Emergence: The Hush Before the Bloom

The ice has melted from the edges of the bay, and the wind—though still sharp—carries

the scent of thawing earth. In the woods, last year’s leaves rattle like old paper, and here and there, the first green shoots are bravely pushing up through the soil. The world is still bare, still quiet. But something is stirring. This is the season of anticipation. For me, early spring is a time of slow emergence—just like the plants I press and the stories I shape. There’s not much to gather from my garden yet, but I walk the forest trails with soft eyes, watching for the earliest signs of life: moss reawakening, pussy willows blooming, the tender tips of trillium leaves just beginning to curl upward. Each is a promise. A whisper of what’s to come. In the studio, my hands are beginning to move again too. Clay has returned to my worktable, and the presses are waiting. I'm working on a few new botanical cyanotypes and small vessels inspired by the quiet textures of spring—lichen, bark, thaw, and the hush before bloom. I think there’s a kind of reverence in this moment of becoming. Soon the wildflowers will return. But for now, I’m holding space. Letting the stillness do its work. Trusting the earth to wake in its own time. If you feel the same way—if you're emerging slowly from winter and listening for the soft green call of

spring—you’re not alone.

With love from the forest floor,

Wendy Michelle

The Wildflower Press