going to be a writer since I was six years old and wrote my first story. As a teenager in writing class, I learned that writers need to gather experiences to write well. (Did I mention I’m an overachiever?)

It feels like I finally have something important enough to write a book about. To share what I’ve learned. To invite readers to create their own special place with, and in, nature.

It doesn’t have to be a farm.
A small yard, a balcony, a single pot of herbs by the window—any of these will invite wonder into your life.

As I’m slowing down with the farm, coming into alignment with its natural rhythms, I’m in walking meditation—quietly writing a prayer of thanks, of reverence to the Earth, to the beings we share this magical place with.

Would you be interested in a book, a retreat, a course, a series of masterminds—would you be interested in walking this path with me?

Or is there something else that would support you in your journey?

My dad used to joke that I was a nomad—he said I came by it honestly because we come from nomadic Arctic people. But I’d continued the habit of moving that had been inadvertently set while I was growing up.

This morning I was missing my dad and thinking about all the times he was transferred for work, and how hard it must have been for him and my mother to uproot their family, find a new home, and make new connections.

The constant uprooting in my childhood made it challenging for me to stay in one place for long as an adult. Six elementary schools taught me to make friends quickly, but I never felt like I belonged. I continued this pattern well into adulthood. When I meet people who grew up in military families, it’s like I’m meeting kin—even though we weren’t a family in service.

I’m the first generation not born to the land of my ancestors, and I have always felt a keening for a place I didn’t know. Perhaps some genetic echo—the deep memory of a place in nature that had sheltered my family—was still calling out to me. The place where the stones, the trees, the water, the plants, the animals in my ancestral lands hold and carry the memories of my people.

Yes, I’ve found places here that called to my heart, but I never stayed long enough to really belong.

Recently, I dropped my granddaughter off at her school bus, and when I got home, I entered the farm through the garden I designed and planted nearly 10 years ago.

Although I’m an environmental artist and designer and have always grown plants, I’d never designed a garden before. It was an act that fully engaged my heart and creativity. Here at Alchemy Farm, I’ve learned the language of plants—their secret Latin names like spells to cast upon the breeze, the secrets to shepherding them to grow.

I stopped in awe at the garden entrance. The cherry tree glowed in the sunrise. It called out to my heart, its being filled with light, its fragrance beautifying the air, inviting bees and hummingbirds. It was whispering to me that I was home.

Home amongst my plants, the bees, the earth—this place I love. Home in a place that now shelters my family. A place where the trees, the rocks, the birds, the small creatures, the water, the earth, the plants, know me—have adopted me. I’ve been transplanted and finally taken deep root.

As spring unveils itself around me, I've been walking daily through the gardens with a sense of awe—surrounded by the scent of blossoms and the songs of birds, and the soft hum of bees returning. It brought me back to something I began writing a couple of years ago—for a book still unfolding—which I’d like to share with you today.

We use flowers as messengers to convey our feelings of love, sorrow, and happiness to loved ones, but our relationship to flowers and their symbolic use is far older.

Evidence of flowers being used ritually as early as 50,000 years ago was unearthed by researchers in the 1970s at a Neandertal burial cave in northern Iraq. They theorized, based on pollen found in the cave, that burials included the use of flowers. While this theory has been debated, archaeologists in 2005 discovered that early humans did definitively bury their dead in beds of flowers beginning about 13,700 years ago, in what is now Israel.

Flowers and Our Ancient Connection

The history of human use of medicinal plants predates our written history.

Archaeological evidence has been found of medicinal plants, like opium poppies and cannabis, in cave dwellings from 60,000 years ago.

Healing systems based on plants—Ayurvedic and Chinese medicine—are thousands of years old. Ancient Greece laid foundations for Western medicine through teachings of Hippocrates, Galen, Pliny, and others. The Middle Ages brought forth sacred texts like Materia Medica, honoring the power of herbs and flowers.

Listening to the Plants

Medicinal plants and flowers have always spoken to us.

To shamans. To healers. To seekers. To dreamers.

They communicate through visions, dreams, and quiet urgings—often in response to need. Did you know that we have receptors in our DNA for specific healing plants and flowers? These genetic memories are a bridge to ancestral knowledge. They root us in lineage and the land.

Imagine a medicine person walking across a meadow in a dream state, seeking a cure for an ailing loved one. A plant answers the call—offering its medicine, its message. That knowing lives in you. Carried in your cells. Passed through time like an invisible thread, anchoring you to your ancestors and to the Earth.

Flowers Bring All Life Into Being

Nearly all the food we eat—what our pets, livestock, and wild kin eat—begins with a flower, visited by a bee, a butterfly, a pollinator. This sacred dance has carried life forward for millennia. We would not be here if it weren’t for flowers.

