Flowers are a strange thing. They are so simple. They grow in a field, stand at the market, wither in a couple of days. But for some reason they can touch the heart so much.

I sometimes wonder why women like flowers so much. Someone says: "it's simple", "everyone loves", "tradition"... But I think that this is not the point at all.

When I receive a bouquet - or buy one for myself - it's not about the gesture. It's about the mood. About the fact that inside you want light, tenderness, the feeling that you hear yourself.
For me, flowers are like a short walk in a quiet garden: everything around is noisy, and you inside are as if on pause.

I remember how in my childhood, peonies grew at my grandmother's in the village. They bloomed for only a couple of weeks, and she and I cut them early in the morning, when the petals were still cool from the dew. I remember this scent, elusive, slightly bitter. And when I put peonies in a vase now, I am there again, little, barefoot on the grass.

We like flowers not because we are waiting for gifts. But because it is a small way to admit that we are alive.
Alive, sensual, a little tired, a little vulnerable. But this is our strength.