When Flowers and Branches Decide
- Ilse Beunen
- 6 days ago
- 2 min read
Feeling guilty. That was the start of my American adventure. Another email from the organizers pinged into my inbox: “Which vases will you select? Which flowers shall we order?” Ben, ever the practical one, urged me to reply.
But my mind, stubbornly uncooperative, whispered: I don’t know. How could I know? I needed to hear what the branches and flowers had to say, to lift the containers, to feel their message. Until then, any answer felt like bluffing.
Organizers want certainty, of course. No surprises, please. And I do understand, I’ve been in their shoes. But my creative process insists on misbehaving. So there I was, staring at the emails, feeling guilty, while also secretly thinking, you’ll just have to trust me. Not my finest moment of diplomacy.
Washington. Philadelphia. Two cities, two gardens, and suddenly the guilt melted away. Walking among the trees and cutting fresh branches sparked new ideas that began to crackle. Inspiration always arrives just in time: from the unexpected material in a garden, from a vase that waits silently until lifted, from people who share this quiet passion.
In Philadelphia, assistants I had never even met sensed what was needed before I spoke. That is ikebana: connection without words and occasionally, a touch of telepathy.
My way is to go with the flow. I prepare the order of the demonstration in my head, choose containers, match material to each one, and sketch the outlines of the arrangements. But I never fully rehearse them. The material changes by the hour drying out, losing flexibility, or becoming damaged if handled too often.
Forcing the material into something I rehearsed earlier only ruins the magic. I learned this the hard way during my very first demonstrations: I tried to be perfectly prepared, but instead of listening to the flowers I was busy replaying yesterday’s moves in my head. The result felt stiff, not alive.
And of course, even with all this listening and adjusting, sometimes an arrangement collapses on stage. The audience gasps, their faces a mixture of shock and delight, I smile at their expressions, and we begin again. That is life, isn’t it? Risk, failure, renewal with a side of humility.
If you are curious, visit as many workshops and demonstrations you can. Each teacher, each stage, each collapse and recovery, will show you another path. And along the way, you’ll discover your own.
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