In 1995, I started to make candles in my tiny duplex kitchen. At first I had no clue how, and my original versions weren’t terribly successful. Several years as a waitress and bike messenger had burned me out on the service industry. I didn’t have a degree, or any marketable skills. What I did have was a lifelong love of craft, insane amounts of optimism, and what is commonly referred to as “grit”.

After I got the basics of candle making down, I was faced with a new conundrum: pouring wax into the same jars over and over again was boring. As always I found inspiration in music, and the antique bits and bobs I obsessively collected. But my garden was the best creative guide. Tender shoots pushed, and buds bloomed, with no two flowers ever alike. At the end of each cycle, the soil itself would repurpose dried remnants of seed, leaves and flower heads. What if I were to commit these garden treasures to fragrant wax, instead? I found my answer in the Rosy Rings botanical.

Before long I had my own booth at national trade shows, and three maxed-out credit cards. Fortunately for me, those early shows were a success. I still had no idea what I was doing. I had to learn to manage employees and unclog wax melters. Read these financial statements, drive this forklift; just name a task, and it found its way on to my plate.

Now I live with my husband and two children in central Denver. Our house is an old brick bungalow, and I’m fortunate to have a fairly large yard in an urban space. When I tend to my garden, my mind wanders, dreaming up new Rosy Rings products. My work studio, situated in a decidedly unglamorous warehouse, is an extension of that garden. Several projects are spread over my work-tables at any given time. I plant little seeds of ideas all over; the process is always about cultivation. And I’ve learned that by letting go of expectations, you can enjoy surprises as the flower.