But this perfect system is in peril.

Since 2008, honeybee colonies have collapsed by the hundreds of thousands. Wild bees, flies, bats, butterflies—all are declining. Their loss is tied to climate change, habitat destruction, and the widespread use of pesticides. These pollinators are essential to our survival. They are disappearing.

This Spring, Two Invitations

Plant with Purpose
Whether it’s a corner of your garden, a balcony pot, or hanging basket—plant something that supports pollinators. Think of this as both a gift and a gesture of remembering, and of hope. Each blossom a prayer for the future.

Choose native flowers whenever possible, and look for heritage or organic seeds. If you’re buying plant starts, consider supporting local farmers markets or community gardening groups.

If purchasing from a larger store, don’t hesitate to ask if the plants were treated with neonictinoids. These chemicals are toxic to pollinators—even the flowers meant to feed them can become poison if grown with these pesticides.

Practice Sacred Attention
Find time this week to sit with a flower or plant—really be with it. Observe its color, shape, scent, and energy. Let your gaze soften. Let your senses open. And listen with your heart. Flowers speak in silence, in symbols, in subtle impressions.

What message might this flower have for you today?

What medicine or memory stirs as you listen?

Let these small, soulful acts reconnect you—to Earth, to your ancestors, and to the living world that holds us all.

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This Week’s Message from the Gardens

Calendula — Serenity ~ Gratitude
from the Alchemy Flower Oracle

There are plant and spirit beings waiting to help you bring more positive light and healing energy to the Earth.

May this week guide you into deeper presence.

What medicine is blooming around you—and within you?

I very nearly didn’t write today, after four years of sending a Sunday email letter from Alchemy Farm.

I haven’t felt like I have much to say, and I’d rather write from a place of inspiration, instead of obligation. In truth, everything has seemed like a struggle of late. It’s taken all my energy to get-up-and-go, to just move through the day. It’s as if this malaise is picked up on the ethers, through the networks that connect us. At times, I’ve wondered why bother doing anything—I’m not used to being clouded this way.

I have a special raven friend who calls out greetings to me when I venture into the gardens. If he hasn’t seen me in a few days, he swoops down low and peers in my office window. This morning he cawed in passing, as if encouraging me to go outside. He was right—I needed to step away from the seduction of busy work on the computer. You’ll find a special message from Raven at the end of this post.

As I walked outside, I was thinking about you and how much I enjoy our ‘conversation’—I feel as if I’m writing letters to a dear friend each Sunday. I thought about what I could possibly share that might make a difference to your day, perhaps reach out to you in kinship, in case you too are feeling low and wishing for a different viewpoint—even for a bit.

I thought, I can write—that I can do. I can share the amazing place I am honoured to call home. I can send out beauty notes of love from all beings at Alchemy Farm, from my heart to yours… along with photos of the beauty that surrounds me, echoing the beauty of nature that also surrounds you too…

Today started out with a late frost that startled the field with its presence. The blue sky, dotted with voluminous clouds, reflected itself in the pond. The air carried the songs of hundreds of birds singing joy. The first bees, joined in—spring voices of hope. A few frogs that couldn’t wait for the night sky punctuated the daylight chorus with nocturnal notes.

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The Salish Sea breeze weaves perfumes of blossoms—wild plums, salmonberry, pussy willows—heavenly fragrance of nature. The quick buzz of a hummingbird, playing hide-n-seek amongst the currant blossoms.

Walking through the gardens, welcoming old friends, some planted nearly a decade ago. Each one carrying a story of how it arrived in our gardens. The gorgeous peach-coloured peony gifted from a garden-loving neighbour. Alstroemeria from a friend’s English garden, carrying memories of her departed mother in every yellow bloom. Valerian, a gift that has spread throughout the gardens, has begun to emerge.

Periwinkle growing wild in places where no irrigation reaches—spots we thought would be bare—filled in as if by magic. Daffodils that were planted with friendship talks. A patch of sweet wood anemone that have somehow survived among the feet of raspberries, protected by nettles.

Tiny daisies poking out from the lawn, as if checking to see if it’s time to come out. Dainty blue flowers that look like stars, that seeded themselves into the gardens over the years. Hyacinth in white, pink, and purple, steadfastly bloom, adding to the perfume breeze.

As I gathered these thoughts, and images, to share with you, I was reminded that this is what is truly real. My remembering who I am, aided by the gifts of nature that surround us. These gifts for our hearts are free. Break the spell of being caught in things we can’t control—go outside. Feel the sun. Listen for the songs of nature. Let it heal your heart.

