Before the flowers even come into view, the atmosphere of the Rose Garden washes over my skin and soul. A light breeze gives my exposed arms and legs a gentle caress, and I am struck by the welcome coolness after a period of stifling humidity. As the breeze departs with a flourish to my dress, it hits me that the curtains are closing on summer, and it is almost time for the next act. But then the vibrant dots of color in the distance catch my eye: how could I forget summer’s grand finale?
The path I am traversing opens up to an expanse of flower beds, statues, pagodas, and wooden arches. Eden? Not so much. As I draw closer, I find clarity in the details: the faded plants and rusted, naked figures. I wander past the central garden and find myself nearing a small bridge with willows weeping in the background. At the top of the arch, I still, close my eyes, and inhale deeply. Captivated. No other word could be more apt to capture the rush of euphoria that floods my veins, the peace that only nature can provide. Behind me the willows whisper, not plotting deception, but spreading wisdom of the earth accumulated from a lifetime of sheltering youngsters and inspiring creatives. The perpetual breeze carries in its breath the crispness of after-rain air. Blinking my eyes open again, my vision is filled with a soft glow. A faded pastel sunset gilds the edges of trees in the distance, framing Mother Nature’s work of art. Everything is soft yet angular, gentle yet cool, a host of opposites that form the perfect harmony.
For that is what evening at the Rose Garden is: harmony.
