There are seasons (NØ) doesn’t want to forget. A sunlit path, a bloom at her feet, the way a breeze moved through tall grass while the light slanted gold. These are not stories to be written—but pressed. Quietly. Carefully. Between pages.
This summer, (NØ) wandered with a pocket of petals and brought them home not to dry, but to keep. Pressing flowers became a way to hold those hours still, like tucking sunlight into paper folds. This is the simple ritual—part practice, part memory—that shaped this small summer archive.
BETWEEN TWO BOARDS: THE FLOWER PRESS
The quiet weight of memory-making.
Here is the press. Wooden, warm, with screws that turn gently. It doesn’t rush.
The flowers are placed in its care—layered between blotting sheets, cardboard, more sheets. The bloom softens. Days pass. Its color fades, or brightens unexpectedly. Its shape flattens into something new, something held.
Each flower becomes less itself, and more its essence.
UTENSILS FOR STILLNESS
Tools of quiet hands: pincette, scissors, glue
The work is small. Slow. You need fingers that listen. A pincette lifts the fragile stem. Scissors trim the excess.
A dot of glue, just so, anchors the bloom. You don’t press down—you let it settle. The page waits. You breathe slower.
There’s reverence in these gestures. A slow rhythm that honors the softness of summer’s end.
ONE BLOOM, ONE STORY
A pressed flower as a memory made visible
The first one I opened felt like an exhale. A wild buttercup, once bright, now the color of old silk.
Its center held. Its paper-thin petals folded into the memory of wind. (NØ) had picked it walking alone, just before noon and remember the dust on the fingertips, the path narrowing into shade.
Now, it lives in a sketchbook. Still. But somehow alive.
THE PAUSE BETWEEN PAGES
Utensils down, moments rest
There is a kind of silence that follows making.
The pincette rests. The glue is capped. You look at your hands and find them marked with flecks of gold, faint specks of green. The table is strewn with what was: stem clippings, a forgotten petal edge, scissors catching the light.
It’s in this quiet mess that memory settles deeper.
FLIP THROUGH: A SUMMER HELD
A sketchbook of petals, pages of wandering
I turn the pages now.
A daisy, pale and soft as cloud.
A cluster of unknown flowers, small and stubborn.
Each page is a place, a day, a light. Not a picture, not a note—just presence. Pressed into the paper. Held between lines. (NØ)’s summer, made still enough to stay.
CLOSING PETAL
Hold onto summer in your own way
There’s no need for perfection.
No need for rare flowers or perfect sketchbooks. Just wander. Gather. Sit still. Let your hands move gently. And see what the season leaves with you.
Try it yourself—press a bloom from a walk, a moment, a feeling. Let it become a page. Let it become a piece of time that doesn’t move.
From petal to paper, from sunlight to page—this is how memory lingers.
Thank you for sharing this quick travel with (NØ). If you found beauty in this slow practice, share this with someone who also collects moments in soft ways. You can continue your journey through other fragments here or there or get the big picture here.