World Aflower

We are in the full swing of spring, not the painful first bursting that gives me annual pains in the head and heart, but the real open, easy flow of clear air, clear skies, and clear-mindedness. This time, right now, holds the fragrance of life in full bloom. Green plants are fresh, earnest, and lush. The world has awkened, stretched, and is under way.

This is the season of magnolias, magnolias of so many moods. There are the lacy fingers of Wada’s Gift, and the giant loud blossoms tiny trees in Washington Park that are dwarfed by their own enormous purplish flowers.


Camellias clamor from every corner, too, it seems. But today it was a pale pinkish daffodil trumpet that called to me as I walked with my son up to the Japanese Garden. I nearly heard that flower.

The son and I have been coming here since he was tiny. But a year ago, we were still mostly indoor creatures. One day at two weeks of age, I took him into the courtyard of our building, thinking he was long overdue for some fresh air, for the sight of the sky, for the smell of dirt. But he looked at me like a little blob. Take it or leave it, he seemed to say. Actually, he’d rather leave it. So we went back inside. But today he is calling out to birds and people as we walk through the woods, and his bouncing threatens my balance as we go up the wooded stairs to the garden.

I let him down on some flagstones near the Tea Garden. He’s been fond of stones lately. He finds a favorite one and carries it along, over a threshold here and past a mossy boulder there. We settle down near a favorite pavilion so he can study gravel. As I hunker next to him, I realize a square foot of gravel is a fascinating thing seen through a toddler’s eyes. The boy pops a couple little rocks in his mouth and looks at me. Spits them out on cue. Pours gravel into my hand. Holds his hand out for some. Locates the favorite stone, and hits it against the gravel. In this tiny patch of ground, he could spend hours. He could examine every rock as though it were a unique gift. Which of course it is.



Everywhere we go, I see old things through fresh eyes.













I spot things I've never seen before.



The camera seems inadequate. At best a photograph is a cue. Pixels on the screen hope to evoke the sound of water. The snowy cascade of blossoms afroth over white gravel. The way the sun rakes over texture and caresses form.

The Son spots a pagoda and calls out to it. Hey! You, standing here amid moss and trees. What are you?