I wrapped this pendant the way I remember gardens before they were corrected, and meticulously perfect.
The chrysoprase is softly green, not polished into perfection but held as it is, clouded, uneven, carrying its own quiet weather inside. It rests in copper that has been bent, tightened, and coaxed by hand, not forced. The small glass flower is not there to decorate but to interrupt, to remind: fragility has a place beside endurance.
When I work, I do not aim for symetry in way machines understand it. I aim for balance way bodies understand it. Weight sits low on the chest. Copper warms quickly against the skin. It does not announce itself loudly, but it stays. It becomes familliar. It becomes yours.
I think often, as I make these pieces, of gardens. Everyone grows one inside themselves. Some are neat, clipped, obedient, heavily designed. Mine was never that way. It was overgrown and unplanned—sour cherries my grandfather planted, neighbour’s apricot tree I climbed every summer, yellow plum in front of my childhood home, split open and dripping sweetness, thick with bees. No cultivated perfect flowers. Only what was strong enough to survive. Only what insisted.
This pendant belongs to that lineage. It is not refined in the fashionable sense. It is honest. It is held together by patience, pressure, and care. Like most things worth keeping.
Wear it if your inner garden is wild. Wear it if things grow sideways. Wear it if you understand that chaos, too, has structure and that strength often looks quiet.
Just like them, we grow.