Funeral Flowers: How I Found Peace in the Art of Preservation

Losing Yourself in a Loss

In the weeks following my father’s passing, the once bright and fragrant funeral flowers had begun to wilt, sag, and mold. It was bleak to see their vibrant colours fade, and the comfort they’d initially brought slowly shifted to dread. Their decay was a reminder, that while I’d been stuck in my bubble of mourning, the rest of the world had continued to move forward.

And of course, there was the unavoidable irony of watching something once full of life, lose its colour.

I could feel myself wilting with the flowers; like I was losing a part of myself. The creative side of my life-- arguably one of the most important parts of my identity-- had taken a backseat, forgotten and uninspired. I stopped writing, hid the watercolours away, and my other craft supplies (quite literally) collected dust.

As the shades of lemon, plum, and pink dulled in each arrangement, I was being drained with their fade; life felt colourless, and I couldn’t bring myself to empty the vases, because if I did, that meant popping the safe little bubble I’d created for myself. The finality, was terrifying.

And as I watched the petals continue to crisp and fall to countertop, the dread only continued to build. The thought of throwing such beautiful gifts away, seemed wasteful. The image of roses in a waste bin, seemed wrong. For the first time in a while, I felt my creativity flicker.

The artist in me realized, I could recycle something painful into something beautiful.

Healing Through Art

The magnificent thing about artistry, whether it’s sewing a quilt, or sculpting a masterpiece, is its ability to help people heal.

After my father’s funeral, I was trapped in a rhythm of aimless distraction, terrified of moving forward. I carried the guilt of feeling like I wasn’t allowed to do the things that made me happy, and I’d convinced myself that mourning meant I had to embrace a perpetual depression. So, I shrivelled with the flowers, avoiding the art and projects I’d once found solace in, mourning as I thought I should, stagnant in my grief.

But when inspiration struck and my soul regained its love of creation, my brain stirred with ideas of how I could preserve the flowers. In a creative epiphany, I knew I wanted to dry and preserve them in a shadow box, so I could display and enjoy their beauty for years to come.

I picked through each arrangement, sorting their leaves, trimming rose stems, and tying the flowers in neat little lines with twine, hung from hangers. All the while, for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to truly reflect and find peace in the thoughts I’d been avoiding, as I had been, the disposal of the flowers.

The accomplishment felt small, but in reality, it was a huge moment of relief; a cathartic step toward reclaiming and healing the parts of my soul I’d neglected. As I carefully tied the flowers, the flow of movement was calming, the crinkle of leaves and petals, soothing.

I was proud to be healing and creating again, but even more proud, to be making art from something so precious.

Mindful Making

In the weeks I waited for the flowers to dry (hung in the darkness of my closet), I continued to find inspiration and healing in the places I’d been avoiding: my poetry, paintings, embroidery, and jewelry making.

It’s amazing, the mindfulness you’re capable of while your fingers find distraction in whatever pen, paintbrush, or clay your hands are busy working.

In my efforts to ignore the rest of the world, I'd forgotten the power of art's ability to help you feel at peace. As I continued to reacquaint myself with the tools I'd neglected, I found my mind soothed and calmed by the repetitive movement of my hands, and the meditative rhythm of brush, pen, and clay, unwinding the knots in my head like a ball of yarn.

In these moments of peace, mourning my father felt reflective instead of demanding; I allowed myself to feel and reflect without the burden of guilt and expectations. I realized I could grieve while still moving forward, and I could mourn in something that gave me happiness and peace, instead of punishing myself with the expectation of grieving how others thought I should grieve.

Growing with the Flow

The day finally came, where I could release the fragrant flowers from their strings. I snipped the stems and leaves free from the twine, but with each release, I felt the pressure of expectations returning.

The hot glue stuck to my fingers in clumps, the flower petals pressed awkwardly to the lid of my shadow box, and the perfection I’d envisioned was nowhere in sight. I wanted the project to be a tender moment of memorializing my father's life, but I began to feel the pressure of needing it to be perfect. Once again, I had created this imagined expectation, for how to "properly" mourn.

But in my weeks of mindful reflection, I'd grown: I knew I needed to find peace in the project. It didn't matter if the preservation was perfect; it was more important, that I relish in the gesture of the moment. I was creating the preservation out of love, and there was no right or wrong way to do so.

After some much-needed deep breaths, I removed all expectations and simply created.

I glued leaves wherever they seemed to fit, pressing flowers wherever space called; I felt like a child, finger painting a canvas, unaware of artistic rules or aesthetics, just focussed on creating something fun and beautiful. The result, although not what I’d envisioned, is something I’m truly proud of.

I never imagined the preservation of funeral flowers would be such a crucial part of my healing journey during this loss, but I’m left with a gorgeous reminder, that in the hardest times, I was resilient. In its imperfections behind the glass, I see my growth, and the reminder, that in art, there is peace and healing.

Interested in preserving flowers of your own? Check out this wonderful article on flower preservation:

https://www.ftd.com/blog/create/how-to-dry-flowers