The Story That Keeps Growing: Reflections on Research and Display

There is a particular kind of nervous excitement that comes from taking something that has lived in your head for so long and placing it in front of other people. I spent about a week building the display board and the table cards, working right up until late Wednesday night. My Cricut and guillotine cutter earned their keep as I trimmed borders and backgrounds and tried to make the triptych feel like an invitation rather than a wall of information. By the end of the week my dining table looked like a small workshop, but the pieces finally felt ready.

For nearly a year I lived inside this research. Most evenings ended with me looking at a computer screen with more tabs open than I cared to count, borrowing books from faraway libraries and following each new lead a little farther than I meant to. Orchis mascula became a familiar presence, almost like a companion who waited patiently for me to uncover one more detail from an old herbal or one more thread of folklore. By the time the orchid show approached, the work felt less like a project and more like a story that had been quietly gathering its strength.

On Thursday after work I loaded the triptych, my Volume I, the table cards, my Lego orchids, and the books I wanted to display into the car and drove them to the venue. The hall was already alive with movement, every table filling with orchids and every event participant setting up and arranging their displays with a steady focus, making sure everything sat just right. The air carried a spicy sweet fragrance from the more fragrant orchids being unwrapped and placed, and it drifted through the room in a way that made the whole space feel warm and alive. I found my corner and began setting up, arranging the panels, stepping back, adjusting them again, and hoping the story held together. When I left that evening, I felt both relieved and suspended, as if the work had shifted from my hands into the care of the space.

Judging took place on Friday morning. I was not able to attend because of work, so the day moved around me in a quiet sort of suspense. I kept imagining the judges walking past the display, pausing to read a line or study an illustration, and writing notes on paper the way I am used to in A and S competitions in the SCA. In my mind they examined every small detail and left thoughtful feedback in the margins for me to find and read later. It created a feeling that was neither worry nor calm, but something that sat in the middle and stayed with me until Saturday arrived.

When Saturday finally arrived, I walked into the hall with a mixture of hope and hesitation, and the first-place ribbon was already pinned to my display. For a moment I simply stood there and let the sight settle. It felt like a quiet confirmation that the months spent with old texts and careful notes had found their way into the present in a meaningful way. I spent most of the day speaking with visitors about the history of orchids and the folklore of the Satyrion and the place of Orchis mascula in early botanical writing. I also filmed the displays for the society’s Facebook page and took photographs to share later, and in between conversations I wandered through the exhibits and chose a few orchids to bring home. Josh and Samuel came to the show as well, and walking them through the displays made the day feel even more complete. By the time I left I felt both tired and content, as if the work had finally stepped out into the world and been met with kindness.

On Sunday I returned to the show after a Mother’s Day lunch with my family. The hall felt busier than it had the day before, with more people coming and going and stopping to admire the displays before the weekend came to a close. I walked through the exhibits one more time and let myself enjoy the movement of it all, knowing the event was in its final hours. Later in the afternoon I came back to collect my display. Carrying the triptych out of the venue felt different from carrying it in. The work had been seen and received and acknowledged, and I left with a sense of completion that stayed with me long after I reached home.

As the weekend settled behind me, I found myself thinking about how far this small project had carried me. What began as a quiet year of reading and note taking and discovery had stepped into a public space and found its own voice. The conversations, the questions, the shared enthusiasm, and even the simple act of standing beside the display made the research feel alive in a new way. I drove home on Sunday evening with the triptych in the back seat and a feeling that this work still has more to say. Another chapter is waiting to be written, and I can feel myself looking toward the work ahead.