Secret Gardens of the Bronx

 
  Perfection, goodness knows! Image from The Herb Store

Last week, on a breezy, bright day, I took a walk into the next neighborhood, an area of single- and two-family homes, solid little brick buildings with stoops and awnings, porches and flower-boxes, and gardens. The houses are well-cared for in a way that makes it obvious that a) they are loved, and b) the owners are doing the work themselves. You don't see many uniformed lawn specialists on these blocks. The people on the porches and in the yards say hello when you walk by. Where I am living, just a few blocks away, there is less friendliness in the street, and a rather active avoidance of eye contact. One has to work harder to get a hello (I usually do it, because the Massé Doctrine advocates preemptive first strike smiling).

I turned a corner from one side street to another, and was stopped in my tracks by the sight and scent of a garden of roses blooming so abundantly, so extravagantly that I was instantly somewhere on the Mediterranean for a brief moment, and then back in the Bronx with a goofy grin on my face. These flowers were glorious. The whole garden, which filled up entire lot next to an unassuming little house, was pouring out floods of beauty, of joy and, I swear, of praise. I could almost hear it sing. I stood there for a long while, long enough to notice other kinds of flowers adding their notes into the song and their scent into the air, and to see the white lion statue like the ones I've seen on the Upper West Side at the entrance of brownstones.

Eventually, I moved along down the block, sniffing at various blossoms that leaned out over the sidewalk: peonies, irises, more roses, and then... honeysuckle. A huge bush, wafting a fat, voluptuous aroma into the warming air. What I wanted to do was lie down right there, and just breathe for an hour or so. What I did do was notice a woman behind that bush doing garden chores. I said hello, she said hello, I asked her about the bush, and the next thing I knew, she had pulled out clippers, cut off a fistful of branches, and pressed them into my hands, saying, "There are so many, please take some. Anytime. Take some."

Back at my apartment, I put the honeysuckle in a little vase, and set it on the bedside table. I had nearly a week of honeysuckle-scented dreaming, and they have helped in this difficult time. Thank you, Faye (or Faith?) for the flowers you gave to a stranger.

And Reader-Friends - in the midst of my worry about my mother, and the long drive to be with her, I have been holding all your many gifts to me close to my heart, with gratitude. Your support of my music over the years (decades!) is a gift. That you read my writing at all is a gift. Your comments are gift. Your prayers for my mother: enormous gift. Every day that includes these many gifts is a very good day indeed.