****

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Today I’d like to share the Raven card from the Eco Heart Oracle.

Raven—Loyalty 💜
From the Eco Heart Oracle

Raven’s Message
Raven appears in many cultures. In some, he is a sacred messenger between heaven and earth; in others, a symbol of loss, death, and even a trickster. Yet Raven is also a magician and a transformer, bringing light forward from darkness, a powerful ally between worlds.

Raven asks that you be loyal to your family and yourself—not to things or objects. Clean your nest, release what is no longer needed, and take stock of what truly matters.

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I’m away on retreat. Not far from home, but away.

The ocean greets me every morning with gentleness. Tall fir trees frame the view from the window. I sit with tea, watching rafts of ducks come and go at dawn and in the evening, along the estuary beside us. It’s a world away from the farm, in a condo surrounded by the sounds of others.

This much-needed break feels like a withdrawal into a cocoon of difference—to think, to reassess. To decide which path, which direction, we are headed. I have to admit to myself that I’ve felt rudderless and uncertain these last years, and even more so recently. I feel as if I’ve been drifting, like the ducks.

Once—usually—I knew with certainty where the path was. But as I’ve gotten older, I notice I’ve grown less certain. Less certain that I have the answers. I have to ask myself: What is real? What is the truth? What, or how, is the way forward?

The farm has asked everything of me. It has been a hard taskmaster—but also a balm for my soul. I arrived on the land parched, in search of meaning and connection. I opened my heart and allowed myself to be led, to become one with the energy of the forest, the fields, the plant beings. I planted thousands upon thousands of flowers for bees and pollinators. I’ve listened in wonder to the songs of frogs, the morning bird chorus, answered the greetings of my raven friend and been mesmerized by the voices of bees. I have stood in tears of wonder at the enormity—the sacredness—of being allowed to do this work, to truly step into my practice as an environmental artist.

It’s been nearly 10 years at the farm. And for the last few, I’ve been standing on the edge of a path, pacing back and forth in front of a bridge that invites others to join me—to reconnect to the Earth, to nature, to find their own inspiration and way.

I’m unsure how to share the profundity of it all. How to be a guide—to invite others to step into their own connection to nature, and not into mine. We are all deeply connected to the land—through our ancient ancestral memories, through our birthright as human beings, as fellow travelers on this Earth with our plant, animal, water, air, and mineral brothers and sisters.

I love technology—a bit of a strange thing for an artist so deeply rooted in the land—but I am a being of my time. I also love meeting people, and inviting them to the farm to experience the sacred energy of this place.

So, as I sit here watching the sun set over the sea, I’ve been thinking: there’s a way for me to extend a virtual invitation. A way of guiding others to connect with the land where they are—as a prelude to inviting them to gather at Alchemy Farm.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing more about what this might look like. If you feel pulled toward this work, I invite you to message me. I’d be honored to walk alongside you.

Sunny blue skies, blankets of clouds. Morning sun lights the forest, gardens, and fields—scattering daystars across the ponds.

Robins march across the lawn—stopping, tilting their heads to the ground, listening intently—then pouncing. Choruses of migrating birds atop alder trees sing forth greetings. Chickadees flit and dance through the firs.

Wild plum blossom perfume floats on the breeze. Daffodils and tulips are nearly ready to make their appearance. Currant blossoms—pink lanterns—whisper to bees. Hyacinth blossoms wait to colour the world in pinks, blues, and lavender.

Japanese cherry tree buds sway in the breeze, on the brink of bursting into songs of beauty. Pussy willows peek at the world, winking at the pond.

Hellebores sway—pink, burgundy, white—beneath the climbing roses and Douglas fir. Lupin star leaves, jewelled in dew, emerge from under last year’s leaves. Ranuculus and anemone in the greenhouse, join in the songs of the garden.

The farm is slowly waking, serenaded by the day-songs of birds and the starlit chorus of frogs—heralds of spring.

A time of dreaming, planting, and calling in hope has begun.

Recently, I’ve been feeling overwhelmed, sad, distracted—just out of sync, out of sorts.

It’s as if my soul can’t take any more shock. The shock of friends’ posts, the way good, well-meaning people are turning on each other. The constant negativity, the way people cling to sides as if that will fix everything. But in truth, there is no ‘side.’ We are all in this together.

At times, it feels as if we’ve forgotten we are deeply interwoven with each other, as well as the natural world. Sometimes it feels like the world is unraveling—but what is the ‘real world’?

These were the thoughts that swirled around in my mind as I went to sleep last night.

I woke up feeling like my life depended on remembering who I was and why I work as an environmental artist. I needed to reconnect with nature, to unplug from the crazy-making.

