In the garden
I live about an hour’s walk from a botanical garden, and when it isn’t, you know, the worst time of the year, I try to go at least once a week. Now is not the time for visits to the gardens: the streets are sloppy and slick with ice melt and slush, everything is filthy, covered in a grimy layer of dingy grey or brown, and everyone’s mouths have settled into a grimace - we are over this weather, and have been for weeks. The gardens are not joyful in March. The trees are still frozen and rattle in the wind, and the dry, lifeless husks of rose bushes and creeping vines make the usually-lively grounds feel like a graveyard.
But, oh, dear listener, when spring finally, finally does come - then, there is nothing better than the long stroll to the gardens, and the even longer and more delightful stroll through them. The sun is golden and warm and the air suggestive of blossoms, of damp earth, of compost, of dew-soaked grass. There are birds twittering again, making up for lost time. A green haze has settled itself on the wet black boughs of trees - tiny buds are bursting open with impatient, insistent, pent-up life. The sky is bluer than it has been for a long time, but not quite the deep, blinding blue of summer; this is a gentler blue, still shaking off the grey of winter.
Once inside the gardens, you’ll find a main paved road that bisects the grounds, and snaking off from it are gravel paths and dirt tracks, and sometimes just faint suggestions of tamped down grass to follow. They will take you past the willow trees that trail their lazy branches into the duck pond, leaving rippling shadows on the water lilies and the ducks themselves, who keep up a merry patter. They will lead you through the rose gardens, where delicate, brilliant flowers send out their heady sent, each with an impressive pedigree and names like floribunda, polyantha, damask, grandiflora, rugosa, zephirine, and, bizarrely, David Austin. Rocky outcroppings will lead you through hardy bushes of steppe thistle, poppy, and blue sage, down through the kitchen and medecine garden, where calendula, lemon balm, lavender, echinacea, and valerian, those wise old healers, are ready to greet you. There are gardens flanked with cherry blossom and Japanese magnolia, a personal favourite, standing guard over rock gardens and floating lotus blooms. Phalanxes of tulips show off their colours in spring, some with ruffled petals, or stripes, or lacey edged blossoms, their heads bobbing in line after line, welcoming the warm weather.
The world becomes…still, in this garden. Right in its centre, you will find the whir and rush of traffic grows quiet, so that you can believe, even if only for a short time, that you are not in a busy city. You’ll find your breathing slow, deepen, and your shoulders will drop. The troubles of daily life melt away, and you’ll find yourself with the pleasantest of company - the nodding, friendly flowers, their beatified faces turned towards you. All memory of winter will fade.
Jennifer