I don't know when I first fell in love with flowers.
I have early memories of sitting barefoot in our yard, wiggling my toes between cool, green blades and gathering grubby bouquets of flowering weeds for any female relatives with the misfortune of being nearby.
Once they stopped sneezing and I gained fine motor skills, I spent hours weaving and tying stems of clover to make necklaces, bracelets, rings and tiaras. The grown-ups were spared and I instead decorated myself and little sister.
By the time I read
The Secret Garden in second grade, I was hooked. I loved flowers and daydreamed incessantly - of many things - but especially of my own bit of earth and the wonderful treasures I would grow.
I wrote a series of stories about little fairies who lived in a garden world. And as my interests shifted to art, I drew and painted portraits of flowers.
As an adult, I've learned I'm a much better dreamer than I am gardener. I've never achieved anything remotely like the pages of my favorite Martha Stewart garden book, much less that of my imagined fairy world, but this time of year inspires me to break out the spade and try again.
Even the flowers at Whole Foods call my name. I'm as likely to splurge on a bouquet of tulips or a fragrant bunch of peonies (my favorite) as I am to buy ice cream or cookies. The added bonus: flowers are better for the waistline.
And it's been an easy move to combine my love affair with the new camera with this lifelong love of things that bloom. Once again, flower portraits reign.
Flower photos, after all, are much easier than those of boys.
Flowers can't stick out their tongue.