I thought about the dawn chorus—how the birds welcome the new day, singing songs of beauty. I, too, need to awaken to my own songs of beauty. To be present—fully present—with no distractions.

As I stood outside welcoming the day, I thought of you and recorded just a few moments of this morning’s songs—roosters, geese, birds, rain, and wind—to share with you.

May these songs also remind you of who you are and what is truly real.

Nature is outside your door, your window—waiting to welcome you. Go and say hello!

No, not ready to bloom—but to be pulled up, placed upright in bins, and put into cold storage in the barn. Some were rolled in paper and tucked into the flower cooler, usually waiting for Mother’s Day. This was simply the norm in commercial growing.

But over time, something shifted.

I was an accidental flower farmer. I had simply planted an abundance of flowers for the bees. But flowers, by their nature, invite abundance. The more I cut them, the more they bloomed. Each year I grew more and more flowers. Soon, I had more flowers than I knew what to do with. People started asking if I delivered arrangements, and before I knew it, I was teaching myself how to be an eco florist delivering messages of the importance of supporting locally grown flowers and pollinators.

My background as an artist helped me intuitively work with colors and textures, but flowers have their own personalities, their own ways of moving, opening, and aging. I had to learn their language—how to handle each stem, which ones preferred to be arranged freshly cut, and which needed time to open before they could take their place in a bouquet.

And yet, after a few years as a small-scale commercial grower, I began to feel uneasy about what I was doing. This was deeply personal—no judgment toward others—but I couldn’t ignore it.

By then, I was harvesting hundreds of stems at a time, two or three times a week. Bucket after bucket, armloads of flowers. I moved quickly, efficiently. But something wasn’t right.

Even the simple act of gathering my harvesting buckets and clippers made me feel unwell. I found myself putting on an energetic shield, as if I needed armor just to do my work. But I was too busy keeping up with the farm to allow myself to explore why.

And then—everything changed.

One day, my husband gave me a magical device that converts the bio-energy of flowers into music. The first time I heard the voice of a hellebore, I burst into tears.

As an environmental artist, I work intuitively with site energies and the unseen world, and in that moment, I finally understood.

I was feeling the energy of the plants as I harvested them.

For the first time, I allowed the tulips to just be tulips. To bloom in all their splendor. And I realized—I had never actually seen all the tulips I’d planted bloom.

Some were fragrant, some looked like peonies, others wildly exuberant in form and color. And I had never known that bees absolutely adore tulips!

I believe that when we slow down and truly observe and listen to nature and our intuition, we are changed.

Here’s a special moment from those tulips: a bee harvesting pollen, moving from flower to flower, searching for the one with the electrical impulse that tells him it hasn’t yet been visited. View the reel on Instagram @AlchemyFarmStudio

Nature truly is amazing, isn’t it? 🌿🐝

The Magic of Seeds

The desiccated petals drop to the table, soft sighs falling, gossamer and delicate. Seeds drop, gifts from once-upon-summer blooms. The seed pod is beautiful in its mathematical precision. A fibonacci spiral radiates outwards from the centre. It’s as if the bees have traced their dance steps and transferred them down through the petals, etching the memory of their steps across the bloom, hidden deep inside the flower.

Flowers belong to the angiosperm family: plants that produce fruit containing seeds. Without them there would be no major crop foods: grains, fruit, vegetables, herbal medicines the precursors of pharmaceutical drugs. Not to mention the role plants serve as carbon sinks removing carbon dioxide from the air and storing it in the earth.

We cannot survive without flowers. We would not be here if it weren’t for flowers arriving on the scene 130 million years ago. That’s a blink of an eye in terms of the geological age of the Earth. If you squeezed all of Earth’s time into hours you’d find that flowers have only existed for a mere 90 seconds!

Flowers are the Heart of Nature

We use flowers as messengers to convey our feelings of love, sorrow and happiness to loved ones, but our relationship to flowers and their symbolic use is far older.

Evidence of flowers being used as early as 50,000 years ago were unearthed by researchers working in the 1970s at a Neandertal burial cave in northern Iraq. During their dig they theorized that based on the pollen found in the cave that it had at one time been decorated with flowers. (That theory has been challenged as there is a possibility that the pollen was brought in by animals.)

Archaeologists in 2005 discovered that early humans did definitively bury their dead in beds of flowers beginning about 13,700 years ago in what is now Israel.

The history of human’s use of medicinal plants predates our written history.

Archaeological evidence has been found of medicinal plants, like opium poppies and cannabis, in cave dwellings from 60,000 years ago.

Various healing systems based on plants, like Ayruvedic and Chinese medicine, are thousands of years old. The ancient Greeks provided the basis for contemporary Western medicine through their research of herbal medicine shared through the teachings of Hippocratres, Galen, Diocese of Crystus, Pliny and Dioscordes.

