Every month, I gather with a group of 5 women at the Botanical Garden. We walk until we find a spot that looks shaded, quiet, and alluring. This month, we landed in the Chinese Garden. The prompt of the day, given by one of the group members, was to write what we notice about our surroundings, what it makes us wonder about, and if it reminds us of anything. Here is what I wrote sitting beneath the Chinese pavilion.
I notice the plants are drooping along the bank of the Chinese Garden’s pond, but I don’t know their name. They are in need. I see it. I know it. But instead, I sit and write about it. I do not know where the water spigot is or how much water they will need once they get a drink. One drip might awaken their hunger, demanding I stay longer or keep coming back. And who knows how long that would hold them over anyways.
These are my thoughts while everyone else passes the plants by, diverting their glances. Many play ignorance, like the woman behind me, who I hear say, “I don’t see you, you don’t see me,” as she swoops her son over her hip and keeps walking.
But I see you, and you see me—at least I think you do. Because you’re waving your leaves gently like someone would as they make their final plea for help. It hurts to see you so desperate, hot in the scorching sun, and weak. Your whole body reaches towards the empty pond that used to be your source, which no one seems in a hurry to fill.
What is your source now, I wonder. Do they feed you here? Or is it only the hope of a drifting rain cloud that sustains you?
Someone else walking by shares their theory that maybe the workers drained the ponds because people were stealing koi fish, like what happened at the San Jose Japanese Friendship Garden. If that’s true, it’s awfully wrong that you would have to suffer because people can’t delight without consuming; they can’t see the cause and effect of their greed.
More passerby walk with you under their chin as they point to the Kousa Dogwood in bloom, wafting in the aromas of this sanctuary towards their nose, wishing they could pocket the smell and bring it home with them. What’s a sanctuary if not all are fed? I think to myself. I then hear a voice in the distance tell a child, “stop and smell the roses!” But you know what I want to say? Stop and water them too.
All this talk of water and thirst causes me to notice my tongue is sticking to my mouth. I take a swig from my water bottle. There are only a few sips left, enough to feed one of the plants. I look around—I would need at least 300 more cups to feed them all.
This reminds me of yesterday, when I walked outside my house carrying two bags on my shoulders full of perishable food from my fridge. A poor man walked by and asked jokingly if he could go where I was headed. I told him, “It’s not as fun as it looks, our power has been out for almost 24 hours and our food is going bad.” He responded and told me he’s sorry and to have a good rest of my day, then kept walking. But then…he turned around with a one dollar bill in hand. “Take it,” he said. Which I did—for a moment—and then insisted he keep it.
All this to say—it was the gesture. It was him seeing, responding, and offering the little that he had that meant more than anything. Maybe he couldn’t replenish my fridge with that dollar bill, but he did replenish my hope that not all keep walking, chin high, with pockets full of koi.
Simply noticing beauty has immense benefits for the brain. Go somewhere with a pen and paper and observe your surroundings long enough until something stands out. Incorporate your observations into your writing.
Step 1. What do you notice? Describe it.
Step 2. What do you wonder about it?
Step 3. What does it remind you of?
*Note: I do not claim rights to this prompt.
