Izzie’s Garden
“Love is not a victory march.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah”
Some flowers are kept because they are beautiful.
Others are kept because they are all that's left to hold.
So many moons,
So many faces
So many places,
So many milestones,
So many different homes.
Each one was home with her.
How lucky I am to love someone so much, that it hurts to say goodbye.
Izzie wasn't simply my dog.
She became my rose-colored glasses.
She was the rhythm of my life.
Every morning began with her goofy smile.
Every night felt safe and warm with her beside me.
She kept me grounded and present.
She led the way whenever we were out in nature.
Every walk became an adventure.
When we ran together, it felt like we were flying.
I'll never forget the way her ears bounced as she pranced.
She always stopped to smell the lavender.
Even now, I can't walk past it without thinking of her.
She smelled like summer to me, even in the darkest, coldest winter nights.
She kept me going when I wanted to give up.
She was my whole world.
Taking inventory of my life made me realize she is woven into everything I do.
Every aspect of my life changed for the better, because of her.
As the only child to a single, widowed, mother, I was raised by an amazing village of people.
But that constant change was a theme throughout my life.
As a young adult "dog-mom", I chose to grow roots
and bought a house because I wanted a yard she could grow old in.
My house became home with her.
On her last day,
We made breakfast
With extra bacon.
We snuggled.
The sun came out long enough for us to sit together on the patio.
She lifted her nose into the breeze one last time.
And she let me love on her without any protest.
She knew.
When she passed, I wanted to honor the bond we shared.
So I laid her down in a bed full of flowers.
I made sure she was all tucked in with her favorite toys.
Bacon. Marshmallows. A daisy necklace that matches the one I still wear. A token of love that reminds me of all the time we shared.
I kept some of the flowers for myself, and preserved them to remind me of her.
I gave her one last kiss before saying goodbye.
She rests beneath my garden now. Right outside my window.
The day after she was laid to rest, it snowed a small blanket over everything, like a blank canvas, allowing the earth to sleep once more.
At first, I felt tortured by her closeness.
She was right there, buried!
I just wanted to dig and claw desperately to get to her body, but I knew she was no longer inside it.
So every chance I got, I spent time outside with her.
At first I just sat beside her, but the disturbed earth reminded me of her decay.
Planting flowers in her bed made it easier.
Watering the flowers was still something I knew I had to do, but it felt like I was washing her away.
Then they bloomed.
Somewhere between planting,
watering,
weeding,
harvesting,
and pressing flowers,
something inside me began growing again.
Not quickly,
Not dramatically.
but quietly.
The garden became my rehabilitation.
Tending to her bed became the only routine I could still recognize.
I started jumping out of bed, focused on making a place full of beauty.
During that time I stopped looking at my phone.
The internet, once a place where I found community, had become something else entirely.
Endless scrolling replaced genuine connection.
I realized how much of modern life is designed to keep our attention rather than return us to ourselves.
Nature became the first place where my nervous system remembered what safety felt like.
I found hope in every seedling that I planted.
Peace in every rainbow I witnessed in the mist.
My breath among the flowers and leaves, swaying in the breeze.
Patience by crying with the rain and allowing the storm to pass.
Healing while tending and growing.
I found my softness again, in every bumblebee I waited patiently for.
Stability by tracking my cycles with the moon.
Community with every bird that became comfortable with my presence.
With every fledgling I helped, every grub I tossed,
and how every time I cleaned the bird bath it became a celebration.
I asked her to send me at least one sign a day, and I find them often.
They help carry me forward.
Now, each morning begins the same way.
I tighten the flower press, I turn on the dehydrator, I water the plants.
Working with flowers demands presence.
Flowers don't bloom faster because you're anxious.
They don't press perfectly because you're impatient.
By learning how much light, water, and care each flower needed to thrive, I slowly learned how to care for myself and the people around me.
People ask how I can talk about grief with so much gratitude.
and the answer is simple.
I have had every single wish come true for fifteen years.
We got so many bonus years.
We were so lucky.
Every birthday wish.
Every shooting star.
Every rogue eyelash.
Every 11:11
Every New Year's
And every prayer since August 2010,
"A long and happy life for my baby Bella"
All this time, and still, all my love goes to her.
My Beloved.
The only thing a parent wants is for their child to live a long, happy life.
She did.
Everything after that
is a side quest.
These are the pieces I made from her burial
They are hung up in my studio now, so she can continue to inspire me every day.
I will greet each day as if it were my sunshine puppy
and I'll remember to greet death as if it were an old friend.
Always
Work Details
Created: February 2nd, 2026
Collection: The Izzie Archive
Category: Botanical Work
Medium: Mixed Media • Botanical Preservation • Pressed Flowers • Photography • Writing
Techniques: Floral preservation, Decoupage, Collage
Primary Themes: Grief • Devotion • Memorial • Nature • Ritual • Preservation • Hope • Renewal • Love
Related Works: Heaven’s Gate, Grief's Cage, Sunshine Daisy Daydream, Without Blossom
This piece is one chapter in a much larger story.
Discover what came before, what followed, and how this work fits into the evolution of my artistic practice.
Continue the Journey
→ Next Chapter: Honoring Betty
← Previous Chapter: Sacred Navigator
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→ View Magnum Opus
Other Large-Scale Digital Pieces
Inspired by Izzie
Sunshine Daisy - 2025
A memorial piece reminiscent of Van Gogh, created shortly after Izzie passed.
Heaven’s Gate - 2023
A piece representing the manifestation of grief, born by the idea of life continuing without Izzie.
Grief’s Cage - 2023
Following Heaven’s Gate, Grief’s Cage is the other side of the same coin. This piece is a meditation on the fact that grief is love with nowhere to go.
Magnum Opus
Experience the artwork chronologically and discover how each piece connects to the larger story of my creative journey.
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Writing Archive
Poetry, essays, and reflections that expand on the ideas, discoveries, and experiences behind each collection.
Botanical Collection
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The Izzie Archive
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