The Middle Ages saw texts, Materia Medica, being written on the healing power of medicinal herbs and plants.

The wisdom of plants is written in our very DNA, a story passed down through millennia like whispers from our ancestors. Every seed we plant is a thread in that ancient tapestry, reconnecting us to the Earth and to each other.

Medicinal and healing flowers have communicated with medicine carriers and healers since time immemorial. The messages were relayed through dreams and visions and many times in response to the need of the healer searching for a remedy. We have receptors in our DNA for specific healing plants and flowers. These genetic memories create a bridge, a link, to our deep ancestral knowledge. Think of how amazing that truly is!

Imagine a medicine person walking across a meadow in a dream state communicating with plants searching for a remedy for one of your ailing and very distant relatives. A plant hears the call providing medicine—that answer resides in your DNA, passed along through thousands of years, like an invisible thread anchoring to your deep ancestors. Anchoring you to the Earth, to Nature, to the world of plants and magic. 

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Flowers Bring All Life Into Being

Nearly all of the food we eat, that our pets, livestock and wild animal brothers and sisters eat, begins with flowers pollinated by bees, butterflies and other pollinators. This pollinator dance interwoven around the world has continued for millennia.

The intricate system of Nature is being threatened as never before. In our lifetime we are seeing the catastrophic decline of bees and pollinators as well as many plant and animal species.

Since early 2008 honeybees worldwide have suffered from colony collapse disorder dying by the hundreds of thousands, but the larger threat is to our wild bees, flies, bats, butterflies, moths and others. They are all essential for our ecosystem to continue functioning.

Wild bee species are vanishing at an unprecedented rate—one in six is now threatened with extinction, according to a study by the Center for Pollinator Research. Their decline has been attributed to climate change, habitat loss and the use of pesticides to grow food and flowers. 

We are living through Earth’s Sixth Mass Extinction, the first since the ice age 10,000 years ago. We have forgotten our place in the rhythm of the natural world. Lost our connections to place, to the truth that we do not survive without bees, pollinators, flowers and Nature.

How do we heal the deep rift that has alienated us from the world that we cannot live without?

The first step is in understanding how we can help to bring change in our own immediate homes and yards. For truly if each of us joins one and other together we can create miracles and possibly even save the world. 

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The Pollinator Crisis

As the climate of the Earth changes, bees and pollinators are under increasing threats from urbanization and development, heavy chemical and neonicotinoid pesticide use and shifting weather patterns that create increased temperatures, droughts, fires, floods and hurricanes—all contributing to habitat loss. 

While most of us are aware of honeybees being decimated by colony collapse disorder, many of us are not aware that native wild bees are also in peril globally. Honeybees have humans managing and caring for them while wild bees are left to fend for themselves. Many wild bee species are facing extinction along with butterflies, moths, birds, frogs, toads, snakes and more. 

Bees, both wild and honeybees, pollinate 90% of our food worldwide. If bees disappear completely, human beings will ultimately follow. I don’t know about you but that seems absolutely daunting and simply overwhelming to comprehend. What can we do? What can you do?

My Journey: From Art to Action

As an environmental artist and educator, I felt completely at a loss on how to contribute to saving bees when I first heard about colony collapse disorder. Suddenly, creating eco art seemed like an abstract way of approaching an alarming and very real issue. I realized that creating artwork was not the answer; I wanted to do something tangible that would really make a difference. 

So, in 2015, my husband and I bought a run-down farm on Salt Spring Island and I began to grow flowers for bees. We had no experience in farming, we had no plan, just a deep calling to do something to create change, even if it was just in our small corner of the Earth.

As our first tiny gardens have expanded with each year, we have become the stewards of a flower, bee and pollinator haven that is also home to many different kinds of butterflies, moths, insects, birds, frogs, toads, snakes and small mammals. 

As I learned to grow hundreds of different kinds of flowers, and while studying to become a Master Organic Gardener, I felt an increasing urgency to share my knowledge. After all, I had witnessed our farm transform and become a magical place buzzing with flying creatures and humming with other earthbound critters.

Because of my background as an environmental artist and educator, I have always believed that healing the Earth begins with one person at a time, joining others to create a network of awareness and healing.

So, I began to host workshops and leading tours through our flower farm. I shared the importance of growing flowers for bees for habitat. I also shared why it’s important to buy locally grown flowers instead of conventional ones that are grown thousands of miles away—many of which are filled with pesticides and chemicals. 

As I shared flower growing and seed harvesting tips, many people asked me how they could grow a bee garden like ours. Most believed they couldn’t because they live in the city, but I knew that wasn’t true.

