The Secret Garden

I've traditionally considered greenery to be a luxury. While plants are nice to have around, they're not something that I'll often think to miss. (For that matter, when plants are around, they're not something I'll often think to water. But that's another story.) Perhaps it's unfair, but I tend to think of plants as scenery – a sort of singularly needy sculpture. Consequently, I never particularly noticed our previous building's complete lack of ground-level greenery.

No, the dumpster doesn't count as "ground-level greenery."

When Landlord B showed us around our future domicile that first afternoon, though, the flower beds around the entryway were sufficiently striking that I both noticed and commented on them. "I like landscaping," B explained. "I've planted beds of flowers out here and in the back garden."

What a garden it was!

Ivy winding its way up a brick wall and a slatted chair barely big enough for a child...

...a brick path to an old wooden gate too warped to close...

...and bright yellow flowers...

...reaching above a sea of green leaves.

Ringed by trees, the garden itself feels like a world removed from the concrete jungle of urban life. Even the city's sounds seemed muffled, as though they are unable to penetrate this sanctuary. I think of country houses and childhood and lying in tall grass on a cool night under the stars.

There is something very unassuming, very authentic – very peaceful – about a lightly maintained garden. I look forward to summer evenings spent resting in this space.