At the Phipps

When I am world weary and heart heavy but cannot escape this mad collection of bridges, hills, and gulches, I head to the Phipps. I wander, my fingers skimming, searching for scent, my eyes alighting and darting, delighted and eager as butterflies, from plant to plant to plant. The stubborn knots of my troubled soul are loosened by the order and wickedness of nature, where all are needed, all are beautiful, yet none are spared the end. The vanilla of orchids, the whoosh of air on silken leaves, the hum of bees and wasps, and flower after flower nodding in surrender and approval. We are one.