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As I pondered their questions during quiet moments working alone amongst the flowers, I began to imagine what it would be like if everyone planted a bee garden and added their unique floral thread to a garden of global healing that we create together. I knew that I could help people learn how to grow bee gardens. 

The deeper beauty and bonus of growing a bee pollinator garden is you’re not only providing habitat for bees and pollinators, but your bee garden is also sequestering carbon! All plants absorb carbon dioxide from the air and store it in the soil.

Almost all carbon in the atmosphere passes through plants during photosynthesis, a process that turns sunlight, carbon, and water into sugars and carbohydrates. The plant roots release this carbon-rich sugar into the soil as nutrients. And during their lifetime, plants create oxygen! Nature is truly the master of the most amazing and delicate systems. 

According to the book, Carbon Farming Solutions just 1/10 of an acre of plants can offset carbon for one year for one adult! That’s a patch 50’ x 94’ or 4700 square feet. Not all of us have that much space to dedicate to growing a garden, especially if we live in apartments in the city. Cities are one of the most important places to grow flowers for bees and pollinators who have suffered a nearly complete loss of natural habitat.

Also, cities produce a lot of carbon dioxide, so your city garden can help to clean the air as well as feed bees and pollinators and provide you with beautiful flowers to enjoy!

Bee gardens filled with flowers, herbs, and flowering vegetables can be planted on rooftop decks, balconies, sundecks, terraces, along sidewalks, in planters, in empty fields and lots, in yards, in suburbs, and in the country—turn lawns into wildflower havens!

A bee garden can be planted almost anywhere there is soil, water, and sunlight—and there are flowers and plants that love the shade and partial sun as well. 

A typical apartment balcony is about 4’x10’. That might seem small but by using railing planters, hanging baskets and pots on the deck surface it’s possible to plant approximately 47 square feet of garden that will feed bees, provide beauty and a connection to nature, plus sequester 1/100 of an acre of carbon.

That may not seem like a lot but imagine if everyone in your apartment building, or your city block, planted a similar garden. And then multiply that by many more blocks, neighbourhoods, cities, provinces, states and countries and suddenly you have a mosaic of healing that truly can create change for the Earth and all her Beings.

Best of all, you will reconnect to Nature through the absolute magic of planting seeds and watching them bloom into the most beautiful and amazing flowers and food for you and the bees and pollinators. 

You Can Make a Difference!

Yes, you can make a difference right from your own home! Even planting a small garden in pots on your balcony will make a difference—especially if thousands of us join together in planting for the bees, for pollinators, for the future. 

Urban areas can support up to 50% more pollinators when gardens and green spaces are designed with native plants and flowers.

The Importance of Organic Seeds and Seedlings

If you decide to grow a bee garden, and you’re buying your plant seedlings from big box stores it’s important to ask them where the plants are from and how they were grown. Many of these plant starts are commercially grown from seeds treated with neonicotinoids, an insecticide.

Neonicotinoids are systemic, meaning they will be in all parts of the plant from roots to leaves to blooms, and will continue to affect the plant for its entire life and may also remain in the soil. The nectar and pollen from these plants can kill pollinators outright, or damage their immune systems and mess up their navigational abilities, they can also sicken the hive once the nectar and pollen are carried to it.

Seeds from plants treated with neonicotinoids also kill birds that eat them. The best way to start plants is to buy organically grown seeds and start them yourself or buy plant starts from someone that doesn’t use harmful chemicals. Visit your local farmer’s market or ask your garden center to bring in organic plants and seeds.

Additionally, you should never use herbicides in your garden. These herbicides have been used to kill weeds, but weeds are really just plants growing in the ‘wrong’ place.

These herbicides kill pollinators, birds and can also harm you. There are other methods to take care of plants you don’t want growing in certain areas. 

Better yet, let the dandelions grow in your lawn—bees and pollinators love them, and they are delicious in a salad! 

Here’s How You Can Help Pollinators Thrive:

• Plant flowers that attract bees and butterflies, like lavender, sunflowers, and wildflowers.

• Avoid pesticides and herbicides, especially neonicotinoids.

• Buy organic seeds or starts from local growers.

• Let “weeds” like dandelions and clover bloom—they’re vital food sources for bees.

• Advocate for green spaces in your community.

Every flower begins with a seed, and every garden begins with a choice. Together, we can weave a global tapestry of pollinator havens—balconies, yards, and fields blooming with hope and renewal. Let’s sow the seeds of change and grow a better future, one flower at a time.

