Lisa Comfort

At home

Winter has folded itself over the fields at Jazzy Rose Flowers. The colours have faded, the stems have bowed, and the growing season has long passed. But inside Lisa’s cottage, the spirit of summer still lingers.

I arrive midmorning. The air is still cold.  Lisa’s cottage is small, tucked at the end of a row of houses. As I step inside, it’s like crossing a threshold into another world - a world where flowers never truly die.

The air is warm and thick with the scent of candles. It’s the epitome of hygge. Flowers everywhere, all preserved in muted hues of gold, rose, and rust. This place is part home, part workshop, entirely alive with purpose.

Lisa greets me with a soft smile, her hands already in motion. She’s working at the kitchen counter, arranging dried blooms into a bouquet that feels like it’s been plucked from a memory. “Coffee?” she asks, already turning toward the kettle. It’s not a question, really.

Today, I’m here to explore a quieter side of our year-long project documenting Lisa’s world. Over the months, I have followed her through the changing seasons - out in the field, hands in the soil, boots caked in mud, pollen dusting her sleeves. But this visit is different.

This is the home version of Lisa. The one behind the garden gate. No wheelbarrow, no wind-blown hair. Just a warm cottage filled with the scent of dried flowers and the steady rhythm of her craft. It’s a slower pace, more intimate—a glimpse into where the work comes to rest and where the beauty finds its second life.

“I like this time of year,” Lisa says, tying a bundle with natural twine. “Things slow down. I get to breathe, to reflect. It’s when I really see what the flowers become.” She lifts the bouquet and studies it, adjusting a stem by a fraction. “I never rush this part. It’s the final touch. The moment everything comes together.”

Every dried flower has a story - grown by hand, cut at just the right time, hung with care, and now given a second life. In Lisa’s hands, nothing is wasted. Every stem, every petal is honoured.

The crisp morning light streams through her windows. I take in her home and notice flowers everywhere, on every shelf, in every painting. Here, flowers aren’t just grown; they’re preserved, cherished, and shared. This isn’t just a craft; it’s a piece of her land, carried through the seasons. It’s a way of living with the land, not against it, a way of holding on to beauty long after the bloom is gone.

Previous
Previous

Chris Kane