May Day
This morning, the air held that unmistakable softness that only early May can bring. The trees are just beginning their green blush, the grass is growing brighter along the roadside. The first ferns are making their quiet entrance. I’m hunting trillium fields in the woods and looking for the patches of wild violets that remind me of my grandmother, Violet. It feels like the world is stretching awake. Even the light seems to linger longer, as if it can’t bear to leave before witnessing what’s beginning to bloom.
It made me think of the traditions of May Day—the gathering of green branches, weaving wildflowers into wreaths, and celebrating the earth’s return to fullness. I’ve always been drawn to the idea of this day: a yearly invitation to welcome beauty back into our lives with intention. A few years ago, our niece and I made small flower baskets for our neighbors—simple, sweet bundles left quietly on their doorsteps. I remember how her face lit with delight at the surprise of how it felt to make a gentle offering of beauty. A blessing. I don’t know if I realized I truly believe art is an act of generosity or blessing.
There is something about this time of year that says: let joy rise.
Joy, in this season, is tender. The blossoms are fragile; the green is new. Everything that is becoming is also vulnerable. And yet the earth doesn’t hold back. It blooms anyway. It risks the cold snap, the heavy rain, the unpredictable winds. Beauty begins even when the conditions aren’t perfect. Maybe that is why May Day traditions include dancing around a maypole, weaving ribbons in bright spirals, lighting bonfires, bringing greenery into our homes—rituals that remind us to honor what is fleeting and worthy of celebration.
I’m realizing lately that giving myself permission to celebrate new beginnings is its own kind of healing. To let delight in without immediately questioning whether it will last. To gather beauty where I find it—in rocks, branches, blossoms, moments of ease—and allow them to decorate the interior spaces of my life. Not because everything is certain, but because everything is awakening. That is just as valuable as the big markers in our lives. We’re celebrating the studio with a ribbon cutting and open house on May 7, from 4:30-7:30pm if you would like to join me.
Whether you can join me or not, use this May Day to welcome joy again in any form, even if it feels delicate. The world needs it. “Bring in the May” in your own way: by noticing the new green, by making something with your hands, by offering a small kindness to someone who doesn’t expect it. You don’t need a maypole or a wreath or a bonfire to mark the season. Even a single wildflower in a jar is enough to say: I see the beauty returning.
What small act of joy might you offer—to yourself or to someone else—this May Day?
May you find joy in both large and small beginnings that are blooming all around you this May Day.
