The first cool day in September is a breath of fresh air. Too much summer makes everything stagnant—whether it is the dry, dead grass or the pushy behavior between people caused by heat. The first intimations of autumn elicit a calm joyousness alien to the more aggressive adulations of summer. When these cool breezes are accompanied by the blessing of golden sunshine, individuals are inclined towards seeking a different sort of experience than the raucous riling of summer. As farmers tend towards the immemorial task of gathering in the harvest, some tend to their own gardens.
The garden in one’s own yard can not only display flowers yet also cultivate healing herbs and edible vegetables. The community garden can replace the soulless shopping centers with better communication between neighbors and healthier, more valuable food. The fourth kind of garden (not decorative, herbal/vegetable, or community) is the focus of this piece. It is the public botanical garden.
In childhood, the deepest spiritual experience and preservation of innocence is the sense of exploration and of inhabiting a hideaway, a sacred space, from the grown-up world. This same experience can still exist for adults in the public botanical garden. The intriguing discovery of the plethora of plants surrounding on every side; the wide-eyed appreciation of wildlife when a fluorescent blue butterfly, out of nowhere, flits atop the clambering vines wrapping round a tree or a chestnut brown chipmunk scurries beneath the fairy bells creeping near the feet; the serene admiration of the artist or the architect when passing various fountains, statues, sitting spots, and hidden pathways.
Perhaps the greatest Eastern poet, Matsuo Basho, discerned the origin of art is “to be one with nature, throughout the four seasons of the year.” Since not everyone can participate in the ancient agricultural year or be a mystic, the public botanical garden is an accessible contemplation of the cycle. As an illustration of how a garden can embody the seasons, it is interesting to observe how the Missouri Botanical Garden is demarcated.
The open vastness of the Japanese garden (Seiwa-en): the curvature of the lake, the Zen sand patterns, and the lanes dotted with lanterns, bridges, and fruit trees summons the spirit of spring with the archetype of the cherry blossoms at dawn and the ephemerality of lovers strolling along at night.
The picturesque miniaturizations of the English woodland garden: streams trickling underneath small rock archways and over pebbles until becoming tiny waterfalls or collecting into pools, winding stepping stones, and cleverly placed benches and tables offer shady rest and relaxation in the midst of a hot summer day.
The meditative insularity of the Chinese garden (Grigg Nanjing): the stately Chinese scholar’s rocks and moon/lotus gates donated as gifts from Nanjing, the sister city of St. Louis (the first sister city between the U.S. & China); willows swaying in the wind over a glassy pond in which submerged coy can be seen to surface from time to time, circular mosaics (one of Yin-Yang) carved into the tiles beneath the feet, perfect pavilion viewpoint from which to study this realm of retreat (inspiration for a photographer, painter, or poet) or simply absorb the last light of the evening gives an autumnal ambiance.
The quiet and quizzical detachment of the hedge maze and nearby landmarks: the verdant maze itself with its twists and turns, the lighthouse looking observatory where those in the maze can be seen from a height which gives the game a surreal distance, founder Henry Shaw’s mausoleum within which the white effigy tomb is enshrined, another shrine of sorts with a goddess staring mysteriously into the void—this last edge of the garden contains the strange melancholy which marks winter.
So what does the garden mean for you?
The Muse in the Maze 