Join the Movement: Learn to Grow for Pollinators

If this article has inspired you to grow a bee garden, I invite you to join my Alchemy Farm Masterclass: 12 Bee-Loved Flowers. In this mini-workshop, free for paying subscribers, you’ll discover which flowers pollinators love most, along with expert tips for growing them successfully. Together, we’ll plant the seeds for a better future—for bees, for the Earth, and for us all.

The car is filled with a vibrant but foreign energy. I’ve just picked up locally grown flowers from a greenhouse grower and wholesaler, a short ferry ride from my home and farm on Salt Spring Island.

It’s January and the car is filled with a vibrant, living energy. The backseat is brimming with locally grown flowers I’ve just picked up from a greenhouse grower—a short ferry ride from my home on Salt Spring Island. Driving home on a winter day makes their colors seem brighter, their scent fresher, reminding me of what we had to look foward to when spring arrived in our gardens.

What We Do at Alchemy Farm

Since 2016, I’ve been growing and designing with my own flowers at Alchemy Farm. I truly love my flowers. I spend hours planning and choosing flower varieties that I then raise from seed or seedling.

They become beautiful flower messengers that carry special wishes for people’s loved ones, for their special life events and celebrations, and they provide a tangible comfort for those who have lost a loved one. We are honoured to be doing this work.

At the end of October, the close of our growing season, I felt sad to be waiting until spring to welcome my flower friends once again. I hadn’t planned on extending my design season with someone else’s flowers, but I had so many requests from customers, I hesitated—using someone else’s flowers felt foreign to me. But I decided to explore what local growers could offer, and it opened my eyes to the beauty of working with local flowers grown close to home.

The Canadian Flower Business

Flowers are big business. In 2016, Canada imported $483 million worth of flowers. In comparison, the United States imported a staggering $2.16 billion. The majority of these flowers were grown thousands of miles away, often in countries where pesticide regulations are lax and environmental and labor practices are questionable. Canadian flower growers cannot compete on price with cheap flowers grown in third world countries. But, price isn’t everything.

Most people have no idea that almost all flowers sold by florists and supermarkets are grown tens of thousands of miles away and many times in third world countries. The next time you admire exotic flowers in the store – and often they are not that exotic – try to imagine the journey that flower has taken to get to you.

Perhaps it has travelled from Israel, South Africa, New Zealand or a South American country. You don’t actually know where these flowers are from or what their story is and, even more importantly, how they were grown.

KNOW WHERE YOUR FLOWERS ARE GROWN

Flowers are not consumed so they are not subject to the same stringent testing or regulations as food. Many flowers are grown in countries where pesticide restrictions do not exist, which means that the flowers they produce are filled with toxic pesticides and fungicides (such as DDT, dieldrin, methyl parathion and more), many banned in Canada and the United States.

Some flowers are grown using child labour, or by people working under terrible conditions with serious health risks, or by growers who use unsustainable and environmentally unfriendly practices. Not only are imported flowers grown with toxic chemicals, they are heavily sprayed with pesticides before they are shipped.

The flowers in your bouquet may have traveled farther than most of us do in a year. In fact, the global flower industry is staggering in scale—and often in its impact on the environment and human health.

CONSEQUENCES OF BUYING EXOTIC FLOWERS

Has anyone told you they are allergic to flowers? Perhaps they have said that they feel unwell or get headaches when they are around them? They might not be allergic at all; they might be reacting to the chemical residue on the flowers. The heaviest users of agricultural chemicals are conventional flower growers who use pesticides that are some of the most toxic.

In 2016, the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health published a study of pesticide residues on flowers from Belgium florists. The study found that the cut flowers were loaded with substances that present acute toxicity, with direct exposure affecting the nervous system of florists.

Many pesticides applied to flowers are persistent, rub off on hands with contact, and are easily absorbed through the skin. Flower workers and floral professionals worldwide have been reported health problems that include contact dermatitis, neurological problems, cancers, hematotoxic effects, endocrine disruptors and more.

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What We Are Doing at Alchemy Farm and What You Can Do

With conventional flowers found in florist shops and supermarkets being grown thousands of miles away from where they are sold, I decided that flowers grown within 100 miles of our farm would classify as local.

Honestly, though, I’m thinking of getting a heated greenhouse so that I can continue growing and working with my own flowers –flowers that are grown organically with absolutely no chemicals, pesticides or preservatives.

The flowers that are delivered to my customers couldn’t be fresher because they’re picked from my own gardens just steps away from my door. We grow hundreds of varieties of flowers and greens. Our flowers are specially chosen and handpicked to order 24 to 48 hours before they are delivered.

The Locally Grown and Slow Flower movements, which are gaining momentum in North America, are being led by flower farmers growing local flowers with organic and sustainable practices.

