She Carried Summer.

This piece was created last summer, during a time of quiet intensity and change. Looking back now, I understand it differently.

There had been a quiet spell here, despite my best intentions. Not because I hadn't been creating — quite the opposite. I found myself immersed in the making of a handmade peony parasol, the repetitive cutting and shaping of crepe paper bringing a kind of steady calm.

Life, meanwhile, was full. The usual roles — mum, wife, the ongoing building of something meaningful — all moving alongside a more uncertain, in-between space - something I touched on in Meet Rebecca, without fully realising it at the time.The kind where you watch your child stand at the edge of everything they've known, looking out at what comes next.

My daughter had just completed her degree. A milestone that carried both pride and pressure — the weight of expectation, of years shaped by structure, deadlines, and direction. And then suddenly there was stillness. No timetable. No clear next step.

It's a strange place to stand as a parent. You want to steady it, to fix it, to make the path clear. But some things aren't yours to carry. You walk beside them instead, offering what you can, quietly.

Emily has always been thoughtful. Quiet in her way. Not one to seek attention or announce herself. I've often wondered where she gets that from.

As the applications went out and the waiting began, there were moments of uncertainty, the kind that sit just under the surface. And through it all, life carried on, gently and steadily.

 

The parasol grew during this time.

 

What began as a celebration of peony season — of colour, abundance, and summer — slowly became something more personal. Each petal shaped by hand, each flower built layer by layer, felt like a small act of holding onto something fleeting.

There was rhythm in it. Repetition. A quiet sense of purpose.

It became less about the finished piece, and more about the process itself. A way of making sense of things without needing to put them into words.

The parasol, full and overflowing, started to feel like it carried something — not just flowers, but the weight of that moment. The waiting. The hope. The not knowing.

And then, as these things do, time moved on.

Results came. The next steps began to take shape. Life shifted forward again.

Looking back now, I can see this piece differently.

It marked a turning point in how I work — slower, more instinctive, but never without consideration for how the piece settles in the end. That way of working has stayed with me, and has begun to shape more recent pieces documented elsewhere in the journal.

The parasol still feels like it carries something of that time. Not just a season, but a moment of transition, of standing still before everything changes.

A quiet kind of keeping.

Rebecca