When you buy flowers from a local flower farmer, not only can you meet the farmer and learn about your cut flowers’ journey from seed to vase, but you also contribute to the local economy and support local jobs where workers are paid fair wages.

Deciding to grow my own flowers, or using local flowers grown within 100 miles of Alchemy Farm, was a deeply philosophical and personal decision - it’s how I’m becoming part of the change I want to see happening in the world. It’s how I’m walking my talk as an environmental artist.

I invite you to join me in creating real change in the world. It may seem like a small thing, but buying local flowers supports local farmers, and helps to create a more sustainable and healthy world for all beings. Every little bit counts.

The next time you buy flowers, ask your florist where they came from. Seek out local growers, explore farmer’s markets, or even consider planting a small garden of your own. Together, we can create a movement that nurtures the earth, supports local farmers, and honors the beauty of nature.

A version of this article originally appeared on the Alchemy Farm blog, updated here for Substack readers.

During our first year at Alchemy Farm, I enthusiastically began attending the beekeepers' course and brought two honeybee hives to our farm. I quickly realized I wasn't comfortable tending bees. I didn't like opening the hive and smoking them into submission, or administering chemicals to kill mites in the hive—which also kills bees.

Bees have been looking after themselves for millions of years and I felt like I was interfering. I also had no intention of collecting honey from the hives, they needed the honey more than we did. As if sensing my reluctance, the hives swarmed and left the farm.

I have since discovered that having honeybee hives on the farm was not in the best interests of the other pollinators, like the wild bees that call Alchemy Farm home.

These wild bees and pollinators are under increasing pressure as they lose habitat not only to humans but also to managed honeybee hives.

As I began to focus on wildflowers and the diverse pollinators they attracted, I realized how little I knew about these incredible creatures that keep ecosystems thriving. I started paying closer attention to the pollinators in our garden—and this led me to wonder: what is the difference between a bee and a wasp?

Do You Ever Wonder if a Bee is a Bee?

I have continued to grow flowers, thousands and thousands of flowers for all different types of bees. As I worked in our gardens tending flowers I met pollinators I didn't know existed. I’d see something resembling a bee and wonder, friend or foe?

Have you ever seen what you thought was a bee but it didn’t look quite right? It can be challenging to tell the difference between bees, wasps and yellow jackets especially as their size and colouring are so similar.

BEES

Bees have fuzzy, downy coats to help gather pollen, which is attracted by static electricity while they drink nectar. This pollen is carried on their legs and backs. Wasps, on the other hand, have smooth bodies—no hair—and narrow waists.

Bees are generally friendly and docile while wasps can be aggressive, especially when food is involved, and they can sting multiple times. Honeybees are the only bee to die after they sting once.

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Have you ever watched a wasp at work, building its home or hunting in the garden?

Like bees, wasps are important to the ecosystem. As carnivores with a special liking for aphids, grubs, caterpillars and other bugs, they help rid your garden of insect pests, and they also do some pollinating. Along with flies, wasps are also the clean-up crew of nature.

In the winter, honeybees hunker down in their nests and live on the stores of honey they have gathered during the summer. On frosty winter nights, I often wonder if the wasps sleeping among the firewood dream of summer’s buzzing warmth. When the days become warm and sunn, they may emerge from the nest for short periods.

Male yellow jacket wasps die over the winter, while the female queens hibernate. Here at Alchemy Farm, wasps love sleeping in amongst the logs in the firewood shelter, which makes for interesting trips for logs in the middle of the night in the snow!

There are Many Different Kinds of Wasps

Dirt dauber wasps drink flower nectar, and they also hunt for spiders and other insects in your garden. They stuff these insects inside their nests made of mud and lay eggs in individual cells as a food source for the larvae.

Paper wasps build new hives each year, made from dead wood and plant stems. You can usually find these nests under eaves, porches, and rooftops. They pollinate your garden while they drink flower nectar. They eat various insects and meat which they carry to the nests to feed their young. They are not aggressive by nature but will sting to defend their nests.

When it comes to their hives, bees live in colonies of about 75,000. Wasp colonies are much smaller, averaging around 10,000. Paper wasp colonies are smaller with hives ranging from 100 to 400 cells and 100 adults.

Bees and Wasps are Important Allies

Bees and wasps are important allies in your garden. Please do not kill or use toxic pesticides or chemicals in response to any pests in your garden. They are all beneficial to the ecosystem. If you use poisons and kill your insect allies, your garden will have no protection when new pests move in.

By working with nature rather than against it, we can create thriving gardens that support not just bees and wasps, but the entire interconnected web of life. Let’s celebrate our pollinating allies and the roles they play in keeping our world alive and blooming.